“True, and thank you for your enthusiastic support, but I was just gonna say that the good news is, Q’s still talking to me. And his mom doesn’t want to murder me and my unborn children.”

“Wow. That’s a relief.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna spare my children. I thought that was really nice of her.”

“But if you’re dead . . .” Whit’s voice trails off.

“Ohmigod, Whit, stop setting fire to my silver linings. Damn.”

Whit shakes her head. “Your heart was in the right place. That counts.”

I shrug. “Unfortunately, my good intentions can’t seem to stop the ongoing reverberations of my initial crappiness. You think Ms. Barrantes cares that I meant well? You think Q’s consoling himself with Jamal might’ve ruined any peace I might’ve had these last few days on earth but that heart, tho?”

“Jamal.”

“If the first eighty minutes of a movie are amazing but the last twelve are a dozen pieces of shit on fire, is that movie a masterpiece? Do you excuse the ending because the beginning had so much promise, the middle was pure potential?”

Whit opens her mouth but says nothing.

“Exactly,” I say. “Which is why I gotta make this right. No crappy endings allowed.”

“Jamal, I applaud your exuberance, but I’m not sure this is something you can fix. Or that you should even try. Maybe the lesson from all of this is, sometimes what we see as broken, isn’t. And our fix is the thing that breaks it.”

“I just wanna atone for my mistakes. Is that so bad?”

“It’s not. It’s the opposite. But the best way to make things right is to ask the person how you can. And then follow through on that. You’re only helpful to someone if what you do actually helps. Otherwise you’re just making yourself feel better and that’s what ice cream’s for.”

“Wow, that’s kinda deep.”

Whit shrugs. “Well, I’m kinda deep, so it makes sense.”

And sure, we’re talking about Q.

About Ms. B.

But really, we’re talking about all the people who love me.

Who’ve put up with me.

Who did everything they could to help me, even when I refused to help myself.

When I hurt them in the process.

No one knew this more than the person standing in front of me.

“What’s on my face?” Whit asks.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

She wags her finger. “You’re looking at me funny. What is it?”

“There’s nothing on your face. Dang, can’t a brother look at his sister lovingly without arousing her suspicion?”

She laughs. “I’m sure a brother can, yeah. But we’re talking about you, right?”

“Whit, I’m so sorry. Here I am thinking about everyone else and . . .”

“Huh? Now what are you talking about?”