Qwan: Maybe next time. Colossus, yo.

I snatched my headphones off, cussed loudly. It drew the attention of my sister, my parents, a TSA agent coming off her lunch break, and some lady’s toddler, who immediately started machine-gunning the four-letter word I’d released into the ether. If Mom wore pearls, she would’ve clutched them.

That kid’s mother did not accept my apology. Worse, they sat right behind us on the plane, and Dad wouldn’t allow me the use of my headphones, so I had to listen to the mini Samuel L. Jackson I created all the way home.

As unpleasant as that was, it had nothing on what awaited me back in Virginia. Kiera’s new boyfriend. Colossus Turner.

Who named their kid Colossus? Maybe psychics who knew their son would grow into a thick-necked state champ wrestler incapable of un-shrugging his shoulders.

Colossus and Kiera’s relationship . . . two years strong. He gave her a promise ring that she wears on her left middle finger. Wore.

I’d given up hope. Even though I saw her every day at school, and now here on Sundays, I came to terms with never having a shot.

Until last night.

Me and Qwan were on a double date. Sort of.

Really, he was on the date with some girl named Erin or Erica, engaging in backseat debauchery while I drove and my uninterested date, whose name I don’t even remember, rode shotgun. Over sloppy sounds of making out and my not-quite-loud-enough music, Erin or Erica’s friend said, “Oh my God!”

Then, she had the nerve to mute my music.

“Never touch my radio,” I said, ready to crank my barely alive tweeters back to max.

She ignored me, contorted into the space between our seats with her phone held out like the Olympic torch, passing it to Erin or Erica. “Look! That hot wrestler boy from Green Creek broke up with his girlfriend.”

All the wet smacking stopped. The girls went Gossip Level Orange talking about Colossus cheating, and how it was only a matter of time, and “some heifer named Angie.” I caught Qwan’s gaze in my rearview, but we didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to.

It was my time.

Kiera’s deacon and deaconess parents were bodyguards on either side of her. Her mom was closest to me but sat stiff and straight and didn’t obstruct my view despite a cream-colored hat that was as wide as a UFO. Her dad’s consistently conservative blue suit looked presidential on her far side.

My plan: after service, I’d catch the Westings in the foyer, where they hovered every Sunday, shaking hands and exchanging niceties—“have a blessed week, brother” and “have a blessed week, sister.” I’d approach Kiera’s dad first, like, “Deacon Westing, I hear you’re in charge of the Ushers’ Board.”

Just curious enough so all the Westings thought What a fine young man this is but not so gung ho that I committed myself to any real work.

We’d chat like that a minute, then Pastor Newsome would come, right on schedule, talking church business with the Westings. Instead of Kiera huddling up in the parking lot with the other church girls, it’d be me and her. At the very least, I’m walking her to her dad’s Cadillac. Talking her to her dad’s Cadillac. I contemplated hitting her with some Langston Hughes poems, or some Drake, but this was short notice. No time to rehearse.