For several seconds, I just stand there, looking at him, surveying the room, much like I did his lawn. My lawn. Whatever. I try my best to get my bearings. To deal with the millions of questions going through my head, deciding which one to ask, as if Michael could answer them.

But all that comes out is an enthusiastic and uncharacteristic…

“Yes.”

Seven

From what I can tell, Michael really likes alcohol. Especially with his cereal, a combination he claims is the dinner of champions.

In the ten minutes I’ve been here, he’s already tried to make me a drink three times now. The first time, he said he didn’t add enough alcohol. The second time, not enough ice. And the third time, this time, he seems to have found the right balance.

“Try this,” he says, quietly padding over to me in his bare feet and handing me the drink. “You look like a dark ’n’ stormy type of guy.”

“Is that because I’m Black?”

Michael only smiles, leaning against the couch. The jazz has died down, leaving only the pulsing life of a bustling cul-de-sac to entertain us.

I hate jazz, something my father tries to rectify every time it comes up in conversation (or a jazz festival comes to town), but it was a nice, calming reprieve compared to the other noises. Noises that remind me that, no matter how similar it is, this isn’t my home.

I stare at the brownish liquid and sigh. Why not?

It has a sharp taste to it but also a sweet aftereffect. There’s ginger, definitely, and the alcohol—rum, I think—isn’t as strong as I expected. The coolness of the drink feels good against my throat.

By the time I finally put the drink down, it’s about a third of the way gone.

“Did I disturb you?” I ask.

Michael stares at me for a moment longer, a small hint of a grin forming on his lips. Even as he brings his cereal bowl to his lips, like I do, he doesn’t stop staring. He’s like a cat watching its prey, but in a more playful way.

“You’re an odd one,” he finally says. “But no. I just got out of the shower, and now I’m eating cereal with booze for dinner, because I’m what? An adult.” A lopsided, boyish smile takes over his features. “Was playing some music to pass the time, you know? But I’d much rather spend the time with you. Get to know you, Andre from Boston, and most importantly, learn how it is that you just disappear and reappear like you did now and three days ago—”

“Wait, sorry, what?” I quickly interject.

“Which part didn’t make sense to you?”

“The three days.”