She rolled her eyes at the idea of spending the day at the gym.
"--me."
"Dad. You're nasty." Just like that she was gone, floating through the crush at the door. When had she gotten so tall?
He blinked and called after her slim form, "I'll be here at three to run you to rehearsals." But she'd vanished through the doors.
The river of students began to thin out now, stragglers racing to beat the bell.
As he walked upstream, a glance at his watch told him he had time for the gym. He could make it to Wall Street to hit his back and legs before his first client. His life in four words: medical school, personal trainer. He wondered about that other life, the one where he'd returned to his residency and become a dermatologist, where his folks still respected him.
No point regretting. He knew better: second chances were sucker bait.
A chill wind picked up. Snow tomorrow. New York's weather had gone bananas these past few years: hurricanes and flash floods.
If Olivia hadn't died, he wouldn't have been standing there in front of Walton in the cold. If Olivia hadn't died, he'd have been home washing up the breakfast dishes while she ran to her agent's office. If Olivia hadn't died, his daughter would have laughed and high-fived him before she'd left the house to ace biology and dance the lead, instead of a mouse.
"Jug?" A deep voice called out to him, one he knew better than his own.
Jerome froze.
"Is that you?"
Sure enough, there he stood, seventeen years later and more handsome than ever, Wendell Stuart Farley, Wince to his friends, and Jerome's closest ally for most of the years that mattered. Pinked by the cold air and wearing a faded tee under a brown leather jacket. Same wavy hair that always needed a cut, same crooked grin, and square chin. Rough around the edges and squinting at the madhouse, same as ever. His partner in crime, once upon a while ago.
Jerome made himself smile in reply. A knot in his gut and tension rippled through him like a rock tossed into a pond. Not today, Satan.
Wince uncrossed his arms and took a hesitant step toward him, ignoring the kids surging toward the doors. He wasn't the same lanky boy he'd been. His chest stretched the faded shirt and laugh lines framed his eyes. Gray in the dirty blond now. He'd gotten as muscular as Jerome. We're men now. "Man, you look fucking great."
Jerome nodded, numb. "Thanks. You, umm ... You do too." He could feel himself overreacting like a freak. Right in public, in front of all these parents and kids. Once burned.
"Fifteen goddamn years." Wince didn't act awkward or hesitant.
Jerome nodded again, robotic. Seventeen. A rushing in his head. Time travel sucked, except he hadn't gone anywhere. He was right where Wince had left him. Thank Christ, Keisha was already inside facing her pig.
"Long time." Jerome smiled, but he knew it didn't reach his eyes. They hadn't seen each other since that night in the emergency room.
For one second, he imagined the road not taken. That the past seventeen years had been a weird hallucination. That he'd never given up medicine or fought his folks or gotten married or had a daughter. At the thought of Keisha, he paused; she was worth everything. Plenty of stupidity in his past, but his family was the one good thing. Coming up on three years since Olivia's funeral and he still missed her laugh and sass.
Wince gripped his arm casually, an old gesture. "You look good, man."
"Thanks." Jerome had always been vain about his skin, but some guilty part of him knew that Wince had a thing about his darkness and so, even at fifteen, he'd done everything in his power to amp what the Good Lord gave him. To this day, he baked in the sun whenever he could steal the time. His wife had made him lotion up so he wouldn't get ashy; on lighter skin it wasn't noticeable, but black as he was, it was part of his daily ritual.
Wince rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet, as if he might jump into the sky. "Great to see you, man. Wow. Fuck. I just moved back into the city last summer. I had no idea you still lived here. I had no idea you had kids."
"Just one." Jerome sighed. Of all places, this had to be where Wince snuck back into his life and screwed him up again. "Kid, singular."
"Same. For my sins." He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Flip, c'mere. Come back." A nervous glance. "He hates being late." Wince must've gotten married, too. Only natural. It had been a long time.
"Dad, c'mon." Sure enough, a boy turned at the front door of the school and jogged right at them, slamming into Wince's leg. "I gotta go." A mini-Wince stood at his hip: jackass grin, dirty blond hair, even the same damn cowlick. All of nine years old. The boy looked up at Jerome warily, maybe at his size, maybe his blue-black skin, maybe sensing the panic Jerome was suppressing. "Hey."
"Flip, I want you to meet my friend." Wince ruffled the boy's shaggy gold hair. "This is Jerome."
"Hi." Flip gave a quick grin. "Hello." The homeroom bell rang somewhere inside, distant and mechanical. The last stragglers dashed past them for the door.
"You gotta go." Wince crouched in front of the boy. "What are we doing today?" He held up his hand.
High-five from his son. "Kicking ass, taking names." He even sounded like Wince at that age. The resemblance was truly freaky. Flip bolted inside while his dad waved behind him. Parenthood.