Popshot Magazine – August 2019

Destiny it had to be real.
I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of days and she started to bombard me. There
were extra spaces in her texts. Less time between them. She was coming apart.
“I miss you,” she said.
“I need to see you.”
“I can’t stand it anymore.”
And later, “We belong together.”
I understood that text most of all, that need to belong. America had given me so
much; a context to fit myself into. I replied, “I feel the same.”
We did belong together, but being apart didn’t make it any less true.
“Shut your eyes,” I said, “I’m always here.” I wanted it to sound like a line from a
Motown song, but when it came out it sounded weak. False. Even though it was true;
I was always with her, in my own way.
“Seriously — when will I see you?” she said.
At that time it was starting to get weird where I was living. The woman was always
shouting with a rasping voice, like it was full of grit. And the man would rumble
in reply. To make things worse, my parents were getting concerned about me.
Worrying what I was up to all the time. Why I was so far away. They didn’t get it, that
I needed the distance - to be on my own. They couldn’t accept I didn’t need them. I
was starting to feel worried about how worried they were.
“It’s not normal,” I said, but they just parroted the words right back.
I left Destiny waiting for my reply. Another whole day passed where my eyes felt
sore and my head slammed. I was trying to figure out what to do.
It was morning for her, afternoon for me when she finally rang.
“Lyle baby, I’m here,” she said. It was a shock. Destiny was there. Not here.
There — in New York.
“Surprise!” she said. “Text me your address, I’ll grab a cab. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Really?” I said, it took me a while to find the words. “I wish you’d told me.”
“Why, I thought you’d be happy?”
“I’m not there. I’m not in New York,” I said, and her voice started to crack like
honeycomb. “What do you mean?” the words snapping apart in aerated sobs.
“I’m sorry, I’m not even in America,” I said. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Pretty soon, I hung up. I was out of my depth. I could feel guilt and sadness stick to
my organs like I was infected with shame. I turned off my phone, my laptop. I went
to close my curtains. The sky was bland, clouds covering clouds. Before I pulled the
fabric together, I looked at the Mini parked on my neighbour’s drive and the net of
their rusting basketball hoop which was swaying softly, hoping for the brief caress
of a ball to fill the hole. I could hear my mother’s footsteps creaking on the stairs, the
sound of my dinner tray being left at my door.
It was time to leave my room and America behind.