Wince had a kid, too. And a wife. And a life that went on beyond the emergency room at seventeen years old. Why not? They'd both grown up and lived their lives.
Of all the times he'd imagined this meeting, all the scenarios he'd cooked up and confrontations he'd scripted, this had to be the worst place and time possible.
Jerome wanted to flee. He already felt like an invader here; the last thing he needed was humiliation in front of his daughter's fancy school and all these nosy, white parents.
How on earth could Wince afford the tuition?
As it was, Olivia's insurance account had dwindled, and he'd started thinking about moving into a smaller place to keep Keisha going to school with her friends. She didn't mind being one of eleven black kids in a class of ninety. She didn't mind that they commuted two miles from Brooklyn or lived in comparative poverty when her friends spent spring break in Bermuda. She was proud and fearless, like her mother. He refused to go to his folks; he'd find a way.
"Here we are, huh? Respectable and everything. Twenty years later."
Jerome shrugged. Seventeen, but who was counting?
"Man." Wince smiled again. "I guess I coulda called. Later on, maybe."
Jerome scowled. No. "Calling would've been weird."
"Yeah. Yeah. It would. I still should've. Or written when it was safe. Your parents made it real clear." Another wary pause between them. "You look great, man. I swear you got blacker. And bigger, I think. You're so jacked." He thumped Jerome's shoulders and squeezed.
"I do. I'm a ..." Awkward. "I train people. At a gym. I'm a personal trainer."
"Oh." Doubly awkward. "I figured you'd be a doctor by now."
"I am. I was." Jerome studied the concrete. "Life got complicated."
Wince blinked at him. "Truth." He wasn't leaving.
He could almost hear Olivia urging him to Talk to the man, Jerome. "My parents had some problems when I was doing my residency, and I came home to help and I dunno ... I never ..."
Shrug, as if Wince wanted to put him at ease. "Well, you look amazing." He crossed his arms. "I need pointers. Hey, you wanna grab some coffee?"
Yes. Jerome shook his head, wondering what Mrs. Wince might be like, and then wishing he hadn't wondered. No reason to mention Olivia's passing. He wasn't hiding behind his wife's memory, was he? Ugh. "I'm gonna be late." He has a kid.
"Train?"
"The R."
"I'll walk you." Wince herded him toward the corner, not actually bumping into him but steering him with his presence the way he had since they were in high school. He even walked with the same loose, dorky shuffle. Time travel again. They could have been headed to the library or to the principal's office.
"Thanks." Uneasy, Jerome tried to get Wince back on track. He just needed to survive another five minutes, and they'd be done and over and nice to know you. "What about you?"
"Eesh." Wince grimaced at the winter clouds and hunched forward as he walked, like the memory was too heavy to carry. "Yeah. Well, after I got expelled ... so, juvie for a stretch. You knew that. After the wreck. Then a little prison for flavor. Got out, ditched my folks, and knocked around. A lotta
drugs, because ... reasons. I dunno. It was there. A couple of shitty tattoos I don't remember getting. Then by accident, I fell into music. Bands, y'know."
"You were in a band?"
"No! Well, I was, but mainly as scenery. Downtown Clowns. Pretty boy pop punk. I pretended to play guitar mostly. They wanted someone to freak the crowd and set fire to their pubes. You know me: professional troublemaker. That I'm good for. Right?"
Jerome chuckled. "And you applied."
"Bullshit. I was recruited." Wince smiled, big and bright, like they were still kids sneaking out to drink on the roof of his apartment building.
Back in school, how many times had he asked Jerome, What the hell am I good for?
Me. You're good for me.
Wince faced him again and sighed. "Oh man. Fun gig. All that tail. Money eventually. Record label kept me out of court."