Chapter 4: Isamu

I watchthe slice of pork slip from my fingers, meeting the floor with a wet slap. Inu doesn't so much as flinch from where she lays beside me. Service animal or not, she deserves her fun. Her ritual zoomies after work leave her sleepy.

"Release," I tell her. She was already released since we got home from the gym, but she still doesn't move. "Eat." I try and she moves forward to sniff it.

"Maybe she just doesn't like it—oh, never mind." Gonzales stops himself as she gobbles it up, watching from across the kitchen island as he drinks his pre-workout.

"Such a good girl," he coos at her, then looks at me. "What are the meal preps for? You actually going to start leaving the apartment? Get a job?"

"I've left every day this week, dickbag," I complain, popping a pea into my mouth. It does little to satisfy.

"Pics or it didn't happen."

Gonzales claps his hands loudly just as I'm gearing up to snark back at him. My heart rate automatically jumps at the snapping sound and Inu huddles closer to me. I scratch her behind the ear and feed her an actual training treat. This is precisely why I'm not supposed to give her food off the ground and mistrain her—she could miss a cue if we're too busy mucking about.

"Alright, children. I'm off," he says. "I have a one-on-one game tonight."

"With who?" I ask, rubbing my chest. My prosthesis wasn't made for endurance sports like basketball—it isn't responsive enough. It's ridiculous that insurance companies don't consider sports prosthetic limbs "medically necessary", leaving me floundering for other options. There's a non-profit organization I've already reached out to in search of a sports-specific one for hiking.

"Aaliyah's friend," Gonzales says, suddenly reluctant to make eye contact. "John Love."

I look up from my kitchen drawer rifling. "Auto shop John? Tall, handsome, and rude as all hell, John?"

Gonzales looks at me with interest and I lose the battle against my blush. When I had told Gonzales about the mechanic who threw out my number, I didn't realize they knew each other.

"Everyone is tall to you, Isa," Gonzales says.

"I just didn't know you guys were pickup game buddies," I say, ignoring the barb. It's not that far off.

"Eh. Well, he's Aaliyah's best friend." Gonzales frowns. "Just trying to keep on their good side."

I sit up, finally noticing the lack of eye contact, the hands fidgeting against his keys, the things going left unsaid.

"What aren't you telling me?" I ask. I haven't truly had a chance to meet Aaliyah, but if she's the type to force her boyfriend to do things he doesn't want to, even something as small as deal with her unkind friends, our meeting will be anything but pleasant.

"I may have made an agreement with him that if I beat him, he'll work on the van for you."

I suck in a breath. Looks like I'm the asshole forcing my friend to fight my battles for me.

"It was a shitty thing to do behind your back, but it just got out of hand," Gonzales says with a shrug. "Truthfully, I thought if I just asked him, he'd help you out."

I groan, annoyed that now I seem like a needy, clueless fuck. Which I am. But John didn't need to know the full extent of it.

"And he agreed if you could beat him in a game of one-on-one?"

Gonzales sucks his teeth.

"Alright. Let's go watch you win then," I tell him, quickly pulling my greens off the stove and shoving them into storage containers for the week.

Gonzales shuts off the stove as I pull on my shoes.

"What's in it for him?" I ask as we pile into the Mustang.

"Eh," he says. "We don't need to worry about it because I'll win."

If John played around here in high school, I don't remember him, and I remember almost everyone. It was my job as our point guard to know the competition and learn their abilities. Basketball used to be everything to me—my entire personality. I used to think it would solve all my problems, but no matter my skill, I was too short to play anywhere past high school.

John's already at the court when we arrive, perfect form as he shoots basket after basket into the hoop. Aaliyah sits in the grass by the pavement court and waves at me awkwardly.

I wave back feigning nonchalance, but regardless, my cheeks heat up with delayed embarrassment.

"Dude, you might lose," I tell Gonzales, watching John's thigh muscles flex as he dribbles the ball easily behind his back and makes a break for a layup.

Gonzales doesn't reply and goes straight to John, but I'm forced to sit beside Aaliyah as I pray against hope that she won't bring up my dick.

"You're not going to play?" she asks, reaching out to pet Inu.

"Don't pet her," I tell Aaliyah. "She's on duty." It always makes me feel cruel when I tell people they can't pet her, especially kids, but if she misses my elevated heart rate in a moment of distraction, worse things could happen than just hurt feelings.

"Oh. My bad."

I wave her off. "I can't play with this prosthesis. I'd need a straight blade if I really wanted to, but most of us play wheelchair basketball."

She hums in thought and says nothing else, so I turn to the guys warming up. Gonzales is defending John, but I watch as John's calves tense and can see the fake coming that Gonzales can't. John breezes past him easily, not even needing to use his shoulder to gain space.

"Your boyfriend is going to lose," I tell Aaliyah.

She laughs. "I sure hope not."

"Not cheering for your best friend?" I ask, knowing Gonzales would be rooting for me to lose if the tables were turned. Only because he's grown tired of watching me be the best.

When I was at the helm, we went undefeated all four seasons in our conference. Gonzales played JV until junior year, when he moved up to varsity with me.

"Eh," she responds.

"Did you ever play basketball?" I ask Aaliyah as the guys continue to warm-up.

Aaliyah laughs but it sounds barbed; angry and resentful. "Nah. My dad thought basketball was a sport for men and butch lesbians. Jokes on him though, volleyball didn't make me any straighter."

I look over at Gonzales, stretching his arm after missing a shot—as if his were the problem. "Yeah, I can see how Gonzales's bubble butt would fulfill that need."

She snorts, surprised, and covers her mouth with a well-manicured hand.

"Tell your dad that basketball doesn't make hetero men either. Or, at least, it didn't in my case."

"Oh?" she asks.

I think there are little whales painted on her nails, but I can't tell from this distance.

"Don't worry, Gonzales isn't my type."

He's definitely bit off more than he can chew. It's obvious as soon as the game starts, when John easily pushes off of him to make a three pointer.

"Speaking of him," she starts with a conniving smile. "He told me to never call him by his first name, but he won't tell me his middle name."

I match her sly grin, sensing revenge.

"Maria," I tell her, just as Gonzales trips over himself trying to rip the ball from John on a rebound. John offers a hand to help him up and I can't help but notice his arms, glistening with sweat. "But there's a nickname in Hispanic Culture that people named Jesus Maria go by. You'll have to ask him for that one."

I'm not so eager for revenge that I would give Aaliyah his childhood nickname. He says just the sound of it throws him back into the crap his mother put him through. It's his choice on how much he wants to tell his girlfriend about it.

"So, you don't have a nickname for him or anything?"

I tear my eyes from John. It's an effort.

He's amazing. Despite his size, he hardly uses force to break away from Gonzales; instead, relying on speed. John's good enough that he could have easily played at a lower division college.

"Nope. Gonzales. Full thing." He has a million nicknames for me though: culero; pollito; güey and, of course, plain old Isa.

By the end of the game, I'm enamored with the way John plays, and I quickly leave Inu and Aaliyah behind. I should be distraught that Gonzales lost by a landslide, but I can't find the emotions underneath my awe.

"Holy shit, dude. Where did you play? I would've definitely remembered you if we ever played against you," I ask John, grabbing his forearm. My hand slips against his sweaty skin.

He wipes his mouth with the bottom of his shirt and my eyes drift toward his exposed skin. He isn't cut, instead just a soft layer of stomach, making his speed all the more impressive.

"I never played except for on the streets," he admits easily as Gonzales walks off to his car.

"You're joking," I say. "But you're amazing."

He doesn't smile or say anything, but everything within me itches to try again.

"Why didn't you play in high school, if you don't mind me asking?"

Before John can answer, Gonzales slips past me and thrusts out his hand. "Bets a bet," he says, placing the keys to his Mustang and a sheet of paper in John's hand.

John pants, still tired from the game, and looks down at the paper: the title of Gonzales's car.

"Wait, what?" I ask, shocked and confused.

"John, you can't be serious?" Aaliyah stomps over to us, hand offering a water bottle despite the annoyance on her face.

John takes a long drink, his throat glistening in the setting sun. He looks at me, and I realize I've been staring.

Averting my eyes, I look at the title of the car, not having realized the trade-off of the bet.

"Your friend must really care about you," John says, only speaking to me as if no one else were around. "I'll help you with the van conversion," he says, pushing the title and keys into Gonzales's chest. "Not just questions. You and I both know you need more than that, but you're paying me for my time, and I can only work after class if I don't have any club meetings and never on Sundays. Deal?" he adds, holding out his hand.

"Deal," I tell him, grasping his hand.

Inu barks behind us. John's hand flinches in mine but his face doesn't so much as budge.

John

The Poli Scitextbook in my backseat looks at me angrily. I glare back, just as annoyed.

"I don't know if I told you how proud of you I was. That was considerate of you the other day," Aaliyah says from the passenger seat.

"What was?"

I know what she means, but the last thing I want to do is confront the unshakeable feelings from my childhood. I couldn't help but think of my dad each time I scored a point on Gonzales. Maybe if someone had helped him once he came back from deployment, my life would've been different.

I take a turn onto the small streets of downtown Durham.

"Agreeing to help out Isamu even though Gonzales lost."

I snort. "Yeah. He lost bad, huh."

Aaliyah flicks me with a chipped nail. There's whales on it because she's on a "Save the Whales" kick. I think sometimes it's easier for her to care about animals than humans; it's too exhausting dealing with racism in every part of society. "Don't be a sore winner. You'll start sounding like my sister."

Soft rain falls down the windshield and I keep my eyes glued to the road, even though the vulnerability in Aaliyah's voice begs me to look at her.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to," I tell her regretfully as we take a sharp turn. "Have you talked to her at all?"

She laughs sarcastically. "What? And listen to her say I'm just following the ‘woke agenda'? She's always in line. Never a hair out of place in dad's perfect campaign family."

I bite my tongue, giving Aaliyah the space she'll no doubt need to rant.

"I mean, she's my big sister. She should have my back." Aaliyah traces a falling droplet on the front window of my car with a sharp nail. "What if they find out I'm dating Gonzales? Then they'll start saying it was all a phase. Sometimes I think I did engineering because it is as far removed from a Stay-at-Home mom that I could find."

I park in the only spot I can find that doesn't require me to align mirrors and reverse, then turn to Aaliyah.

"Liyah, shut up." I grab her shoulder. "Last week, you brought me a circuit board you built that moves a mechanical arm thing for surgery. Do you remember that?"

She nods, mouth still pouty.

"I'm not going to lie and say I understood any of it. But you were, and are, so damn proud when you make one of those little Arduino things?—"

"Arduinos are for middle schoolers, John," she says through a sniffle.

"See? I definitely know seniors who still program their circuit boards with Arduinos, and you were doing that shit in middle school. You love this stuff. Don't let your parents tell you programming a Ubisoft thing isn't cool."

She laughs. "It's Ubuntu, and it's a Linux software."

"Please stop," I beg her. "Or I may actually learn something nerdy." I squeeze her shoulder and she surges forward, wrapping her arms around me.

I cradle her against my chest. "Just remember when you're making more than your sister by making electrical things go zap, she's probably changing her umpteenth million diaper of the day."

She snorts against my chest before slapping me on the arm. "There's nothing wrong with being a stay-at-home parent," she says, keeping me in check.

"No. Of course not," I agree. "Unless it's your sister."

Aaliyah sighs and unravels herself from me. "I guess we better get in there. The guys are probably waiting for us." She wipes underneath her eyes, careful of her makeup, and jumps out of the car.

The air has quickly cooled down and I reach into the car for my worn Duke zip-up. It strains against my arms, still fitting my eighteen-year-old body and not getting the memo that I've gained some weight and muscle since then.

McCabe's is relatively empty when we come in. Aaliyah and I would normally go to the on-campus bar, but I think Gonzales is trying to show how grown he is by taking us off campus. I follow Aaliyah as she weaves us to a booth where the guys are sitting. Isamu's sitting by one of the shelves built beside the booth, laughing at one of the books. The dog is seated below the table, but as Aaliyah slides in beside Gonzales, I'm forced to sit beside it. I tuck my legs in as close to my body and as far from it as I can manage.

"Hey, man." Isamu puts away the book, happier to see me than his dog is.

I nod back and realize I relate more to the dog's serious demeanor than its over-excited owner.

"The drink menu is one of those phone scanners if you want a beer," he tells me as I pull off my jacket.

"He doesn't drink," Gonzales answers.

I'm surprised he picked up on that from a single afternoon at his apartment.

I've never told Aaliyah why I don't drink. She's never asked, and I've never offered anything up she didn't need to know. It's one of those things that makes our friendship so easy. Aaliyah doesn't pry at the boarded-up closet I hide, and I don't gawk at the skeletons in hers that she so easily shows me.

"I'd give anything to be able to drink like I used to," Isamu complains, resting the hand not clutched to a stein glass on his thigh.

A group of loud guys walk into the bar. Isamu's eyes flick over to them and back, shoulders tensing. It reminds me of my dad, and I can't help but wonder how long Isamu has been back from deployment.

The dog gets up suddenly and I flinch away, my right butt cheek suddenly off the booth seat as I try to squirm away from it. It ignores me, nosing at Isamu's leg instead, but Isamu is staring at me instead of the dog.

"So, midterms are coming up pretty quickly, huh?" Aaliyah says loudly as she attempts to divert the attention away from me.

Gonzales clears his throat and leans forward. "Yeah, I feel like I don't know how I'll find more hours in the day to study and write all my papers."

"She doesn't bite." Isamu says quietly.

I grunt, which to me says everything, and to everyone else says nothing.

"No. Seriously," Isamu starts again in a whisper as the other two talk around us. "Service animals have to go through years of training, and they can't even get out of their puppy training if they have bad behaviors like biting or obsession with food."

At my silence, Isamu lets it go and easily flows back into the conversation, proudly boasting that he doesn't have midterms to worry about.

"Maybe you could help me study for my addiction and substance abuse midterm?" Gonzales asks Aaliyah, his mouth downturned in a pout.

This time, I don't let my body show my discomfort.

Isamu laughs, cutting in before Aaliyah can answer. "Yeah, because you guys got a lot of studying done the last time she came over?"

Aaliyah glares at him, only to receive a flash of Isamu's bright pink tongue in return.

"Culero," Gonzales complains.

Isamu only shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.

One of the loud guys from earlier slaps a table and Isamu's glass slips from his grip. I quickly reach out and grab it, just barely keeping it from tipping all the way, but beer still drips down my hand. The dog barks. I fight the urge to pick my feet up.

"Does anyone want another round?" Isamu asks, staring blankly down at his half-spilled beer.

Gonzales and Aaliyah don't even get a chance to respond before Isamu is crowding me in a silent plea to get out.

"I'll give you a hand," I tell him, standing quickly. But when Isamu follows me and slides out of the booth, he beelines for the exit with the dog in tow, walking tight circles around its owner.

I look back at the table. Aaliyah looks just as confused as I am, her eyes widened in surprise. Her hesitation has Gonzales locked into the booth and I make a split-second decision. Did my dad have a moment at a bar when no one reached out to make sure he was okay?

Gritting my teeth against my own behavior, feeling the weakness of my bleeding heart, I follow Isamu out of the bar.

The air nips at my skin, prickling it in goosebumps as I realize I left my coat inside, but Isamu is slowly falling against the fence surrounding the outdoor seating of McCabe's.

"Can I sit with you?" I ask, staring at the dog who is pressed against his lap.

"Just don't report to Gonzales," Isamu answers. His knobby fingers aggressively spin a silver cigarette case.

I sit beside him.

"I quit after deployment," he explains, holding up the empty case. "Bad habits die hard though."

"How long have you been back from deployment?" I ask, resting the back of my head against the fencing.

"Two years. Afghanistan. Why don't you like dogs?" he asks, inhaling through his teeth in longing for a cigarette. I watch the curve of his neck as he blows out harshly. It's a mirror of my dad's own addiction, but Isamu's fingers are still empty.

"How'd you lose your leg?" I counter.

He smiles and lifts his pant leg, showing off the metal. "IED blew up one of the patrols, outside of the building my team was checking. Building fell on my leg."

I nod, feeling guilty that the question came from a place of anger. Isamu should have shoved the question in my face but he doesn't, and I leave that information for much later. "I grew up in a trailer park where the dogs were purposefully starved to make them angrier. Every morning, I'd walk to the school bus with the sounds of their chains snapping behind me. I was afraid one day, one of those rusty chains would break and a dog would tear into my neck."

The dog's eyes are still fixed on her owner, but I can tell by the flick of her ear that she can feel my gaze.

"Rottweilers like her."

"She won't bite, and she most definitely isn't starved," Isamu says, patting her belly softly.

"I'm sure," I lie. "Don't tell Aaliyah I told you that."

Isamu's fingers begin to roll a phantom cigarette. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he hums in thought. I think of finding a sleazy, depressing Grindr date after this.

"Why?" Isamu asks, and I startle away from the sharp curves of his jaw. For each of his hard angles, I have a soft one.

"She'll be sad I've never told her any of that."

"Why'd you tell me then?"

I huff out a breath, looking into the street where cars are parked, shiny from the sprinkling of rain that fell earlier. I can't tell him it's part of my masochist streak to shoulder everything alone, but there is another truth I can say.

"You know that ‘Stranger on a Bus' thing?" I ask.

He raises his eyebrow and looks at me more calmly than anyone who's sat here having a conversation with an asshole has any right to look. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't grant myself the same kindness.

"You're leaving after the van is done, right?"

He nods.

"I can tell you anything because in a few months, I'll never see you again. Anything I tell you will just disappear once you hop in the camper van. There are no repercussions. We're just pit stops in each other's lives."

He looks down and rubs his hand over his dog's back.

"That's really fucking sad, man." He pulls down his jeans over his leg, maneuvering over the dog to do so. "It makes me feel like all of this is a pit stop in life."

"Isn't it? Isn't that why you're leaving to travel?"

Isamu turns the little metal case this way and that.

"No," he says before sighing. "I almost died, or, at least, thought I was going to die. I joined the army because the thought of wasting my life behind a desk is... well, it's just not an option. And it's not like I wanted to rely on employers for a work visa—I needed my citizenship. Now I'm back and everything has changed: my leg, my family. I figured—I thought it might just be better if I change with it."

I don't say anything, watching as he begins rolling another phantom cigarette just for the sake of it. It's a practiced habit that his fingers pantomime with the memories of constant repetition.

The dog snuffles and leaves his lap to lay in neutral territory. I scoot away. Isamu watches it all.

"I don't think I have a response for your pit stop idea," he finally says. "But, I'm not unhappy. I'm just... in one of those Eat, Pray, Love stages of my life."

I grunt because I don't understand, but I came out here to make sure he was okay and I'm pretty sure I've done a terrible job of it. I'm not sure at what stage I went from caring about my dad to hating him for his addiction. It's obvious I've somehow projected that onto this conversation.

"My dad always says, ‘feelings are a cough that can't be hidden'. Or actually, maybe it's love." He runs a palm over his stubble. "No, he says feelings, but I think it's supposed to be love."

"Maybe you're just not trying hard enough to keep them hidden," I tell him. "But I'll keep that in mind." I won't. "I have class most days after noon and, obviously, work before that. Around seven p.m., I normally work at the athletic center manning the counter or meet up with Aaliyah to work on club stuff. Does four to seven work for your van project?"

Isamu makes a choking sound and looks over at me with wide eyes. "Christ man, when do you have time to take a dump?"

"I save it for the kink show I work after the athletic center."

Isamu's face puckers in an effort to contain his laughter. "First off, fuck you. Secondly, fuck that for actually being funny. Thirdly, don't think I'm not noticing the aggressive change of subject. But I'll let you get away with it this time."

He laughs and leans against the railing behind us. His laugh is something that tugs at me—begs me to take a second look. I turn away.

"Your humor is fucked. If I didn't know any better, I'd guess you served," Isamu says.

"Uh, my dad," I tell him, hoping he won't ask for more. There's been enough deep, meaningful talk to last me the rest of my life.

Isamu looks back at me, his black eyes reflecting the streetlights around us as he searches my face. Whatever he finds there must answer his unspoken questions, because he turns away and stuffs his empty cigarette case into his pocket.

"Well, I won't force you to talk to your pit stop buddy any longer." He grabs hold of the metal bars we've been resting against and hoists himself up. "Besides, I need to find the cutest animated show to watch until I fall asleep." He dusts off the back of his jeans. "See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," I tell him.

Isamu walks off, and I sit and watch as he and Inu weave their way through downtown Durham.