Page 5 of Him Too

I was seventeen, standing in the hallway of the private school my mama swore would “elevate” me. Plaid skirt too short, thighs thick enough to draw whispers. My locs were half-formed, awkward. I was one of maybe three Black girls in the whole damn building, so of course I stood out.

Mama thought she was doing right by me, sending me to private school. By then she had just gone from being a CNA to a registered nurse and decided her daughter needed “better.” A “better” school, “better” opportunities. What she never gave a fuck about was whether I wanted it. But she never really cared how I felt.

She was barely there. Always chasing something—money, men, a life outside of me. Even now she was halfway across the world in Ghana with some dude she met on Facebook, not giving a damn about what her daughter was going through.

That’s why Oak hit different. Even back then. Even when I hated him.

He noticed me. In his cruel, twisted way, he saw me when the rest of the students pretended I didn’t exist. He was mean, but at least he wasn’t silent. I could hear him now.

“Hey, Fatty!” he’d yelled across the hall the first day, loud enough for everyone to laugh. His green eyes sharp, his mouth curled in that cocky grin he’d never lost. I’d flipped him off, called him a bitch-ass.

The second week, he upped the insults. He sneered when we crossed paths by the lockers. I snapped before I could stop myself, swung on him in front of everybody. He just laughed and caught my wrist on the second swing like it was nothing. I got suspended. He walked away clean.

After that, it was constant. A shoulder check in the hallway. A smirk every time he saw me. My name always on his tongue, always with an insult attached.

I hated him.

But hate has a way of turning into other things.

By the time he graduated, I was relieved. He was gone, finally out of my space. I thought that would be the end of it, but life had other plans.

Two years later, I was at USF. I’d forgotten about Oak, or at least pushed him to the back of my mind. But then I spotted him on campus. He was different—quieter, more serious, but still carrying that same aura, like the world should bow down to him. He didn’t say anything to me, didn’t push or taunt. He just stared at me from across the quad, his gaze cold and unreadable, like I was beneath him. At least that’s what I thought at the time.

One night, there was a knock on my dorm door. I was ready to curse out whoever it was for interrupting my studying, but when I opened it, there stood Oak. He looked almost...nervous. He blurted out his feelings, no finesse. “I like you,” he confessed.

I laughed in his face. “Eat a dick, Oak.” I slammed the door.

But he didn’t let up. He’d show up at the library when I was studying, bringing me coffee. He’d ask me out to eat. He’d walk me to class, always persistent, always acting like the past was nothing. Eventually, he wore me down.

The memory faded, leaving the bitter taste of whiskey and regret. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, wishing I’d stayed away from him. I wished I’d let our life together end at “eat a dick.” Maybe then I wouldn’t be here, with my chest hurting.

Wiping my mouth again, I breathed out. “Look at me now,” I said to the empty room. I felt pitiful.

I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. I wanted to call Oak. To scream. To ask why.

Instead, I slammed the phone face down, the crack of glass against glass a satisfying punctuation to my pain. I took another long, burning swig. It pissed me off that the world pulsed on, alive and utterly indifferent to the fact that my world had ended.

four- Oak

I’d spent the day chasing Jordin’s ghost, trying to find out where she went and the night drowning out the fact that I couldn’t find her and the silence she left behind. The vodka in my gut helped dull the edge but couldn’t thaw the ice in my chest.

I wanted to cry; tears blurred my vision. I was drinking and driving.

I almost missed the driveway in front of my house. My tires screamed as I jerked the wheel, the car lurching onto the pavement. In my rearview, I could see I’d taken out the garbage cans. They lay sprawled in the street, their contents bleeding across the asphalt. Fuck it. I’d deal with it tomorrow. My hands were clumsy, stupid things, fumbling with the door handle before I finally made my way out of the car. The half-empty bottle I’d been drinking from slipped from my grasp and shattered, the smell of cheap vodka drowning out the smell of darkness.

The porch light next door snapped on.

Mrs. Hawkins came outside, wrapped in an ugly floral robe, her arms crossed like a neighborhood watch sign. That old, snooty bitch who’d always looked at Jordin like she was a smudge on her perfect, white-picket world. I didn’t like her at all.

“Mr. Black!” her voice was a dry crack. “It’s after midnight! Do you have any idea how much noise you’re making?”

I stopped, swaying on my feet, and turned toward her. The world tilted. “You want to see how much more noise I can make?” I slurred, pointing a shaky finger. I raised my voice to a roar that tore at my throat. “I can make enough to let the whole goddamn street know I never liked your miserable ass! Now go back inside and mind your fucking business!”

Her jaw unhinged. For a glorious second, she was just a horrified old woman. Then she vanished, slamming her door so hard it echoed. “That’s right! Goodnight, bitch!” I yelled at the empty space.

At the door, my key wouldn’t find the lock. It took three tries.

The house didn’t just feel empty; it felt dead when I stepped inside. A tomb I’d built with my own two hands.