When I get back to my apartment, I finish my daily work duties quickly and feed Bruno, who’s hiding under the bed – whatever spooked him this time, but the prospect of food always works – and then go through my drawers. It doesn’t take long until I find what I’m looking for, and I take it outside to slump down on my deckchair.

I said I don’t do drugs, and that is true. I just don’t like what they do to people, and that includes alcohol. I used to smoke, but I basically stopped when I spent a longer period of time at Josie’s and didn’t want to smoke in front of Soso. It’s really not healthy, especially for children, and I don’t want Soso to pick up any bad habits from me. Sometimes smoking meant not only tobacco, though. Sometimes you need something stronger. Tonight is one of those times.

Lately it’s mostly a social thing. When Rafa comes over, we usually have a little BBQ. I have the food; he brings a couple of beers (for himself) and some weed (that we share). Last time we only finished half of it, so the other half is what I’m having tonight. I need it to calm my frazzled nerves. There was just too much going on since my birthday – and I can’t believe it’s only been three days! Rashid, Big Mal, Daniel Molloy, Rashid again – and all the carefully buried memories it brought up. My hustling, Remy, Quinn…

It’s just making me feel like I’m on the edge, like my brain is on overload and I need to just shut it up for a moment so I can find focus again. Bottom line: I’m not a junkie, but “blowin’ trees to get right” is what I’m doing tonight.

I stretch out on the deckchair. The slaps on my terrace still radiate the heat from the day, so I take off my shirt and let it fall to the ground. There’s no one here who could be bothered about it anyway. I light the joint and take a deep drag, slowly puffing out the smoke and waiting for the effects to kick in. It doesn’t take long for the feeling of lightness to take over, and I close my eyes to welcome it.

My free hand wanders down between my legs. I know I could have asked the kid – Rahul – to blow me. He’d have done it, and the twenty bucks I left him with would probably have been enough. But I know too well how he felt. Scared, disgusted and ashamed. Not wanting to do it but desperately needing the money. Hoping it won’t hurt too bad and will be over quick. I was him far too often and for far too long to do this to him. I stayed with him to give him the time and peace to eat and drink. While I was there, no other client would have bothered him, and no other street kid dared to steal his food. For a brief moment, I protected him. I hope he’ll use the money wisely, but this is out of my control. I can’t save him. No-one could have saved me.

I open my zipper, pull down my jeans over my scrawny ass, and with a sigh, I let my hand glide into my boxer briefs. I know who I want to think of in this moment, and it’s definitely not a half-starved, scared kid. I take another drag, and my mind naturally conjures up Rashid’s face in front of my inner eye. His eyes, the way they looked at me in the diner. Warm and with a vulnerable side. The way he smiles in his profile picture. I imagine him smiling at me like that.

I picture his hands, strong and sinewy, his long, slender fingers and the way he ran them through his hair. The way he brushed those crumbs and powdered sugar from his lips. Those kissable lips. I wonder what it feels like kissing them. Soft and inviting, lingering, insistent. His tongue leaving trails of goosebumps on my chest. His teeth gracing my neck with small nibbling bites. His mouth on my skin, licking, sucking. My fingers tangled in his hair…

My hips buck as I come into my fist, and I sink back on the deckchair, finishing the joint, my brain flooding with endorphins from the high and my orgasm.

When I’m done, I let the butt drop onto the concrete and pick up my shirt to clean up the mess I left on my belly. I’m dimly aware that Bruno is there and curiously sniffs around. No one wants a stoned cat, so I blindly fumble around to shoo him away. When my hand skims over the butt, I take it and stuff it into my jeans pocket before oblivion takes over.

I’m woken in the middle of the night when a cool breeze swipes across my terrace. I struggle out of my jeans that are tangled somewhere around my thighs and stumble into my apartment. I’m thirsty and down several glasses of water from the tap before I collapse on my bed and go back to sleep.

The next morning I feel hungover and just want to stay in bed. I simply roll over and bury my head underneath my pillow. The thing about living with a cat is, though, they don’t care if you’re barely functional. They still demand to be fed. After a few meows that don’t lead to the desired effect, Bruno decides to take action and jumps on the bed. He uses me as his runway, kneading his paws into my flesh. He’s purring but insisting. Between him, my full bladder and dry throat, sleep isn’t an option anymore.

I growl at Bruno and walk into the bathroom first to take a piss. I lean my head against the cool tiles to ease my light headache. When I re-emerge, Bruno sits in joyful (and hungry) anticipation next to his bowl. I fill it to the rim with kibbles and look for my phone. I eventually find it underneath my deckchair in a heap of my clothes.

I know I received some texts; I felt, more than heard, the buzzing as I walked home, but I just couldn’t deal with them last night. I have a look now, and there’s one from Josie. It’s actually a short video of Soso, screaming into the camera, “Good wuck, Unkie Lell!” and smiling her toothless smile.

She makes me laugh; she’s so adorable. If I love one person in the world above all else, it’s my princess.

The other texts are from Rashid. All of them. He must have sent the first one just after he left the diner and the last one around midnight, the other one sometime in between.

RC: “Please let Rosalie know her beignets are really the best”

RC: “I’m really sorry I had to leave so soon. Raincheck?”

RC: “I’m free all day today?”

I stare at his messages. It’s almost like he was waiting for a reply from me; they’re so spaced out. I feel a certain pang of guilt for hanging him out to dry like that. I rub my face with one hand to clear away the grogginess. I hesitate, then I hit the call button. It starts ringing, and belatedly I remember to check the time. It’s early Sunday morning. He’s probably asleep. Before I can hang up, he answers. He doesn’t sound sleepy.

“Hello?”

“Hi… um… It’s me, Wendell…” I curse myself. He probably has my number saved on his phone and saw who was calling. Idiot! “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Hi, Wendell. No, it’s fine. What’s up?” He sounds very casual and composed. Like he hasn’t sent me desperate text after desperate text last night. Do three texts count as desperate?

“I was just wondering…” Yes, Wendell, what were you wondering??? “I… um…” I look around wildly. Gosh dammit, I couldn’t have thought about what to say before I called?! My eyes fall onto a pile of dirty laundry next to my bed, and they give me an idea. “I was just going on a run and thought you might want to come with me…?” My voice trails off as I realise how lame it sounds.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. I panic for a moment that he hung up (I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had).

“Sure… Where do you want to meet?”

“Where are you staying?” I hope that’s not classified information or something. With these spies you never know.

“The Celestine… It’s on Toulouse Street…”

“I know where it is. Give me half an hour? Or do you need more time?”

“No… Half an hour is fine. I’ll be downstairs.”

“See you then!” I hang up and madly zoom off under the shower. I make it to Rashid’s hotel just on time, damp hair hidden underneath a beanie hat (that Josie says makes me look cute). As promised, Rashid is waiting for me in front of the entrance, looking pristine and perfect as always. He looks the other way, and I manage to sneak up on him, giving him a light tap on the shoulder. He turns around and surprises me with a smile.

It’s not a big smile. Only a hint, a promise of a smile. With other people, I probably wouldn’t call it a smile at all, but I love seeing it on Rashid. It’s in his eyes, rather than around his lips, and it gives them a special glow.

“Good morning. You made it.” He greets me.

“Was there ever any doubt about it?” I grin. Why, I only had to shower, pick an outfit, change and run a mile here at a probably personal best to make it just on time.

He shakes his head and asks, “Where to?”

“Go down to the Riverfront? Woldenberg Park?”

He nods. “Fine by me. Lead the way.”

We walk a couple of blocks down to the Mississippi in amicable silence. When we reach the Steamboat Natchez, I am treated to the view of Rashid doing some stretching exercises. I’ve already run a mile, so I’m good to go – already warmed up. I still do some knee lifts and shoulder rolls, so I can disguise my stolen glances at Rashid. He’s wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, so there isn’t as much to see as I’d like, but I take what I can. I think he knows I’m checking him out but doesn’t mind.

We start off along the Riverfront at a moderate speed and stop here and there so I can point out some of the sights: St. Louis Cathedral, the French Market and the Old US Mint. As we leave Woldenberg Park and cross over to Crescent Park, we pass by some really cool graffiti and murals. Rashid snaps some pictures of the Rusty Rainbow Bridge until I ask him to turn around. The view of the New Orleans skyline from here is amazing.

Hanging out with Rashid feels so natural; our running pace is a good match, and we’re both happy not to waste our breath on unnecessary small talk. He seems interested in the places I point out to him and asks questions that I try to answer. I’m not a trained tour guide, so I don’t know everything. We find a pop-up coffee cart near Crescent Park’s Piety Street entrance called “Rusty’s River Roast” that promises coffee “Stronger Than The River Current”. Rashid gets us two coffees; we sit down on a bench near the water, and we sip our hot beverages.

There’s a second bench near our spot. Not exactly close to us, but not too far away. A boy, maybe a few years younger than I am, sits there alone. He seems nervous and keeps fidgeting around. Pulling out his phone and putting it back into his jeans pockets. He’s obviously waiting for someone.

After a while, Rashid asks, “So, what do you like most about living in New Orleans?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. She’s home. She’s a hot mess, but she’s our hot mess, you know?”

Rashid nods, taking another sip. “Same with London. It’s a nightmare, but it’s our nightmare.”

The boy on the other bench suddenly jumps up, making both Rashid and me turn our heads. A second boy, about the same age, walks up, and the first boy’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. They hug, and then they kiss. It’s just a peck on the cheeks, like friends could do, but I notice how their hands interlace as they sit down. Closer than “normal” friends would sit. I peek at Rashid, who’s still watching them, to see his reaction. But there’s nothing that gives him away.

“So, are you from London originally?”

He hesitates slightly, and I wonder if my question was too personal. If we’re still pretending this is a recruitment meeting.

“No. Up north. Have you ever heard of Hull?” He finally says.

I shake my head.

“Yorkshire?” Apparently it’s a bigger place. I shake my head again. Hey, I’m a dumb American who dropped out of high school before graduation.

“Home of the famous tea brand.” He stretches his back. “Let’s leave it at ‘up north’ then.”

If I’m not completely mistaken, there’s that ghost of a smile again as he looks out on the river, trying to mask it with another sip. Oh, come on, Oxford! Gimme something! You can laugh at my dumbass ignorance, but give me a smile!

“Do you miss it?”

“England? No, not really. I’ve lived in many places. They all have their advantages and disadvantages. I miss… people. Some… people. Friends, you know.”

I have a feeling that he wanted to say something else. Not “people”. But something made him stop. Part of me wants to know if “friends” means “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”, but can I ask? He doesn’t avoid my questions so far, but he weighs up really carefully what and how much he can say. Or wants to say.

There’s giggling from the other bench. The boys are practically tangled together – one has his legs stretched across the other’s lap, both of them scrolling through their phones, comparing something with mock outrage. They fight over the last bite of cookie, laughing, brushing crumbs from each other’s cheeks like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Rashid leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, coffee cup cradled between his hands. He watches them for a moment, then turns back to the water and drinks again. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t ask.

I keep watching them – how they bicker gently over whose coffee is whose, teasing each other between sips. Then they start to kiss. Light at first – brushes on the cheek, the forehead, like they’re still half-laughing. The coffee cups sit forgotten on the bench. Their lips find each other again and again, soft and unhurried. Fingers graze faces, trace jawlines. One of them whispers something, too quiet to catch, but it makes the other smile like the words were meant just for him.

“They’re having a good time.” I comment, my gaze returning to Rashid. He doesn’t react, only drinks again from his cup.

“Do you ever wish you had something like that?” I don’t even know what made me say that. It just slipped out. They’re my thoughts, mainly. They make it look so easy. Just being in love, carefree, effortless and unafraid. As if it’s just safe to love someone like that. I wonder what it feels like.

Rashid is staring at his feet, scrunching up his empty coffee cup. I run a hand over my face.

“Man, you’re hard to read.” I’m talking to myself here, and I know it. I empty my cup and aim it at the trash can nearby. I miss it. Of course.

“I hear that a lot. Comes with the job.” Rashid rubs his temple with his free hand.

“You ever… you know. With a guy?” It’s the question that’s been burning a hole in my insides for the past few days. I shouldn’t have asked it; it’s too soon, too private…

“Yes.” His answer comes promptly, simply and without pretense.

I’m speechless. Less because of what he said. I’d be lying if I said it comes as a complete surprise. It’s because of the ease and how little it seemed to cost him to say it. Rashid looks up at me.

“Is that a problem?” His voice sounds almost defiant, daring me to object.

“What? Umm… no… of course not… erm…” I splutter. “I’m gay.”

I think this might be the first time that I’ve “come out” to anyone like that. There really wasn’t any need for big declarations in my life before. With my sister, I think she just always knew, at least as long as I did. Maybe even longer. It never came up in conversation, and she never questioned it. I never questioned that we’re basically fishing in the same pond. We’re not competing, though. Her taste in men is completely different from mine.

“That’s settled then,” Rashid declares and gets up, picks up my rogue cup on the way and dumps our waste in the trash can. He looks down, and I catch him nervously twisting knots into the seams of his sweatpants. Suddenly his dilemma dawns on me. He was sent here on a mission, and he’s trying to keep it professional. But I’m not making it easy for him. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to keep it professional anymore. He’s been flirting with me, asking me out on second dates – only to pull back, and always keeping his emotions guarded. He’s at a crossroads and undecided which path to take.

I wish I could go over to him, hug him, and tell him it’s alright. He can let go if that’s what he wants. It’s what I want, too. This doesn’t have to be professional and actually never will be, because I won’t accept the Talamasca’s offer. But I can’t. This is a decision he’ll have to make on his own.

“Why, were there conflicting reports about my sexual orientation in my file as well?” Leave it up to me to lighten the mood with inappropriate comments.

He actually reacts with a snort. That’s a start. “No, actually not.”

I get up from our bench and close the distance between us with a few steps. Without making a conscious decision, I lift my hand and touch his shoulder lightly. My fingers run along his biceps, and he turns around. Our gazes lock for a moment, and I can see the turmoil in his eyes.

Then I grin at him and give his upper arm a flick.

“Race you to the entrance to the park. Loser pays for the next round.”

And I bolt before he can even react.