Boot(s)

41 - Boots

Peter "Boots" Jackson

It was dark enough outside that I couldn't see much more than a few feet in front of me. One of the park's lamps was flickering outside the court. It went dead after a few hapless seconds of trying to ease my fear of being alone in the shadows.

The metal chain-link gate to the court suddenly crashed open against itself. I jumped up off the basketball I had been sitting on. My right hand shot into my jeans pocket and grabbed a tight hold of my switchblade. It was almost 10 p.m. in the peak of Atlanta's winter. I had no idea who the hell else would be here, besides maybe Bobby. But from the last I saw—the last I would ever see—he was in no state to be ball playing.

"Who's there?" I still couldn't see much more than a short, shadowy figure.

"Me, you dip shit." I let out the breath I had been holding in and ditched the vice grip on my knife. Her voice sounded hoarse.

"Sorry, Jess, I can't see shit." I stepped closer until I could see her face. Here, the moonlight was usually blocked by the towers of trees, but from where we stood, it shone right through to the court. It lit up her face. She was crying.

"Oh, Jessie," I reached out to pull her into my chest, but before I could, she kicked me hard in the shin. "Jesus Christ!"

"How could you!" She was stomping her feet, watching me rub my future bruise. "How could you not tell us? And now you're disappearing over night? This isn't fair, Boots. Not to me, not to Bobby..."

"I know, Jessie, I know—"

"He loves you so much." It sounded like a plea.

"I know—I love him too!"

All she did was raise her eyebrows at me. Her head jutted forward silently. She didn't have to say anything.

"Stop it," I told her. My skin had been crawling since I left Bobby's. I couldn't deal with this from her.

She raised her eyebrows again. Higher. Do you really? She was asking me. "Jess, not right now. Just—just give this to him," I pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of my jacket pocket and held it out to her. 

I had written it hours ago, before I had given Bobby the news, and now, staring at Jess, I felt like the words were all wrong. They weren't enough. But I shook the piece of paper in her face anyway, imploring her to grab it.

She sighed, shoving it in her pocket. I could see her chest rise with a deep breath in. She was studying me. My eyes, my lips. Did she know she would never see me again? I always felt like she could read people like books.

She threw her arms around my neck before I could contemplate further. She was crying again, and I could feel the wetness of her eyelashes on the skin of my neck. "Please come back alive," she whispered, pulling me in closer. "Please."

I gave her a final squeeze. "I'll try. Take care of my Bo." This request only made her cry harder. Once she pulled away from my neck, I used the edge of my jacket to dry her cheeks.

"Gotta go check on him," she told me, backing up toward the gate. "Love you."

"I love you," I told her, kissing my hand and waving her off. I stepped outside the court to follow her, watching as she headed for the street where her car was parked.

Leaving the court that night, I found myself further and further away from the place I called home. Instead, I spent my last night walking up and down our main strip, sipping out of a paper bagged bottle of Jim Beam. 

Besides the liquor store, the only shop open was a tattoo parlor. The door chimed when I walked in.