Rhys Hartman lit a cigarette.
It was raining, and he was stooped under the covering of the church's porch, which was supported by two white pillars on either side, yellowing and cracking with age. On either side of the porch were beds of mulch in which flowers Rhys didn't know the name of were slowly dying, murdered ruthlessly by the oncoming chill of November. Winters in Kentucky where a roll of the dice; some years rather warm, some years cold enough to kill off a colony. Rhys could feel in his bones, the way one sometimes can feel things in their bones, in their very beings, that this year was going to be the latter. He hoped they wouldn't have another ice storm.
Other people were starting to filter out of the church now, chatting about carrying the message and sharing strength, hope and experience. Rhys took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket to check the time and his messages. Ethan was working late at the diner, could Rhys get a ride home? It was good for Rhys to socialize anyway. Rhys rolled his eyes and pocketed his phone again, pulling his hood up over his honey golden curls as he began walking. It wasn't that far to where they lived in an apartment complex within the inner turmoil of the city; an hour, tops, and Rhys thought about how he should be better at estimating these things, that he should know more about how to get around their city.
He turned onto Fifth Avenue, taking one last draw off his current cigarette before flicking it into the street and lighting a new one from the crumpled pack in his left pocket. His phone began to vibrate ceaselessly in his right pocket, blasting out the X-Files theme music as it rang. He fished it out from its hiding spot, saw it was Lip who was calling him and answered it, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Yo."
"How come I see your white gringo ass walking down Fifth Avenue?"
"Because you're a stalker?" Rhys suggested, craning his neck to look behind him. A few blocks down was Lip's red Chevy pickup truck, roaring towards him. They hung up on each other as Lip slowed to an inching crawl beside Rhys.
"Let me give you a ride."
Rhys shook his head. "No thanks."
"Why're you taking the long way around, dumbass?" Lip and Rhys lived in the same apartment building, same apartment, one floor separated, 304 and 404. Unlike Rhys, Lip already knew the city like the back of his hand, knew every backstreet and alleyway the way Sherlock Holmes knows London. Rhys took a long drag off his cigarette, staring ahead as he sauntered forward without answering. Lip suddenly understood.
"You're gonna go score."
"You caught me," Rhys sighed, holding up his arms on either side of himself in mock defeat.
"Dude, didn't you just get back from rehab?"
"Don't see why that matters."
"That must've cost thousands," Lip pointed out, his caramel brown eyes flitting between Rhys' face and the road. He was a handsome man, by everyone's standard but especially by Rhys'; with his deep brown skin and hands covered in calluses from the factory work and guitar playing, his dazzling white teeth that were perfectly straight when he smiled, and Spanish that slipped smoothly from his tongue like water over a worn out path. "You gonna just throw it away?"
Rhys shrugged. "Mom paid for it."
"Get in the truck, idiot, at least let me drive you so you have a somewhat decreased chance of dying." Lip brought the truck to a halt, staring at Rhys expectantly. Rhys sighed, exhaling an annoyed cloud of smoke in the process, then did as he was told, climbing into the passenger seat and kicking floorboard trash out of his way as he did so. The truck was at least thirty years old, with a souped up engine built by Lip and his father. What Lip's dad didn't know was that the souped-up engine allowed Lip to win every competition in the illegal street racing ring he was a part of. What Lip didn’t know, or didn’t remember, was that he and Rhys had spent a very, very drunken night together in the bed of that pickup truck, parked in a field under the stars. Things had happened, things Rhys remembered but could never talk about unless he wanted to ruin their friendship. So far, it had been the best night of his life.
“The dope house on Lexington?” Lip guessed, revving the engine to bring the truck up to the speed limit. Rhys rolled down his window to flick his ashes.
“Yeah.”
The two had been friends, best friends since eighth grade year. That was when Rhys’ mother had moved away, when the Garcia family had allowed Rhys and his older brother Ethan to stay in the living room of their apartment until Ethan could find a steady a job and afford the two a place of their own. That year Rhys and Lip walked to school together every day, stayed up too late playing video games and Scrabble together, had helped make dinner together with the family every night. Rhys had been the first person Lip told about losing his virginity two years later; the year after, Rhys had lost his own virginity to Lip.
Rhys tried to push the thought from his mind as he watched the Victorian style houses roll by, some of them with flowerbeds in their windows, the reds and blues of their exteriors blurring together, their cracks and broken windows and crumbling front steps visible one second and behind them in the next. Rhys thought about the people living in the houses, the kind of lives they led; how long they had lived where they live, houses passed down through the generations, how many still had house payments, how many of the houses had rooms that had seen death firsthand. Who had a pet and who didn’t, who had parents still breathing and who didn’t; who, if anyone, was like him, in every single sense. He thought about how his life intersected with everyone else’s on the planet, the same planes of existing, the same signifiers of who they were. He thought about all this and took a drag off his cigarette, his thunderstorm eyes hooded. He felt no joy inside him, and wondered if there had ever been any.
They pulled up outside of the condemned house that was the dope den on Lexington Avenue. Lip put the truck in park.
“You can go ahead and leave,” Rhys told him. “I’m gonna be a little while. I can walk home after.”
Lip wrinkled his nose but didn’t say anything besides, “I’ll wait.”
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