Excerpt from Memorial by Bryan Washington, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

*

I don't say shit on our way to the airport to pick up his mother, and I don't say shit when Mike parks the car. IAH sits outside of Houston's beltways, but there's always steady traffic lining the highway. When Mike pulls up to Arrivals, he takes out the keys, and a line shimmers behind us, this tiny constellation of travelers.

Mike's got this mustache now. It wavers over his face. He usually clips all of that off, and now I think he looks like a caricature of himself. We sit beside the terminal, and we can't have the most fucked up situation here, but still. You have to wonder.

I wonder.

I wonder if he wonders.

We haven't been good at apologizing lately. Now would be a nice time.

The airport sees about 111,500 visitors a day, and here we are, two of its most ridiculous.

Hey, says Mike.

He sighs. Hands me the keys. Says he'll be right back with his mother.

If you leave us stranded in the parking lot, says Mike, we'll probably find you.

*

It took all of two dates for him to bring up Race. We'd gone to an Irish bar tucked behind Hyde Park. Everyone else on the patio was white. I'd gotten a little drunk, and when I told Mike he was slightly shorter than optimal, he clicked his tongue, like, what took you so long.

What if I told you you're too polite, said Mike.

Fine, I said.

Or that you're so well-spoken.

I get it. Sorry.

Don't be sorry, said Mike, and then he boxed my shoulder.

It was the first time we'd touched that night. The bartender glanced our way, blinking.

I just hope you see me as a fully realized human being, said Mike. Beyond the obvious sex appeal.

Shut up, I said. 

Seriously, said Mike, no bullshit.

Me Mifune, he said, you Yasuke.

Stop it, I said.

Or maybe we're just fucking Bonnie and Clyde, he said.

*

Three different cops peek in the car while Mike's in baggage claim. I smile at the first two. I frown at the third. The last guy taps the window, like, What the fuck are you waiting for, and when I point towards the airport's entrance all he does is frown.

Then I spot them on their way out. The first thing I think is that they look like family. Mike's mother is hunched, just a little bit, and he's rolling her suitcase behind her. For a while, they saw each other annually she'd fly down just to visit, but the past few years have been rocky. The visits stopped once I moved in with Mike.

The least I can do is pop the trunk. I'd like to be the guy who doesn't, but I'm not.
Mike helps his mother adjust the backseat as she gets in, and she doesn't even look at me. Her hair's in a bun. She's got on this bright blue windbreaker, with a sickness mask, and the faintest trace of make-up.

Ma, says Mike, you hungry?

She mumbles something in Japanese. Shrugs.

Ma, says Mike.

He glances at me. Asks again. Then he switches over, too.

She says something, and then he says something, and then another guy directing traffic walks up to my window. He's Latino, husky in his vest. Shaved head like he's in the Army. He mouths at us through the glass, and I let the window down, and he asks if anything's wrong.

I tell him we're moving.

Then move, says this man.

The next words leave my mouth before I can taste them. It's a little like gravity. I say, Okay, motherfucker, we're gone.

And the Latino guy just frowns at me. Before he says anything else, there's a bout of honking behind us. He looks at me again, and then he wanders away, scratching at his chest, wincing back at our car.

When I roll the window up, Mike's staring. His mother is, too. She says something, shaking her head, and I pull the car into traffic.

I turn on the radio, and it's Meek Mill.

I flip the channel, and it's Migos.

I turn the damn thing off. Eventually we're on the highway.

Excerpted from Memorial by Bryan Washington. Copyright © 2020 by Bryan Washington. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.