JUNE 28, 2020 / QUEENS COMMUNITY HOUSE

If someone had asked Asher six years ago who, out of his trio of friends, was most likely to be successful, he would not have said Kerrish Soto.

But it was funny how life turned out.

In high school, Asher had been quiet and unsure of his future, and now he was an established motocross star. Ryanel had been both studious and outgoing — which is why Asher probably would have pegged him as the most likely to be successful — and, with little surprise, ended up CEO of a philanthropic enterprise.

And Kerrish?

He'd been a right nightmare in high school, but a nightmare that was absurd and charming enough to pass as an odd daydream. He was noncommittal and self-absorbed and so very short-sighted about anyone without breasts, and yet he'd made a larger turnaround than either Ryanel or Asher.

"Thanks for coming, Mrs. Sylvestri," Kerrish affectionately patted the shoulder of an old woman who was beaming up at him. "Do you need a ride home? Or is Zenith coming to pick you up?"

"He's waiting outside," the old woman reassured. "Such a good boy, Kerrish. I'll see you next month?"

"You bet."

This was the third monthly voting registration drive that Kerrish had organised for their borough, and turnout was steadily increasing each time. He was passionate about voters rights and democracy and other political movements that Asher probably should have bothered to read about, but never did.

Kerrish wore jeans, a crisp white-collared shirt and a navy blazer — fresh from work at the law practice. He shed the blazer and rolled up his sleeves as the last people filed out of the community center, beckoning Asher — who he had roped into filling out forms — over to him.

"We have to pack down all the tables and chairs," Kerrish said, getting to work on the first collapsible wooden table. "I only booked this place till nine."

"Mrs. Sylvestri sure does enjoy your company. I thought she registered at the first drive?"

"She did, but her children and grandkids can't make it round to see her as much as she'd like, which she understands, but it makes her afternoons quite lonely," Kerrish softly explained. "So she's always looking for things to do. She's actually been a great help in talking to the older demographics."

Asher grinned at the sheer goodness of the words that were falling from Kerrish's lips. Who would have guessed that Kerrish would have ended up in the suburbs organising voting drives and befriending little old women?

"You are so straight-laced these days. Maybe one day I'll be ticking your name on the voting form."

Kerrish scoffed, but didn't retort. And that was how Asher knew that this was something he was seriously considering.

"Congratulations on winning the East Coast heat, by the way," Kerrish diverted the conversation. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

Asher thought back to the week before, when the AMA Series East Coast heats had taken place in Florida. Only Vasily came to support him — though having even one person travel that far for him was a great honour. 

There had been an unnerving amount of media presence, with large video cameras mounted on tripods and photography cameras with comically long lenses. They flocked around the track like ravens. 

It had been hard to ignore the flares of light as Asher zipped over hills and round corners, but there had been nothing to be done. Each race was successively higher profile, and celebrity seemed to go hand in hand with athleticism.

Asher had felt clammy and nervous before the race (for all his talk of over-anxious rookies, there were no rookies at this stage of the competition anymore, so Asher rightly felt threatened) but then the meditative calm that always possessed him when he thrust the engines fell over him. 

He had done what he did best: race.

With ferocious determination and razor-sharp moves, he'd won it. 

After the victory was all so familiar, so rehearsed, so blurred. The podium, medal, trophy, champagne, interview, flashes, and a week later Tallulah would be excitedly reading it all back to him from a published article. Then, and only then, did Asher even recall what happened post-race.

What was different, was that his father had been waiting for him at the end. Arms open and a proud smile on his face like a beacon of warmth.

That had certainly never happened when Asher was racing as a teenager.

"It's okay. Dad was there," Asher recounted fondly. "He was so excited for me."

"Your old man is gold, Asher. I'll try to come to these last two — and if not the semi-final, then definitely the final."

The pair of men steadily set the collapsed table down against the wall of a storage room and headed back for more.

Asher asked, "Are you sure? The final is in Vegas."

"Weekend trip, baby. I'm this close to convincing Ryanel to fly there the day before with me."

"Yeah, I wouldn't get your hopes up. He doesn't watch the races."

"Now that I think of it," Kerrish said in a manner that belied how he certainly did not just think of it, "I haven't seen both of you in the same room since . . . well, that one time I popped into Delrov Tech, but that's work-related. Before that, it was . . . Olivetti's? For your birthday dinner. Shit, that was four months ago."

"I saw Ryanel last week."

"Yeah, where? If it's work, a hospital or at a mutual friend's place, it doesn't count."

It hadn't been at Delrov Tech HQ, nor a children's ward, so Asher had self-assuredly opened his mouth to reply, until Kerrish had finished his sentence and Asher recalled that, in fact, they'd been attending Annalise's gender reveal party.

Damn.

"See? Something is going on between you two."

"Hey — I know as much as you do. Ever since I left Delrov Tech, it's like he's been slowly freezing me out of his life— What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

For a tortuous moment, Kerrish inspected Asher with a puzzled expression. "I was in The Hague when you two dated. Though, when I came back and your dad filled me in, I couldn't believe it because you two were acting like you'd always had."

"I don't want to talk about this now, do you? Let's just get this shit packed up and call it a night."

Kerrish plowed on ahead, refusing to be deterred from his goal — and for a moment, Asher could see the ghost of a fiery teenage bulldozer in front of him. "Why did you two even date? And why did you even break up? You know, it was really weird thinking about my two best friends nailing each other—"

"—so, do you not fucking under what 'don't want to talk about it' means?"

"—but it's even weirder that my two best friends aren't even friends anymore. So spill it, or I'll have to ask your dad. Now imagine that: your best friend talking to your father about your ex-boyfriend and other best friend. The sheer awkwardness—"

"—Okay!" Asher interrupted the horrific picture Kerrish was verbally painting. "Fucking hell, okay! Shut up, and I'll get this over with, and then I'm going for a drink. And no, you're not invited."

For good measure, Asher gave the table they hefted between them a harsh shove, taking small satisfaction in how Kerrish, walking backwards, stumbled over his feet. He pouted and scowled, but waited patiently for an explanation.

"I dated Ryanel because he made me happy during a time when nothing else did, and he dumped me because I didn't make him happy. I was dependent and exhausting and he deserved better. It was a mistake, and breaking up was the best thing for both of us."

"Hm," was all Kerrish said.

They stored the rest of the community center furniture in smothering silence, but it was as plain as day that Kerrish was far from done thinking on the matter.