Near the end, Daryl approached the grill while Jamal scraped the grate.
"Thank you," Daryl said.
Jamal did not look up. "Don't thank me. Thank Rhea's manners and my mother's face in that crowd. This is not reconciliation. This is me deciding not to make a scene at my aunt's house."
"I know." Daryl's voice was quiet. "I'm still going to say I'm sorry. Not because it fixes anything. Because you deserve to hear it without a towel and a doorway doing the talking for me. I betrayed you. I used the access you gave me. I hurt the one person who trusted me with the most important thing in his life. I live with that. I will keep living with that. And if the only relationship I get with you for the rest of our lives is this — one plate at a cookout and a grate between us — I will take it and I will not ask for more."
Jamal finally looked at him. The dark-brown eyes were steady. The gold chain caught the late sun. For a moment Jamal saw the ninth-grader with the history maps, and then he saw the man in the towel, and then he saw both at once, which was the problem with people you had loved: they never became only their worst moment, even when you wanted them to.
"Go eat your cake," Jamal said. "Then go home."
Daryl nodded. He left the grill. He ate a slice of his own cake standing near the fence. He thanked Rhea. He left before dusk.
That night Jamal drove Angela home. The suburban house looked the same: hardwood waiting beyond the door, gray sectional, family photographs, kitchen hallway. He walked her to the porch and stopped.
"I'm not coming in," he said.