100 Yellow Doors

august 25th, 2019, 12:01 p.m.

She had made a mistake bringing him here.

Sundays were Iman's grocery days, and when she had run into Beck on her way out the apartment complex door, she couldn't very well turn him down on his offer to accompany her. They had walked in the light rain to the nearest grocer, Beck holding his nearly broken umbrella above them, sometimes letting it fall to the side if he got too distracted by what he was saying.

He was even more distracted now. Picking up something in a green squeeze bottle, he held it out to Iman and asked, "What's this?"

Iman narrowed her eyes at the label, then took it from Beck's hands and placed it back on the shelf. "It's miso."

"Miso? Like the soup?"

"The stuff that goes in the soup, yes."

Beck raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of discovery, and they moved through the aisles, Iman pushing the cart while Beck darted around like an overexcited child. They'd only ever gone clothing shopping together, in which case Beck was an entirely different person. After five minutes of following Iman around the store, he reserved himself to whatever stool he could find, only opening his mouth to say "Mm, sure," or "No, not that one," when Iman held up a shirt she was considering.

Beck marveled at the wall of spices as Iman picked the few ones on her list: salt, pepper, cumin, turmeric, a bit of star anise—she had enough onion and garlic powder at home, she decided. She bought eggs, almond milk, a bit of greek yogurt she knew she'd mostly end up using for face masks. Beck held up a roll of cookie dough; Iman shook her head. He offered her a vegan peanut butter cup; still, she shook her head. He handed her a bag of frozen tater tots. Iman dropped them in the basket.

"God, I'll have to go shopping with you next time," Iman said, swatting Beck in the back of the head as they waited at the checkout line. The store was fairly crowded, the upbeat country song droning over the speakers mere background noise to the hum of human voices. "Are you always like this? I mean, it's a wonder you haven't blown all your money."

Beck grinned sheepishly. "Normally Ronnie stops me."

Ronnie was Beck's roommate, who Iman had only interacted with in passing. Usually when she was over at Beck's—which was rare, since it was at the edge of DC and always smelled a little like dirty socks—Ronnie was sleeping or shut up in the laundry room-turned-sculpting studio. Iman had never actually seen any of his sculptures, and at this point, she was beginning to think no one but Ronnie had.

"There's just too many options," added Beck, his eyes pleading. "How do you not want to try everything?"

"I have impulse control, Beck."

"Well, maybe you took all of mine."

Iman rolled her eyes, then held out her palm. When Beck looked back at her, dumbfounded, she scoffed. "You picked them out, genius. You're paying for those tater tots."

Outside, the light rain had transformed into a downpour. Water ran in the streets, cascaded down gutters, soaked people's jackets as they ran for shelter with bags held over their heads. Beck, his glasses fogged and his hair already beginning to frizz, caught at Iman's arm. "Wait here," he said, patting her hand with his own. "I'll get the car."

Iman smiled at him, swiping a raindrop from his cheek with her thumb. "It's okay, silly. I can stand a little rain."

A crack of thunder reverberated through the air, making both Iman and Beck jump.

Iman silently handed him the keys.

Drawing her shopping cart to a dry corner underneath the store's awning, Iman searched through her paper grocery bags for one of the Granny Smith apples she had bought. She yanked a wipe from the station beside the cart return and cleaned it, taking a bite so cold it made her teeth hurt. She was watching the rain, driven sideways by the wind, when her phone rang in her pocket. She expected Beck (he probably forgot where they parked, if she knew him at all), so she was stunned when the voice on the other line belonged to Julien.

"Hey, Immy."

He sounded so tired. Iman hated that he sounded so tired. "Is everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I just—I told you to call me, and then you called me, but I wasn't there, you know, so I'm calling you now," he said. A breath. "Where—when—did you go?"

It took Iman a second to remember that the last time she and Julien had spoken had been seconds before she'd traveled again. "Where do you think?"

"Ah," said Julien. "Right."

"1990."

"Lovely year."

"Was it?" Iman asked. "Aren't all years sort of the same for you?"

"No, I remember the year 1896 being especially awful," said Julien, pausing for thought. "Although they do start to wash together a bit, yeah."

Iman stood on her tiptoes, trying to get a good look into the parking lot to see where Beck was. When she didn't locate her black hatchback, however, she sighed and said into the phone, "Jules?"

He waited a moment, as if unsure he wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say. "Yes?"

"Your family...they were in Mexico City in the early 1800s, right? That's when you were turned."

Another bated breath. "Why are you asking me this?"

"I may or may not have signed up to research your family," said Iman. At the time, it had seemed like such a brilliant idea, so she wasn't sure why it suddenly felt so stupid now. "For my Latin History class, I mean. We're supposed to research 19th century Mexican families, and Morales was on the list, so..."

"So? That could be anyone," Julien said, defensive. The whir of tires against wet asphalt made Iman look up; Beck was coming up the way. "Morales is not at all a rare last name. That could be anyone—"

Iman shifted, leaning her shoulder against the wall. "But if it isn't just anyone? If it's you?"

Julien was wordless for a moment, but she could hear him breathing, shallow and fast, almost as if he was angry—or sick. "I don't know," he said after a beat. Beck pulled up by the curb then; Iman guided her cart towards the car as Beck popped the trunk. "I don't know what you'll find."

"Of course not," she agreed. Beck stepped out of the car, quirking an eyebrow at Iman when he noticed the phone against her ear. She mouthed Julien at him, and though he seemed peeved, he said nothing as he reached to help her with the bags. "That's the fun part, Jules. This is what you came for, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is."

It was something in the way he said it; almost as if he were convincing himself of his own words.

Iman sandwiched the phone between her shoulder and her ear, hefting the final grocery bag into the trunk. Nudging the cart back towards the return, she slid into the passenger's seat, rain-scent still clinging to her clothes and her hair. "It'll be okay," she said, though she could not pinpoint what it was, not for herself, not for Jules. She had the uncomfortable feeling they were two different things—that there was something going on with Julien she knew nothing about. "Trust me."

A light chuckle. "I can do that."

"Good," said Iman as Beck pulled out of the parking lot. "I'll talk to you later, when I know more. Thanks for calling."

"Yeah," said Julien, and the call ended.

Beck, his glasses less fogged but still considerably so, glanced over at Iman from the driver's seat. "Is he alright?"

Iman hated it, but she didn't really know.

She sank down in her seat, closing her eyes. "God, I hope so."