She heads off into the crowd, and as soon as she’s out of earshot, Gray turns to look at me. “You little bitch. You planned this.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He grins. “And you’re a liar, too. God, you’re quick on your feet.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I say. “You are going to help Gran. She’s got a ping-pong table in the basement I can’t move by myself. So it’s not a lie. Oh shoot, get ready. We’ve got to talk to him too.”

  Him is Rashad Fuentes, who’s the president of the Mid-Missouri LGBTQ Alliance, and I flag him down before he can pass us. It’s even easier this time. Gray and I are both more comfortable now that we’ve done this once. I lean into him a little when I’m talking. And when he and Rashad start discussing the details of what WISP offers, I look around like I’m just a boyfriend who’s been dragged along to a party, and I take Gray’s hand like this is something we do all the time. He looks over at me for a second, but he doesn’t stop talking. Not even a hitch. By the time we’re done, Rashad and Gray have set up a Zoom meeting for next week, and I’ve managed to talk about Gray getting a commendation from the mayor and about Gray solving two different murders, because based on Rashad’s Twitter feed, he’s a true crime junkie.

  After Rashad, I steer Gray toward Orion Robinson, the current head of Wrox-Out. Orion’s younger than me by at least two years, but they seem smart and engaged, and they’re eager to talk about ways Wrox-Out can be involved in making the campus safer for everyone. I’m doing my boyfriend stuff too, touching Gray’s back when he talks, putting my hand on his arm when I want to make a point. And although this conversation seems to be going even better than the first two, I’m starting to notice that Gray doesn’t let the contact last long. He shifts, or he moves his arm. When I try to hold his hand again, he squeezes my fingers and lets go almost immediately.

  It’s because he’s focused on the conversation, I tell myself. Or he doesn’t want to make me uncomfortable.

  And it doesn’t matter because everything is going so well. What really gets Orion excited is when I say that Gray spearheaded the police department’s collaboration on a campus safer-sex initiative the year before.

  “Holy shit,” Orion says, “that was you. That was the first fucking safer-sex initiative I’ve ever seen that was actually fucking real. Hold on, I want you to meet an alum who’s pretty much the reason Wrox-Out has a budget, and this shit is right up his alley.” To me, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “We’ll be right back.”

  Before I can object, Orion is leading Gray off into the party. Gray glances back with an apology on his face, and then they’re gone, the crowd closing around them, and I’m alone.

  I get myself another beer, even though earlier, I told myself no more than one. The closing social is shifting gears—you spend enough time policing public events, and you get a feel for the energy. What had started as a bunch of college-age kids having a few drinks and talking about their summer plans is turning into—well, a party. The music is louder. People start to pair up and dance. There’s a blond guy leaning against the wall, watching me, and when I can’t help myself and glance back, we make eye contact, and he smiles.

  Where is Gray?

  I start moving through the crowd—and I’m careful now not to look directly at anybody. People are clearing away the blankets and throw pillows to make more room for dancing. I don’t know any of the songs they’re playing, but the beat makes me think of the music they play in clubs—at least, what they play in clubs on those CW shows. And while some of the dancing is clearly about having fun, some of it is…not. Guys are taking their shirts off. They’re grinding on each other. Kissing. Making out. The night is cool, but that doesn’t stop anyone, and I don’t know where to look except the ground, risking a glance now and then so I don’t crash into anyone.

  Finally, I find Gray with a crowd of college-aged kids. No Orion. Nobody who could possibly be an alumni philanthropist. They’re all boys, and they’re all pretty, and the ones who don’t have their shirts off are wearing tops so sheer they’re practically translucent. They’re all laughing at something Gray said.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “There you are.”

  “Oh,” Gray says. “Sorry. Got sidetracked.”

  I honestly have no idea what to say—I mean, the whole point of coming here was to do this kind of outreach. Somehow, I come up with “Do you need a drink or anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  And then I really don’t know what to say.

  It doesn’t matter, though, because one of the pretty boys raises an eyebrow, and now I recognize him—Robin, who’s kind of Gray’s secretary or assistant or something at WISP. “Are you bored?” he asks, and he sounds like somebody pretending to be concerned. “Do you want to go home?”

  “Oh shit,” Gray says. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” I say, “I’m not bored.”

  “Good,” Robin says. He skips forward and loops his arm through Gray’s. “Rowan and Tanner will hang with you. Gray, you’ve got to help us move this keg. It’s way too heavy for any of us.”

  I almost laugh. Almost. Because I’m thinking about that line about tops and telling them they have big arms, and I’m sure Gray is thinking about it too. But Gray doesn’t laugh. He grins at me as he lets Robin pull him away, and then two very gay sharks start circling me.

  One of them looks like he should be on Instagram, his hair in that broccoli cut so many of those guys have. He’s already shirtless, and the tight pair of jeans rides low enough on his hips to show the top of his jock and the pale skin of his ass.

  The other is going for the college bro vibe. He’s got on a hat that says HURTIN FOR A SQUIRTIN, and he’s wearing a tight white tee I can see his nipples through. He looks like he spends a lot of time on his hair. And probably taking pictures of his dick.

  “Are you really Gray’s boyfriend?” Broccoli Cut asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his cock like?” College Bro says.

  I don’t say anything to that.

  “Are you, like, one of those gay guys who hates fags?” Broccoli Cut asks.

  “Yeah,” College Bro says. “Why’d you even come here if you hate it so much?”

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Don’t be such a bitch,” Broccoli Cut says.

  “We just want to talk to you,” College Bro says.

  But I’m already working my way through the crowd, trying not to collide with any of the dancers. Somehow, I make it to the edge of the courtyard and find a place along the wall. I take a few deep breaths. The bricks are solid against my back, and the cold is starting to filter through my jacket. I don’t know why, but I feel embarrassed. Like I said something I shouldn’t have. Or did something I shouldn’t have. Or like I totally missed what was going on. Not that it would be anything new; a lot of the time, I miss what’s going on.

  And if I were a few years younger, I’d probably do something stupid right now. I’d find somebody to latch on to. I’d try to be whatever I thought they wanted me to be. Nothing else would matter except fitting in. And fitting in only mattered so I could disappear.

  Instead, I take out my phone to get an Uber. Gray’s having a good time, and I’m ready for bed. That pretty much sums us up, I think.

  Only as I unlock my phone, I glance up, and I see him.

  Gray is laughing at something Robin has said, shaking his head, backing away. Robin is grinning, but there’s a lot of determination in that grin. A lot of resolve. Because Robin knows what he wants. As I watch, Robin lunges forward and takes Gray’s hand. Gray’s still laughing and trying to shake him off, but not too hard, and he lets Robin draw him in. And then they’re dancing.

  It’s obvious that Gray is trying to keep things light. He moves with Robin, and they’re both smiling and laughing, but every time Robin tries to close the gap between them, Gray manages to move, keeping his distance. And even though Robin must be frustrated, it doesn’t show on his face—he’s beaming. Because this is what he wants. Or close enough, anyway.

  Phone forgotten, I can’t help but watch.

  Gray looks happy. Like he’s in his element. Which he is, I realize. This is part of who he is—the party, the guys, the attention that he thrives on. He’s grinning even when he has to keep Robin from getting a hand down the back of his jeans. I’d be running for the hills, but Gray’s having fun.

  He’s so good at this, I think. And I don’t even know what this is. Being himself, I guess. He makes it look so easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like anybody could be themselves, and it wouldn’t be hard at all. And there’s something beautiful about how happy he is.

  I try to remind myself: he’s trouble. He can be an asshole sometimes. He runs his mouth pretty much constantly, and don’t forget that crack about having Gran cut a switch. But it doesn’t help. I look at him, and I think, He’s wild. He’s so wildly himself. And he’s mine.

  Or he’s supposed to be, anyway.

  For tonight.

  I’m moving through the crowd, pocketing my phone, pushing between dancers. When I reach them, Robin notices me first, and he draws back slightly. Gray still hasn’t noticed. Doesn’t look until I take his wrist, turn him away from Robin, and say over his shoulder—into the sudden flash of viciousness on Robin’s face—“You don’t mind if I dance with my boyfriend, do you?”

  Then the expression on Gray’s face catches my eye, and I forget about Robin. Startled. A little confused. I put his arms around my neck, put my hands on his hips. It’s like he’s waking up, and he cocks his head, and he has a little smile.

  “I was kind of bluffing,” I say. I’m painfully aware of how his body feels under my hands: the roughness of the denim, the dense muscle and bone underneath. I’m pretty much holding his ass, but saying his hips sounds a lot better. “You’ll have to show me.”

  He’s going to make some kind of crack. He’s definitely going to make a joke. I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t. His face smooths out—not a smile anymore, but not anything I can read either. He drops his arms from around my neck, but before I can even start worrying about that, he adjusts my hands. I’m really holding his ass now, and he moves in toward me. Then his arms are back around my neck, and he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne and whatever he uses in his hair and a hint of sweat. His end-of-the-day stubble scrapes me because we’re cheek to cheek now, and he’s almost whispering as he says, “Like this.”

  He moves, and at first he’s guiding me. After a few minutes, I get the hang of it—enough, anyway—to move with him. It’s not dirty, not exactly. He’s not humping my leg or drilling into me with his dick like some of the guys around us. But it’s not…not dirty either. Because our bodies seem to touch everywhere, and every inch of friction seems to work its way through my body and up my spinal column and set my brain on fire.

  Gran has an old sampler she made when she was Methodist, and it says He judgeth the quick and the dead, and when I was six or seven, she’d had to tell me that quick meant alive, but it was an old way of saying it. And now, right now, I understand, because every part of me feels quick. Every part of me is moving faster than it’s ever moved before, and it’s like I’ve been living my life in slow-motion until now. His arms are a weight around my neck, keeping me from floating off the ground. His breath is warm on my cheek. If I turned my head, we’d be kissing.

  It’s a wave of heat at first. The way it feels sometimes when I know I’ve tripped on my own dick and made a jackass out of myself in front of everybody. But this feels good, not bad, and it’s my whole body, wave after wave of it, and my brain still feels like it’s on fire. There’s this part of me that thinks this is what Gran used to talk about when she was having her hot flashes. And then, somehow, it’s even worse, because I know what this is, what I’m feeling, how every inch of skin feels like it’s electrified, how my body seems to be turning into light from the inside out.

  Gran’s fucking tingle.

  The thought is so disorienting that I lose a couple of seconds. My body keeps moving, and I’m trying to catch up with my feet, and then I lose the rhythm and we’re both about to fall.

  Gray catches us. Keeps us upright.

  He’s laughing, but in a sweet way, and his arms tighten around my neck. He’s speaking so low it’s barely more than a vibration moving from his lips to my ear.

  “Relax, Sammy. I got you.”

  12

  Sam

  I have to go to work the next day, which is cruel and unusual punishment.

  We didn’t get home all that late—barely midnight, which meant Gran was still watching Drag Race in the living room. And it’s not like Gray came in, or we stayed out in the car talking, or anything. He thanked me again for introducing him to those people. He felt like we’d made a good impression on some key figures. He was happy, I could tell.

  And then I went inside, gave Gran the bare minimum, and escaped to my room.

  I thought I’d never sleep. But then I did. And when I woke up the next morning, for the first time in a long time, I hit snooze and didn’t go for a run.

  I still make it to work on time. I’m on first shift for the next rotation, and it’s always an adjustment. I make it through roll call still hopped up on adrenaline, like I never went to sleep the night before, and I grab an extra large coffee before I hit the road. I don’t look around the station for Gray because I’m not a creeper. Plus, it’s Saturday, and unless he’s working a big case, he gets weekends off.

  It’s hard to put my finger on what’s different as the day goes on. I’m tired, sure, and it starts catching up with me in spite of the coffee. But it’s not that. I guess it’s just a nice day. The sun seems brighter. It’s warmed up, and when I roll the windows down, I can smell lilac blooming. It’s such a good day that the first guy I stop for speeding, I let him off with a warning.

  And I’m having a hard time staying focused—probably because I’m so tired. The whole shift, I catch my mind drifting off. Like, I know Gray usually takes his coffee black at the station, but is that the way he likes it at home? He’s definitely not a morning person, but does he still get up and go for a run—or maybe detectives don’t have to do that? What does he look like when he wakes up first thing in the morning? I decide he probably likes to lie in bed on the weekends. I bet if he had coffee and his phone, he could stay there all morning.

  I take a picture of a guy walking a little dog, because Gray has this theory about guys with little dogs, and I think he’s full of BS but it’s still funny. I’ll send it to him later. And that makes me wonder if he likes pets, or if he had pets growing up. Probably not because he made it sound like he didn’t have a very happy childhood, but I bet he’d like a dog. I could see him with a beagle. Or maybe he doesn’t like pets; that’s okay too, because we never had a dog growing up either. Dad always said raising a kid by himself was enough work.

  When I take my lunch, I park on Market Street, not far from where Gray brought me that sandwich—it feels like a long time ago now. I eat the meal I packed myself: a protein scramble, an apple, two Chips Ahoy cookies wrapped in wax paper. The sun is warm on my back, and the murmur of the river keeps me company. A car drives by, and the windows are down, and I hear one of the songs they played last night. And I think I should probably text Gray and ask him what it was, because I kind of like it.

  By the time I’m done with work, I don’t even remember half of what I did that day. I change out in the locker room as fast as I can, only half hearing the other guys ribbing each other, and head outside. It’s only midafternoon, which is another perk of being on first shift, and I barely make it to my car before I text Gray the picture of the guy with the little dog.

  He doesn’t answer.

  There’s half a heartbeat when I think: is he mad at me? Because of last night?

  But then my phone buzzes, and Gray says: You are such a nerd. And I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m totally right.

  And then I ask him about the song, and it’s like we never stopped talking last night, messages going back and forth. I even check my phone when I get to stoplights, and I never do that.

  “Somebody looks happy,” Gran says as I come into the house.

  “It’s a nice day,” I say.

  Gran glances at me, smiles, and goes back to looking at her earrings. She keeps them in binders, in these vinyl sheets that have lots of pockets. She’s got them lined up on a shelf in her room, except for now when they’re spread on the coffee table, and she calls them the family albums.

  I change into workout clothes—shorts and a tee—in my room, still texting with Gray, even when I’m pulling the shirt over my head.

  What are you doing? I ask, and all of a sudden, I’ve got this idea that I’m going to ask him to go to the gym with me.

  Catching up on paperwork. And then a second message comes through—the knife emoji, and the words Kill me.

  Want some help?

  So much for the gym, I guess.

  Thanks, but I’m in too deep at this point.

  But he’s not in too deep that he doesn’t keep answering every time I text him. He wants to know about work, so I tell him about the guy I let off with a warning. I guess he thinks that’s hilarious because he sends me about fifteen different texts saying lol and omg and a lot of the skull and laughing emojis. I ask him if he’s eaten anything, and he sends me a picture—it’s from his office at WISP, and it shows one of those protein smoothies on the corner of his desk. The cup is empty, so I guess that counts for something.

  It’s like that all the way to the gym. I’m doing arms today, and I’m limping through the sets because I’ve got no gas, not after last night. But the time flies by anyway because I’m texting Gray between sets. He’s trying to wind me up about whatever he can think of—right now, he’s trying to come up with a profile name for me on Prowler. He thought I didn’t know that was a gay dating app, but it’s not like I live under a rock. So far, the best name he’s come up with is saddysam, which he says is like Sam plus Daddy, like Zaddy. When I tell him it sounds like I’m sad, he swears. A lot.