Arlen swept the barrel of the gun toward Neil.

  With a wordless shout, Neil lunged at the old man.

  The front door crashed open.

  Bobby stood there, scanning the room. He was still in the tank and shorts, but he was carrying his service weapon. Maybe it was the weak lighting of the living room, or maybe it was some strong emotion that seemed to grip him—whatever the reason, in that first moment I saw him, I almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Sheriff’s deputy,” he shouted. “Drop the—”

  Arlen swung the gun at Bobby.

  At the same moment, I pushed off from the sofa and flew across the room. I crashed into Arlen. He grunted as we tumbled into the wall. The shotgun whacked me on the shoulder. Then the gun went off, and the sound of the shot rang in my ears.

  We hit the floor and separated, and I rolled across the carpet. I scrambled to my feet, looking for Arlen and the gun.

  Neil stood over him; he’d wrested the shotgun away from Arlen, and he cried as he held it. Arlen lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, so still that I thought maybe he was dead.

  When I looked over, a hole in the plaster showed me where the shot had gone. It was inches from Bobby’s head. Darkness rushed up at me, and I thought I might pass out.

  But I didn’t. I heard Bobby taking the gun from Neil. And then Bobby was by me, his arm around my waist, holding me up—or maybe just holding me—as sirens came out of the night.

  Chapter 18

  The Astoria police wanted to interview me, of course, after they separated all of us. I tried to answer their questions as best I could, but it was hard to focus on what they were saying, much less on how I was responding. My thoughts kept going back to the feeling of the shotgun bucking against my arm, the clap of gunfire, the panic when I hadn’t known what had happened. If Bobby had been hurt. I remembered seeing where the shot had gone into the wall, inches from his head. I had to close my eyes, and one of the detectives got me a paper bag to breathe into, which weirdly enough actually helped. It was easier to think about Bobby commandeering Fox’s van to come after me.

  I did, eventually, manage to get the gist of their questions. They weren’t exactly thrilled that I’d been operating solo (big surprise), but that was small change compared to how angry they were that I’d helped exonerate Vivienne. A suicide wasn’t national news—not even a suicide that had been covered up for thirty years. To say the detectives were disappointed would be putting it mildly.

  Eventually, Sheriff Acosta showed up (presumably, because they had to get her permission before they put me in front of the firing squad). She talked to the Astoria officer who seemed to be in charge, and after what looked like a lot of arguing, she came over and retrieved me.

  “You’re going to have to come back tomorrow and make an official statement,” Acosta said. She looked tired. “I recommend bringing your attorney.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded. “Let me get Bobby, and I’ll follow you home.”

  “Is he okay?” I hadn’t seen him since the police had sent us to sit in separate squad cars. “Is he in trouble?”

  Acosta gave me a funny look.

  But before she could answer, one of the Astoria detectives shouted, “What do you mean she’s taking them?”

  “You go get him,” Acosta said to me. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Where—”

  “Back of the ambulance.”

  I started to ask what happened, but then I realized it didn’t matter.

  Let me tell you something: if you want to see a little gay boy run.

  I don’t even remember crossing the distance—it was a blur of flashing lights and the darkness that swept in on their wake. But I remember when I saw him sitting on the tailgate, a blanket around his shoulders, in the steady light from the back of the ambulance. He had his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and he was sitting so very still.

  Somehow, I managed to hit the brakes and not barrel into him and hug him, Millie style, into a million pieces. I slowed to a walk. I took the last few steps so slowly, in fact, that it felt like it took me years to finally reach him. He must have heard me because he looked up. His face was drawn with something beyond exhaustion. The earthy bronze of his eyes was dim. Even his regulation hair looked wild, like someone had been running their hands through it.

  All of a sudden, I realized I was going to have to say something, and the last words we’d said to each other had been so awful. So angry.

  But I am, forever and always, Dashiell Dawson Dane, which means I did the weirdest little wave and heard myself say, “Hi.”

  It felt like a long time before Bobby said, “Hi.”

  There was probably a stoic, masculine way to approach the next part of this interaction—something that would allow both of us to feel appropriately butch, without either of us making ourselves vulnerable or sacrificing our pride.

  Which was why it made perfect sense that, instead, I blurted, “Are you okay?”

  Another long pause came. Bobby shook his head.

  The seconds ticked past. A paramedic came around the back of the ambulance, typing a message on her phone. When she saw us, she took one look, rolled her eyes, and went back the way she’d come.

  I decided that was a sign that the universe wasn’t going to put a merciful end to this conversation for me. So, I climbed up onto the tailgate next to Bobby. I mean, not right next to him. Because, you know, the fight. And because he probably wanted his space. And also just in case either of us needed to make a quick escape.

  “Please don’t die.”

  The words escaped me before I could stop them.

  (Yep, still good old Dash.)

  Bobby craned his head to look at me. “What?”

  “Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

  “I’m not going to die. He didn’t shoot me.” That unreadable emotion tightened his expression again, and he said, voice stiff, “I had another panic attack.”

  “No, I mean don’t ever die. Please, Bobby. Please don’t ever die from anything. Because it would kill me. You can’t ever let anything bad happen to you. No more guns. No more surfing. Definitely no more working out. I mean, my God, Bobby, the human body isn’t meant to lift all that heavy stuff.” I managed to come to a crashing halt. And then I forced myself to say, “He almost shot you.”

  And in my mind, I heard Neil say, Richard was gone. There wasn’t anyone else.

  Bobby didn’t say anything, but his breathing sounded accelerated. And then it sounded even worse. And I realized, a moment later (because I’m so smart) what was happening.

  “No,” I said. “No, no.” I rubbed his back through the blanket. “Everything’s okay. Deep breaths. Deep, slow breaths.”

  Through punched-out gasps, Bobby said, “I saw the gun. I got there. Saw that gun. And he was. He was pointing it. Right at you. And—”

  He stopped to suck in air.

  I shushed him. “It’s okay. We were both scared.”

  But Bobby shook his head. “Not okay. Want to. Tell you. Need to—”

  He had to stop again to suck in air.

  “How about I tell you something?” I asked. “How about I tell you something instead, and then, later, when you’re feeling better, you can tell me?”

  He didn’t answer. He was taking those thin, horrible breaths. But he didn’t try to speak again, so I took that as a yes.

  As I rubbed his back some more, I thought about what to say. The cleverest way. The most poetic way. The most powerful, heartfelt way.

  But, since I’d already been doing such a great job tonight, all that came out was “I love you.”

  Bobby seemed to get smaller, shoulders shrinking, pressing his head into his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “No, actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. Well, I’m sorry it took me so long, I guess, but I’m not sorry for telling you.” I waited for the waves of throat-clenching panic, the lightheadedness, the vertigo. But instead, I felt…not calm, but shocked into something else. Detached, maybe, like the night’s events had left me partially dissociated, and I was watching myself in slow motion as I staged the single most impressive self-destruction sequence in history. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want to hear that, or if it makes your life complicated, or if it’s going to make you have another panic attack, Bobby. I am. But I had to tell you. Tonight, there was this moment where I thought you might be dead—” And now it did come—not my anxiety, not my constant indecisiveness, but terror. It was a physical sensation, sharp and unyielding, like a knife being forced into my chest. “Bobby, I thought you were dead.”

  He didn’t move. The blanket whispered softly against his clothes; he was trembling, I realized, and his breathing was ragged and high.

  “All I could think,” I said, “all I’ve been able to think ever since I saw how close that shot came to you, is what if? What if I’d lost you? What if I never got to see you again, or talk to you until you told me you really had to go to work now, or explain the entire plot of a nine-book mystery series I’m never going to write?” I had to swallow. The numbness still gave me some sense of distance from myself, and I was starting to wonder if my judgment was impaired—if tomorrow, when I was the same old neurotic Dash again, I would realize I’d made a terrible mistake. But I kept going. I had to keep going. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot the last few days. Because of Vivienne and Jane. And Richard and Neil. God, you don’t even know—I’ll have to tell you all about it. The point is, I look at them, and I look at what they never got to have. Jane never got what she wanted because Vivienne was selfish, because she was worried about her career and her reputation, but most of all, because she was afraid. Afraid to take a risk. And Richard was the same way, right up until the end. Neil said after Richard was gone, there wasn’t anybody else, and I’ve been thinking about that too. If you were gone. If I lost you.”

  Emergency lights bobbed and spun. Bobby didn’t look at me. He still didn’t say anything.

  “So, I’ve been thinking, what if I never got to tell you that you’re strong, and you’re sweet, and maybe most importantly, you’re kind? What if I never got to tell you all the reasons I love you? I love that you’re patient with me. I love your big, goofy smile. I love that you care if I’m warm enough or if I’m comfortable or if I’ve had enough coffee for one day. I love that you’re my friend, Bobby, because you are my friend. You’re the first person I think about, you know that? With everything. When I see something on Crime Cats, I want to text it to you. When I’m going to bed, I remember some dumb thing I did that almost made you smile. When I’m reading in the billiard room now, I look over and expect to see you lying on the floor, ear buds in, listening to your music. When Indira makes a really good cake.”

  His hands moved restlessly over his face. I could hear his breath whistling in his throat. The smell of the asphalt, releasing its lingering warmth from the day, wafted up to us.

  Rubbing his back, I said, “I promise I’m almost done, and I’ll leave you alone. I just—I just needed you to know. I came here because I wasn’t in love with Hugo, but also because I needed to figure myself out. I wasn’t even sure love was real, and if it was, I didn’t know if I’d ever recognize it when I felt it. I’m such a mess, Bobby. I can’t decide who my fictional detective is going to be. I freak out about social situations with even the tiniest bit of ambiguity. For heaven’s sake, you’ve seen how long it takes me just to pick a flavor of ice cream.” I took a breath. “Lawrence Block has one of his characters say, ‘Whatever love means, it’s how I feel about you,’ and that’s it. That’s exactly it. This is love, what I feel for you. It’s like there isn’t room inside me for anything else. This is it, and it’s real, and it’s everything I wanted, and I love you so much that I can’t—I can’t even put it into words, really. And it makes me so happy that it’s you. So, I wanted to thank you for giving me this, because it couldn’t have been anybody else. And I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. I don’t want to die without telling you. And I know this is crazy, and maybe it feels like it’s coming out of left field because we’ve never gone on a date or kissed or done anything the way people say you’re supposed to do it. But none of that matters. What matters is I love you. I love you, Bobby.”

  A shiver worked its way down Bobby’s broad back. He sat up so suddenly that I thought maybe the panic attack had finally arrived in full. When he turned to face me, his eyes were wet, and he was gulping air. And this, that detached part of me knew, was Bobby: to the very last, still fighting for control.

  “It’s okay,” I said, and I was surprised to find myself smiling. “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s—it’s hard for you to talk about this kind of stuff, and Keme’s right: not everyone has to put their feelings into words the way I do. There are so many ways you let me know I’m your friend and you care about me, so many things you do for me, without ever saying anything. So, I’m not asking you to say anything or do anything or change anything. I just wanted you to know how I feel. If you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay. If you never want to talk about this again, that’s okay too. If we’re just going to be friends forever, it would still be the best thing that ever happened to me. But please don’t die, Bobby—like, ever. For one thing, there wouldn’t be anyone to defend me, and Keme would definitely make me do pull-ups. And I immediately regret making a joke, but I think I am, uh, suddenly super nervous.”

  And I was. At that exact moment, it all caught up to me: everything I’d said, all the rambling, disjointed, adolescent sentiments that sounded like they’d been copyedited out of an issue of Teen Vogue. That sense of detachment popped like a bubble, and heat rushed into my face. My head suddenly felt like it was filled with bees.

  And Bobby was still staring at me. The rich, earthy gold of his eyes shone like glass behind the sheen of tears. His pupils were huge. His lips were parted, and his chest fell and rose in painful-looking hitches. And I knew, without anyone having to tell me. What had happened. He wasn’t going to say anything. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. The distress in his expression told me that whether Bobby felt the same way I did, or he simply wanted to tell me to screw off, he just couldn’t do it. He had told me once, what seemed like a long time ago, that when he tried to talk about the things that mattered most to him, terror made it feel like knives were spinning in his gut. And even through my embarrassment, my heart hurt for him, because he was Bobby, and I did love him.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” I said, sliding to the edge of the tailgate. “Do you want me to get the paramedic—”

  He lunged toward me, the movement jerky and broken, without any of his usual grace. His hands caught my head: fingers curling along my neck, palms settled at my jawline, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. He had calluses from all that surfing, and the slight roughness of his hands startled a breath out of me. I caught a whiff of that clean, sporty scent that at this point I was sure had to be his deodorant, and then he pulled me to him and kissed me.

  I won’t go on and on about it. I mean, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

  But if you’ve ever been kissed, really kissed, by someone you want in all the ways it’s possible to want someone, then you know.

  (Okay, I’ll say this: toe-curling doesn’t even begin to describe it.)

  When he released me, he looked punch drunk, barely able to keep himself upright as he took deep, uneven breaths. But to be fair, I probably looked pretty much the same.

  And then that big, beautiful, goofy smile slipped out. A little uncertain, maybe. But real.

  My grin was so big it hurt my cheeks. And because I am perpetually, inescapably, Dashiell Dawson Dane, I heard myself say, “See? Talking is overrated.”

  Chapter 19

  When we got home, it was the small hours of the morning. We walked through the house in the dark. Our steps whispered on the heirloom rugs. I paused at the top of the landing—to say good night, I guess. (Okay, I was hoping for a goodnight kiss at the minimum.) Bobby surprised me by putting a hand at the small of my back and guiding me into my room. He shut the door behind him, and then his hand found the small of my back again, and he walked me to the bed.

  I opened my mouth.

  “No monkey business,” he said before I had a chance to ask what was happening. His voice almost sounded back to normal, and there was even a hint of playfulness. Then he hesitated and said, “I want to be near you tonight. Please?”

  Well, how was I supposed to say no to that?

  By the light of a single lamp, we changed into sleep shorts and tees. It was different, now, getting to appreciate those glimpses of Bobby without a shirt—the defined chest, the strong arms, the wide shoulders. And, of course, it’s hard not to appreciate a gentleman who knows how to fill out a white tee and a pair of mesh shorts.

  “Unh-uh,” he said when he caught me looking. He nudged me toward the canopy bed. “I told you: no funny stuff.”

  “We’re adults.”

  He made a mmm noise that suggested this was up for debate.

  “Nobody would know,” I tried.

  Bobby gave me a look that reminded me—pointedly—of the Deputy Bobby I had first met.

  “It gets pretty hot in here sometimes,” I said. “You should probably take that shirt off.”

  He put his hand over my mouth, which was good because I couldn’t stop laughing. When I did, though, he peeled his fingers away, kissed me, and looked at me for what felt like a long time, his expression earnest and searching and serious, before he finally said, “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” I whispered.

  It had been a long time since someone had touched me. And—not trying to take a dig at the previous men in my life—it was so different with Bobby. There were so many other emotions, deeper emotions, layered into the experience. Which is one way of explaining that even though I was exhausted, I was sure I’d never sleep. My, er, situation didn’t improve when Bobby rolled onto his side, pulled me against him, and proved, immediately and without any trace of doubt, that he was the single best big spoon in the history of the world. His breath felt good on my neck. I liked the faint rasp of a day’s worth of stubble when he repositioned his head. His arm was solid, draped over me. My tee had ridden up, and his thumb scratched pleasantly at my bare stomach.