“Everything looks great,” Gray says as he joins me.

  He looks great. He’s dressed in a button-down and jeans, and he’s holding a drink that’s probably club soda. He puts his hand at the small of my back without seeming to think about it, and I don’t really think about it either. It feels good there. And I like when he touches me.

  Ever since that night, something’s been different. Something between us. I know it’s corny. The guys I grew up with would have said I sounded gay. But ever since we made love, it’s like we’re connected somehow. I get this feeling sometimes that I could look over my shoulder and see him, even if he’s not anywhere nearby—and not in a creepy way. Or like I could close my eyes and point to him, no matter where he was. I can’t, of course. It’s just a feeling. I guess it’s hard to explain.

  “You clean up nice too,” Gray says, and his fingers tickle their way up my spine.

  I don’t know about nice—it’s only a polo and khakis, but they’re new, and Gray helped me pick them out, so that’s all right. And anyway, I’m focused on other stuff.

  “Where’s the prop box?” I ask.

  Gray cocks his head.

  “The prop box.” I point to the photo booth. “You were bringing it from the car.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it’s kind of late—”

  “It’s not that late. Go grab it.”

  And I take his drink.

  Gray tilts his head, but what he comes up with is a smile and a little salute.

  He’s being a smartass, but I don’t have time to tell him so because that’s when I spot Robin trying to sneak away.

  “Hey,” I say as I start across the lawn. “Those swag bags aren’t done yet, mister.”

  Robin looks past me, probably trying to get Gray to help him. That’s all right, because it gives me enough time to catch him before he runs away, and I send him straight back to filling the swag bags.

  And that’s not all of it. One of the frat guys is already drunk, and he gets tangled in the clothesline that I hung in the art zone. It’s got art done by survivors clipped to it, and it makes what Gran would call a visual statement. A couple of his friends help me get him untangled, and the guys are polite and help me rehang everything, but by the time we’re done, the band is freaking out because the bar won’t comp them any drinks, and I’ve got to take care of that. Then some little eighteen-year-old jerkoff is pretending one of the markers for the pledge wall is his penis, so I’ve got to talk to him. His eyes get real wide, and I’m still talking when someone takes my arm, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Gray.

  “Okay, babe,” he says, steering me away. “I think he got the point.”

  “Tonight’s not a night for horsing around.”

  “I know. And he knows, too. In fact, I think he’s heading straight to join a monastery or an eco-collective or the Marines. Good God, Sammy, his hair was standing on end.”

  “His hair already looked like that,” I say. “And where are those props?”

  But it turns out Gray did get the props, and people are already taking photos, and it does look like everyone’s having a good time. Gray even convinces me to have a beer, although by that point, my stomach is twisting around, so I don’t even taste it, and halfway through I stop because I don’t want to mess this next part up.

  I’ve been checking the time on my phone every fifteen seconds for the last ten minutes, and now it’s finally one minute to seven. “Okay,” I say.

  And Gray actually exhales and says, “Thank God.”

  I don’t have time to deal with that, so I signal to the band. My stomach is trying to slither out my asshole now, but I get up on the stage and stand in front of the mic and pat myself down, and that’s when I realize I don’t have my cards.

  My mind goes blank.

  For a few seconds, I stare out into the semi-dark of shadows and purple light. People are starting to look toward the stage, wondering why the music stopped, but the sounds of conversation and laughter continue.

  I can’t get off the stage now, not without saying something, but since I don’t have my cards, the best I can come up with is “Excuse me.”

  A couple of people look over at me. Most of them keep doing what they’re doing.

  “Excuse—”

  A whistle cuts through the night. Gray’s standing near the stage, and as he takes his fingers out of his mouth, he grins at me.

  And just like that, it’s easy.

  “Good evening,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re here tonight. As you know, the Wahredua Intimate / Sexual Partner Violence Initiative is hosting this Greek Life outreach, and we’re happy you joined us for a chance to learn about intimate partner violence and what you can do to prevent it. Purple is the color chosen to represent awareness of intimate partner violence, and every year, intimate partner violence…” And then I’m off, running through the speech I’ve practiced a hundred times. It’s supposed to take about two minutes. As far as I can tell, it’s like one single blurred second, and then I hear myself saying, “…the founder of WISP, Gray Dulac.”

  Polite applause rolls across the lawn as Gray takes the stage. He touches my arm as I move back to give him room. It’s nothing over the top. It’s something a friend could do. Even a casual acquaintance. But it’s like this flower starts to open inside my chest, and it’s hot and white, and for a second, I’m sure everybody can see it, so I scramble off the stage.

  And for a few seconds, the relief—that my part is done—is so intense that I can’t keep track of what Gray’s saying.

  “—grew up in a home where intimate partner violence was part of my everyday life. I didn’t know what it was called. I didn’t have a name for it. I didn’t even understand, not until later, that not all families were like mine.” He laughs, but the sound is rough with emotion. “And it’s taken me a lot longer to work through what it meant, growing up like that. It’s something I’m still working on. I started WISP because I don’t want children to have to grow up like that. Because I don’t want anyone to feel trapped in a relationship, to feel like they don’t have the resources to save themselves and the people they love. And I started it because in many communities, talking about intimate partner violence is still taboo. I hope you’ll enjoy tonight’s activities. Sam did a great job making sure this would be an event that would be fun as well as educational. But more than that, I hope you’ll join me tonight in making a pledge to end intimate partner violence.” He pauses, and to my surprise, a cheer goes up, echoing out into the night. Gray smiles, leans forward, the movement making the speech intimate and personal, like he’s talking to one person. Like he’s talking to me. “Thank you.”

  When he steps down from the stage, the band begins to play, and the crowd starts to break up into their knots of conversation—and a large chunk of them swarm the bar. Gray’s not smiling anymore as he comes down from the stage. He looks washed out, exhausted, and I wonder if he’s ever said anything like that before. Not in front of so many people. Not to me. Part of me knew, I guess. Or suspected. But it’s one thing to have an idea, and it’s another thing to hear him say it. To hear the old fear and pain in his voice. To know that behind the smooth smiles and easy confidence, there’s that little boy who didn’t know what to do.

  I think I’m about to start crying.

  That goes right out the window, though, when Robin rushes Gray. He wraps Gray in a hug, and it looks like he has to restrain himself not to jump up and wrap his legs around him too. Gray rocks back and immediately starts trying to pry Robin’s arms loose, but Robin is holding on, saying something, and Gray is saying something back.

  When I reach them, Robin is saying, “—so brave,” like he’s said it before. “You poor baby. God, my heart was breaking.”

  Gray looks at me over Robin’s shoulder. He’s got help-me eyes; it makes me think of when little kids squeeze a puppy too tight.

  “Robin, I think you’re on duty in the safe space until eight,” I say.

  Robin lets go of Gray and whips around. He glares at me, and then he says, “He’s hurting, in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “I’m fine, actually,” Gray says. “Thanks, Robin.”

  Robin gives me another glare, like he’s sure I’m going to mess everything up, and then he sniffs and bounces away toward the safe space.

  “You were amazing,” I tell Gray.

  He rolls his eyes as he takes out his vape.

  “You were,” I say. “You did such a good job.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He hits his vape, holds it, and then exhales slowly. When he’s done, he rubs his eyes. “I mean, thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not at all. I’m very fucked up.” But there’s a little hint of that cocky smile again. “Oh, you mean tonight?”

  I wait because that’s what you have to do sometimes.

  “I’m fine, Sammy. Thanks.” And then, “Seriously, thank you. This is incredible. I don’t know how you managed to do it.”

  “A lot of it was donations,” I say. “And the college counseling center had some money left in their budget. Speaking of which, I want you to meet somebody.”

  “Oh God,” Gray says. “Who is it this time?”

  “Come find out.”

  “How do you do this? How do you find these people and drag them here?”

  “You keep calling them. It’s not hard. Come on.”

  That’s more or less true, for what it’s worth. It’s a few phone calls and some persistence, and yeah, it’s kind of a chore, but it’s worth it to see Gray’s face light up when I introduce him to the dean of Wroxall College, and then to the vice-provost of student life. It’s like winning the jackpot, the look in Gray’s eyes, when he shakes hands with the president of the college. And Gray doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles. He’s charming—like Gran says, he could charm the pants off a preacher—telling everyone who will listen about what WISP can do and how they can help.

  Wroxall’s president is moving away, and Gray is still beaming, when Mr. Fields steps up to clap Gray on the shoulder. “Very impressive stuff tonight,” he says. He’s got white hair that looks like somebody fluffed it, like a little show dog, and he’s wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons. “I’m glad I came.”

  “Thanks,” Gray says, “but this was all Sam.”

  Mr. Fields gives me a considering look, but all he says is “I took the liberty of inviting some friends. Let me introduce you.”

  That’s when a girl I don’t know—she came with the college counseling department—appears at my elbow and tells me they need more flyers.

  “Go on,” I say when Gray hesitates. “I’ll catch up.”

  It doesn’t take long to find more flyers for the informational tables, and then I catch Robin grinding up on this big frat boy behind the photo booth, and somebody breaks a bottle so I’ve got to get a flashlight and help pick up glass. By the time, I’m done, I’ve lost track of Gray, so I make another loop of the party, making sure everything’s in order.

  And then I see him, and I stop.

  Because he’s talking to Chief Peterson and Mr. Somerset.

  They aren’t supposed to be here. That’s my first, clearest thought. And then, less clear, but with a sharper edge: Do they know?

  They’re standing on the edge of the party, where the lights barely reach, like they want some privacy. Chief Peterson’s face is hard to read, but Mr. Somerset doesn’t look happy, and he’s saying something, and Gray doesn’t look happy either. Gray’s got his arms folded across his chest, and his jaw is set, and even though Gray and I haven’t had many arguments, I recognize the expression: when he’s done trying to be charming. When a lot of people find out for the first time that there’s bone and gristle under all those freckles.

  I can’t even explain it to myself, but I know what they’re talking about.

  I start walking toward them. I’m not trying to sneak. I’m not trying to hide. It’s like everything’s part of a movie now, and all anybody can do is play their part.

  “—because he’s not gay,” Mr. Somerset says, and he’s angry. It’s in his voice, low and hard. And it’s in his cheeks, hot little red points.

  “What the fuck do you know?” Gray says.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Chief Peterson says.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gray says, trampling the end of Chief Peterson’s words, not even waiting for him to finish. “You should know better than anybody what it’s like. You want to talk about fucking bi erasure, take a look in the fucking mirror.”

  “He’s not bi either,” Mr. Somerset says, and it’s like he’s cracking a whip.

  “Fuck you,” Gray says. “How the fuck would you know?”

  “I know he’s a follower, Gray. That’s his whole thing. He’ll do anything for people to like him. That’s how he’s been from the beginning.”

  Chief Peterson says something, but I can’t hear him.

  Some of it comes back when Gray’s talking again, and he’s saying, “—some fucking mentor.”

  “Grow up, Gray,” Mr. Somerset says. “And do the right thing for once. I get it: he’s sweet, and he’s safe, and he can’t hurt you. But you can hurt him. Do you know anything about him? Do you know anything about his family? About his dad? You are ruining his fucking life, and you don’t care because he likes you and you’re having fun.”

  Gray’s whole body seems to lock up. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even sound like himself when he says, “Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about it, because we were just doing it to help each other out. After tonight, it’s over.”

  Chief Peterson notices me first. All he says is “Sam.”

  Gray pivots. Mr. Somerset’s color drops, and then it’s back again, redder than ever.

  “It’s over?” I say.

  Gray looks around. There’s a kind of desperation I haven’t seen in his face before, and finally, he says, “Fuck, Sam. Fucking—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He stops again. “Can we talk about this in private?”

  “Why would we talk about it in private?” I say. “You were fine talking about it five seconds ago.”

  Hurt crosses his face, and for a moment, he looks off balance. Then he’s back, his voice calm but cool. “All I meant was we hadn’t talked about it.”

  “We hadn’t talked about it.”

  There’s the tiniest movement like he wants to look over at Mr. Somerset and Chief Peterson, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know what you want me to say. We haven’t talked about it. And I’d really like to have this conversation in private.”

  “We’re having it right now,” I say. There’s this part of me that can’t believe how calm I sound. And there’s this other part of me that keeps hearing We haven’t talked about it on repeat. Like we needed to talk about it. Like we hadn’t both known. But, then, I guess we hadn’t. One of us hadn’t. “Right here. What do we need to talk about?”

  The pause is longer this time, and the answer limps out of him. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Stop fucking doing that.” He puts his hands on his hips, and his shoulders go back, and this is the Gray I remember, the one I thought I knew before the last few weeks. “How about if you’re even gay, for starters?”

  Mr. Somerset says, “Sam, you don’t have to answer—”

  “Be quiet,” I tell him.

  Mr. Somerset shuts his mouth. He looks at me like I hit him.

  “This isn’t any of your business,” I say. “So stay out of it.” Then, to Gray, I say, “Why do I have to be something? We’re—” I almost say in love, but we aren’t, and this hot flush runs through me, prickling my face. “We’re having a good time. Why isn’t that what matters?”

  “Because it does matter, Sam.” Gray sounds like I’m stupid, like he can’t believe how stupid I am. “Because we’ve been living this weird half-secret, and it’s not going to last forever, and then shit is going to hit the fucking fan.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Is he right?” Gray asks. “Am I ruining your life?”

  “No.”

  “Great. So your family’s okay with all of this? No big deal?”

  And I don’t have anything to say to that, either. But there’s this ugly satisfaction on his face, like he wants to be right, and it’s like my mouth opens all on its own, and I don’t even know what I’m saying until the words are coming out of my mouth.

  “Why would it be a big deal?” I ask. “Like you said, it’s over.”

  When I turn, I can’t look at Mr. Somerset or Chief Peterson. I’m a few yards away when Gray screams after me, “Yeah, you’re fucking right it’s over!” He sounds like he’s out of breath. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck! You!”

  20

  Gray

  It’s a blur after that. The haze of rage at Sam, and John-Henry, but mostly at myself. And it’s blurrier after the shots I line up at the bar and rip one after another. The band is still playing, and the party’s still going, and people are dancing and laughing and having a good time like the world didn’t just implode.

  I’m dancing with Robin, and he’s sucking on my neck.

  I’m on one of the folding chairs, Robin grinding on me, hands up my shirt.

  I’m lining up shots again.

  I’m puking onto somebody’s shoes because I’m a fucking lightweight now.

  Turns out, they’re Ben Fields’s shoes. He doesn’t say anything. Or maybe he does; it’s hard to hear him over the waves of nausea, through the sideways cloud of purple light.

  I don’t know when the outreach ends, but I know that it’s a party now, and there are more drinks, and guys laughing at me, and girls watching me and talking behind their hands, and Robin gets me alone in a bathroom. He tries to take off my jeans, and when I stop him, he slaps me hard enough to make my ears ring. I end up in the bathtub, my legs sticking up over the edge because I can’t seem to make them work properly, and he’s screaming down at me. And then he’s gone, and a girl wants to use the bathroom, and a couple of guys are nice enough to walk me out into the night, and for a while, I’m on the lawn.