Gran says, “Oh, Sam.”

  The night’s coming in through the garage, so I walk over to close the door. The automatic light in the garage door opener is on, brownish-yellow and too weak to show much more than the garage itself. No Dad. I think maybe if I listen I’ll hear his steps, but I don’t. I press the button, and the garage door rattles down, and I head back into the house. I shut the door behind me and lock it.

  Gran’s sitting now, the earrings on the table in front of her, and her drink is empty.

  “I’m going to bed now,” I say.

  She nods.

  I wait, but she doesn’t say anything, so I say, “Goodnight.”

  But when I get to my room, I don’t undress. I take off my shoes and lie on my bed. There’s enough light coming in through the cracks that I can see the popcorn ceiling overhead. It’s not hard to get rid of it. You scrape it off and paint. You can do it in a weekend.

  That’s the way the world works, I tell myself. People leave. They do it all the time. And you knew before you opened your mouth how it was going to go.

  And I guess that’s true. I guess I did.

  I’m still lying there, later, when I hear a tap at the door, and Gran says, “Sammy?”

  I don’t say anything because maybe she’ll think I’m asleep.

  Another tap comes. “Sammy? Can I come in?”

  And because she’s Gran, she doesn’t even wait for an answer. The doorknob turns, and she steps into the room. In the dark, I can smell the vermouth, and a hint of her Princess Diana perfume, and it’s probably my imagination, but I think I can smell motor oil, too, and the cold concrete of the garage. She comes across the room, her steps unsteady in the dark, and she sounds like a tent in a high wind—all sorts of billowing and rustling, probably because she’s got sleeves like a magician. The mattress dips when she sits next to me.

  “He needs some time,” Gran says.

  I nod, but I guess it doesn’t mean anything when you’re lying down in the dark.

  “I love you,” Gran says. “You are my sweet, wonderful boy, and I’m so proud of you. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. So, if you found someone who makes you happy, that’s all that matters.”

  I finally manage to say, “Thanks.”

  “Gray’s very handsome,” she says. “And he’s got a great butt.”

  “Gran!”

  “What? We can talk like this now.”

  “I don’t want to talk like this.”

  “He’s very charming, too.”

  “Great. You can date him.”

  Gran laughs a little, and she finds my hand in the dark and squeezes. “What happened, my love?”

  It’s too much, so I say, “It’s complicated. I guess we want different things. Wanted different things.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a while. “He seemed like he really liked you.”

  There’s nothing to say to that.

  “Maybe you need to talk to him,” Gran says. “See if you can work it out.”

  “There’s nothing to work out.”

  “Well, maybe. And maybe not. But you won’t know unless you talk to him.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “Samuel Yarmark,” she says like she’s thinking about getting a switch.

  “I do. And I don’t need you mucking around in my business, thanks very much. Just because I’m bisexual doesn’t mean you get to poke your nose in.”

  I don’t even know what that means, but it pops out of me, and there’s this shocked, silent second, and then Gran starts to laugh for real. I don’t laugh, but I do catch myself smiling, probably because I feel like I’m going crazy.

  “I’m fine, Gran,” I say when she stops laughing. “It’ll be okay.”

  She makes a noise that could mean anything. And then she says, “I don’t want you to end up like your dad.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how everybody ends up, Gran. Sorry to break it to you. Everybody ends up alone. You, Dad, me. That’s how it is.”

  Gran’s quiet for so long that I think maybe I hurt her feelings, or maybe she’s angry, or I don’t know what. But when she finally does say something, she sounds tired. Or resigned. “Your dad is alone, Sam, because he wants to be. Because it’s easier for him. And safer.”

  “He’s alone because Mom walked out on him because she couldn’t hack it,” I say. “He’s alone because that’s what people do when you trust them. When you let them into your life and love them. They hurt you, and then they’re gone. Hell, Gran, you ought to know; you’ve only been divorced a million times.”

  I hate that I said it as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but Gran laughs again. Quieter now. Her hand is tight around mine like one of us might drift off if she lets go.

  “Maybe,” she says. “I guess you’re right, Sammy, since you’re so smart. But I’ll tell you one thing: being safe isn’t better than being sorry. You’ve got to take risks in life. Otherwise you’re not living at all, not really.” She stands, and the mattress creaks, but she’s still holding on to my hand. She gives me a weird little shake, like she’s saying goodbye, or like she wants to jostle me out of bed. Her voice is different when she speaks again. “And I’ll tell you something else, too. Your mother didn’t leave, Sammy. Your dad did.”

  24

  Sam

  He’s sitting on the porch steps when I get home from work the next day. He’s wearing his staples: a blue tee, nice pair of athletic shorts, a pair of Adidas. It’s a bright day, the sun warming up everything, and even parked in the truck, I can smell the mulch and the vincas that haven’t started to crisp up yet.

  Mr. Somerset looks tired, but he smiles when he sees me, even gives a little wave. And then the smile drops off. He wraps his arms around his knees, and he sits there.

  Well, hell, I think.

  But there’s nothing to do for it, so I get out of the truck.

  As I’m coming up the walk, I say, “Gran didn’t let you sit inside?”

  “She offered,” Mr. Somerset says. He smiles again. “I thought I’d better wait here in case you decided to send me packing.”

  Now that I can think it—now that I’m allowed to think it—I can tell myself that he’s got a great smile. He’s handsome. He’s hot. It’s a weird thing to think about Mr. Somerset, but it’s also not, because I’ve thought it before, just not all the way at the top of my head like that. It’s different, too, how I let myself look at his legs, at his arms, at the faint ticking of golden hairs. It’s like the real me is seeing him now, and he’s still the same, but I see more of him, because I’m more of me. If that makes any sense.

  I don’t know what to say to him, so I say, “Do you want to come in?”

  “I want to talk to you, if that’s all right. Out here. In there. Wherever you feel comfortable.” He pauses like I might say no, and then he says, “I want to apologize.”

  I look at him for a while. And I know if we go inside, Gran’ll be hanging all over him—she’ll probably try to talk to me about his butt. And if I tell her to buzz off, she’ll snoop from the kitchen. So, I say, “One sec,” and I go inside.

  Gran’s wearing her kimono, and she’s lurking in the hallway. As soon as I step inside, she whispers, “Did you see him?”

  “He’s sitting on the front porch,” I say. “It’s not like he’s a ghost.”

  “Oh Sammy, isn’t he a dream? I swear, when I looked into his eyes, my bones started to quiver.”

  I groan as I slip past Gran to drop my bag in my room.

  “And he’s a bi,” Gran informs me when I duck into the kitchen. “Like you.”

  “You can’t say ‘a bi,’” I tell her.

  Gran ignores that. “If I were twenty years younger, I could change him back.”

  “Gran! That’s—that’s biphobic.” I’m not sure, though, so I add, “Probably.”

  “The things I’d do to that tight little body.”

  “Oh my God,” I say as I take two beers from the fridge. “I’m your grandchild.”

  “Sammy, we can talk like this now!”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” I say, and before she can reply, I’m headed out to the porch again.

  She doesn’t follow. But I get the sneaking suspicion that she’s watching us through the windows now.

  I sit, and I offer Mr. Somerset a beer, and then I say, “Shoot. I forgot.”

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  “I’ll get you a soda.”

  “Sam, it’s okay. I don’t need a soda. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, which I definitely do not deserve.”

  That’s a hard one, so I open my beer and take a drink. Mr. Somerset looks out at the street again. I can’t think of a time I was around him when I didn’t have something to say. It seems like since the minute things changed, I’ve had a million things I needed to tell him, and now I can’t think of a single one.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve groveled,” Mr. Somerset says with a little laugh. “I got pretty good at it there for a while. Lots of practice with Emery. But I must be rusty.” And now he faces me again. “I’m sorry, Sam. For so many things. God, that fuck-up at the Greek Life thing, for what I said.” He pushes a hand through his messy hair and makes an unhappy sound. “For being such a shitty mentor.”

  “You’ve been a good mentor,” I say. “You’ve helped me a lot.”

  “Have I?” He pauses like he’s actually considering the question. “I don’t know that I have. It doesn’t feel like I have.”

  “You have. I wouldn’t say that if you hadn’t.” I take another drink of beer, and I say, “You turned my life around when—when things were going real bad. I was a piece of shit—”

  “You were a kid,” Mr. Somerset says gently.

  “—and you straightened me out. I needed that, and there wasn’t anybody else to do it. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  He nods. But then he says, “I was out of line at the Greek Life outreach.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t know. It caught you off guard. I get it.” I swirl the beer a little, and then I say, “I’m bi.”

  He nods again. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “And Gray didn’t pressure me or force me or trick me. And I didn’t do it because I wanted him to like me.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s who I am.”

  “I know,” he says again. He has this crooked smile. “Sam, I know. I mean, God, of all people in this town, I ought to know. Which is why I’m so mad at myself for fucking it up so badly.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “It’s not, though. It doesn’t feel like it is. You trusted me with—with a lot. And I didn’t live up to that.” He lets out this jagged breath, and his head hangs back, and he says, “I’m doing that a lot, lately, it turns out.”

  He sounds so miserable that I finally say, “It’s not like I told you. You’re not a mind reader.”

  “It’s not like I asked.”

  “And I was a follower. For a long time. I did all sorts of bad things so that people would like me. Not that being bi is bad.”

  “But you haven’t been that person in a long time,” he says. “And I should have known that. I did know that. I should have remembered it. You’re such a good person. You work so hard at everything you set your mind to. But the minute I saw you with him, it was like—” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know how to explain it except I was afraid. I was terrified. I saw you with him, and I knew—I knew—you were together, and the only thing I could think was ‘They’re going to do it to him.’”

  He didn’t say what it was, but he didn’t have to. I knew what people had done to Mr. Somerset.

  “I was so mad at Gray,” he says. “And I was mad at you too. There was this—this feeling like you’d tricked me. And I know that’s not what happened. Your life is your life, Sam. You have a right to share however much or little as you want with the rest of the world. And it’s certainly not like I made it easy for you. And I guess that’s the part I’m the most ashamed of. That I was really afraid for myself. Like it was going to come back on me. The fag ex-cop fucking up his mentee. God, I feel crazy saying it out loud.”

  I don’t want any more of the beer, so I set it down. There’s a breeze, and it feels nice moving through my hair. And finally I say, “You were scared.”

  “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “It seems like I’m scared all the time nowadays.”

  I don’t even know why I do it, except it seems right. So I hug him. And I’m not expecting it when his face is wet, and he laughs into my shoulder. But a nice laugh. Like he got a good surprise.

  When he pulls back, he says, “I am sorry, Sam.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We’re good. You don’t need to keep saying that.”

  He waits a beat, and then with that crooked smile, he says, “I really want that beer right now.”

  It might have been weird another time, but it makes me laugh, and his smile grows.

  “Okay, I know it’s none of my business, but—Gray? Seriously?”

  This time, my laugh is bigger—mostly because of how he makes it sound so impossible. “He’s different when you get to know him,” I say, and I realize I’m still smiling. “He’s sweet.”

  “I know,” Mr. Somerset says, but I don’t think he does. “I never—Emery says I’m blind because apparently this has been going on for months. I swear to God, Sam, I thought—I mean, Gray flirts with everyone. And you, well, you were flustered, the way a nice, quiet straight guy would be flustered.”

  “Well, don’t feel too bad about it,” I say. “It’s not like I knew either.”

  “You know he’s never going to let me live this down, right?”

  “I don’t think Gray—”

  “Not Gray. Emery.”

  “I guess not,” I say.

  It’s meant to be funny, but the humor drains out of the moment quickly, and then we’re sitting there, together, silent.

  “I want to repeat,” Mr. Somerset says in a different tone, “that I know this isn’t any of my business.” When I don’t say anything, he goes on. “But what about you and Gray?”

  “You heard him: it’s over.”

  “Sam.”

  “It’s fine. I knew what we agreed to when we started. That was the plan.”

  Mr. Somerset is quiet for what feels like a long time. “I don’t have any right to give you advice, so I hope you’ll just—just consider this. But I think maybe you should talk to Gray.”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “Sam.”

  “You heard him,” I say again. “It’s over.”

  “Because he was scared. I put him on the defensive, and then I made things worse when I told him he was going to ruin your life. He—Gray’s been trying to make some big changes. You probably know that even better than I do. And that’s a good thing; I look at him, and he’s happier, and he’s healthier, and he’s making smart choices. But he’s also afraid he’s going to mess up, and I’m guessing you know all about that too.”

  A car turns down the street, and the rumble of the engine grows louder as it passes us. Then it fades again.

  “If I remember correctly,” Mr. Somerset says, “you said it was over too.”

  I grunt.

  “And that was after you put him on the spot,” Mr. Somerset says.

  “I remember.”

  “When he tried to take things down a notch, and you wouldn’t let him.”

  “I said I remember, God damn it.”

  But it’s annoyance more than anger, and Mr. Somerset must know that because he grins.

  “All I’m saying—”

  I can’t help it; I groan.

  “All I’m saying,” he says again, and there’s a little laugh in it, but a little more force too, “is that I don’t think that conversation happened the way either of you wanted it to. And I think you know that too.”

  He waits me out, and I say, “Maybe. But if he didn’t mean it, he still shouldn’t have said it.”

  Of course, it’s not like I have a lot of room to talk.

  Mr. Somerset only says, “You looked happy together. Both of you. Do you want to throw all that away because you had a fight?”

  No, I think. I don’t. And ninety percent of me knows he’s right—that I need to talk to Gray, figure out if this is over, or—or whatever. But there’s this stubborn ten percent that wants to be hurt and mad and sad and—

  And not get hurt again.

  Maybe that’s how it happens, I think. Maybe, sometimes, you don’t even know you’re making a choice until it’s too late. Like Dad.

  I sound like I’m sixteen and Gran needs to tan my hide, sulky and stubborn and the words being drawn out of me, when I finally manage it. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You do, actually. You’re just nervous about saying it.”

  “I don’t even know if he wants to talk to me.”

  “That’s one of the risks, I guess.”

  And even that sulk can’t keep the hurt out of my voice. “He hasn’t been coming to work.”

  “He’s taking some time for himself. He’s okay.”

  There are another hundred questions or so I can think of, and I guess Mr. Somerset would sit here all day answering them because he seems bound and determined to make this happen. I can’t help noticing that he wasn’t this eager to answer questions when we were doing our read-through of Why Most Mentees Fail.

  None of those questions matter, though. Not really. So, what I say is “What if he hates me?”

  Mr. Somerset opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s got an answer locked and loaded for that one. But he doesn’t say anything. He closes his mouth, and he’s got a funny smile on his face. “I gave Gray some relationship advice once. I’m not sure if it was the right thing, but it felt like it at the time. Would you mind if I shared it with you?” He holds up his hands like he’s making a promise—or warding off a defense. “And this’ll be the last time. No more advice. No more mentoring.” Every time he smiles, I realize, it’s like he’s your best friend. And the weird thing is, I think some part of him means it. “I need to work on getting my own shit together.”