I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I shrug. Gran would for sure be cutting a switch by now.

  “Do the hard stuff,” Mr. Somerset says.

  I want to complain. I want to tell him I don’t know what that means, or it’s too vague. It doesn’t sound good or smart like it came out of a book.

  But the thing is: I do know what he means.

  Not that I like it.

  I take my phone out of my pocket. I unlock it. I rub my knee with my free hand as I scroll through my contacts, and I unblock Gray.

  The phone buzzes as a message comes through. And then another. And then another.

  It’s a dog meme. And then another. And then another. They’re all apologies. One’s a yellow Lab pup with the guiltiest look on his face. One’s a Beagle, his head down except for his big, sorrowful eyes. And because this is Gray we’re talking about, another is a Husky, and it says, Sorry, it sounded like you were hurting her. And I can’t help it; I laugh, but I’m also kind of crying, because he’s been sending them every day. Every day.

  Mr. Somerset rubs my back.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Thank you, Mr. Somerset.”

  “John-Henry,” he says gently. “I may not be a good mentor for you, Sam. But I’d like to be your friend.”

  25

  Sam

  When I get to WISP, the lights are on, but something’s different. It’s late afternoon, and campus is busy with students, but the little hallway where WISP is located is quiet, and that’s what it is: the WISP offices are quiet too. The door is shut. There’s one of those hanging signs you can buy at the hardware store that says CLOSED.

  It’s probably locked, I tell myself. And I’ll drive home.

  But it’s not. And the door opens.

  The quiet seems even deeper after I pull the door shut behind me. And everything’s different. All the furniture has been moved against one wall. The computer on Robin’s desk is gone. Boxes line another wall. The ones on top are still open, and it looks like they’re full of old desk phones.

  A thud comes from the back of the maze of rooms, and then a familiar, “Come-sucking son of a bitch, come out!”

  I make my way back.

  Gray’s sitting on the floor. He’s in a tee and shorts, and he’s looking at his desk, a screwdriver on the floor next to him, and a hammer, and an adjustable wrench. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I watch him. His hair is dark with sweat at his temples. On his arm, he has a little gray fuzz from moving something dusty. He’s wiggling a drawer, and then he pokes it with a screwdriver, and then he leans back and kicks it, and the whole desk rocks. “Come the fuck out, you piece of shit!” He punctuates each word with another kick.

  But the drawer doesn’t come out, and after another tug, he sits back and vapes.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He’s halfway to his feet before I think he even knows what he’s doing. And then he looks at me and says, “Jesus Christ!”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You gave me a fucking heart attack.”

  “Sorry.”

  He rubs his chest. Hits his vape again. He’s not looking at me, but he’s not not looking at me, if that makes sense. And then he says, “Can’t get this fucking drawer out.”

  “Sometimes they’re screwed to the runners.”

  He makes a gesture at it like it’s all mine, and when I step into the room, he moves backward. He’s giving me space to work. But that’s not why he moves. And I think we both know it.

  I crouch. I pull on the drawer’s handle. It’s legit stuck, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s because he kicked it so many times. I work the blade of the screwdriver behind the face of the drawer to see if that helps.

  “I already tried that,” Gray says.

  I nod.

  He lasts about five seconds before he says, “It’s stuck.”

  I nod again.

  He’s vaping hard and fast now, and the room smells like a Blow Pop, and I almost tell him because that’s the kind of thing Gray would immediately make a joke about. But I don’t. Instead, I lie on my back and scoot under the desk because I want to see why this drawer won’t come out.

  “Fuck it,” Gray says after another minute. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Hold on,” I say.

  “It’s a piece of shit desk. I was going to donate it, but they want you to take out all the drawers before they’ll pick it up.” When I don’t say anything, he must move or something because his sneakers squeak, and then he says, “Sam, forget it.”

  “I’m just looking at it,” I tell him.

  “Oh my God,” he says, and he kind of laughs, but he sounds like he’s hanging off a cliff. “What is happening right now?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Great. So you can tell me what a piece of shit I am?”

  “You’re not a piece of shit.”

  “So you can tell me you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  I can practically feel him vibrating with all that pent-up energy. He probably needs to stop vaping. That’s something we could work on together. But I squash that thought.

  “Sam,” he barks. “I feel like I’m showing a lot of fucking patience right now, but can you get your head out of that fucking desk?”

  So, I crawl out from under the desk and get to my feet. He’s got red spots in his cheeks, and he’s holding the vape so tight his fingertips look white.

  “I’m bi,” I tell him.

  But there’s nothing on his face. Absolutely nothing. “Okay.”

  “I wanted to tell you that.”

  “Okay. Great. You discovered your secret sexual identity, and you told me.”

  “I told my dad, too. And Gran.”

  For the first time, the hardass mask cracks, and he says, “Oh God. How’d that go?”

  “It’ll be okay. Gran’s real happy.” I feel like I have to give him something, so I say, “She keeps sliding dirty pictures under my door. I think she thinks we’re in college or something.”

  He laughs, and it’s a startled sound, a cracked-open sound, raw. Happy, but hurting.

  “I guess I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to tell you that it wasn’t fake,” I say. “It was real. And I don’t want it to be over.”

  Gray looks around like somebody might come help him, and then he laughs again, and he says, “Sam.”

  I give him a few more seconds, but that’s all, so I push off from the desk. He tenses like he might retreat, but he stays where he is, and when I reach him, I take his head in my hands and kiss him. He tastes like that Blow Pop smell, and like he’s had too much coffee and nothing to eat. But he also tastes like Gray, and his mouth is as warm and soft as I remember. He doesn’t touch me, though. He doesn’t move at all.

  And when I pull back, he says, “Sam.”

  “I love you.”

  He shakes his head.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything. But I wanted you to know that. I—I spent a lot of my life wanting people to like me. Wanting to feel like I belonged, because I grew up feeling like—like I didn’t, I guess. And I did a lot of stupid things because of that. I’m not proud of that.” I draw a deep breath. “But I’m proud of who I am now. And I know who I am, and what I like, and what I want.” I wait until he looks at me, and I say, “And I know who I love. I love you. You didn’t trick me. You didn’t force me. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.” I’m surprised I can laugh, and it’s a full, happy sound. “God, Gray, I really wanted to do those things with you. And I’m happy I got to know you, the real you, because I love the real you, and I think he’s wonderful, and I wish more people got to see him.” I stop again. It feels like I’ve been talking for hours. But I open my mouth, and more words come out. “I’m not saying this because I expect anything from you. But I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry I let you leave.”

  He still hasn’t said anything. He’s pale, and he keeps looking at me and cutting his eyes away, and he turns the vape in his hand like it’s a genie’s lamp and he needs to make a wish.

  “And thank you for the dog memes,” I say. “Because they made me happy. You made me happy.”

  He’s breathing hard now, staring at the floor.

  “I’m going to go,” I say.

  I’m at the door when he says, “I don’t know how to do this.”

  I wait, but that’s all. So I say, “You don’t have to do anything.”

  He wipes his eyes, and now I can see that he’s crying. “God, Sammy, I fuck everything up. I fucked up WISP. I fucked up my chance with you. Every fucking thing I touch—I’m a fucking disaster. And I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. I told myself I wouldn’t hurt someone again. And I did it anyway. Fuck, Sam, I fucked up a fake fucking relationship. What the fuck does that tell you about me?”

  “Well, I guess that you’re a person like everybody else.”

  He looks up at the ceiling. He’s trying not to cry.

  “Forget all that stuff about fucking things up,” I say. “What do you want right now?”

  He shakes his head. But he says, “I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you, Sam, because I do. God, the last few days, it’s—I don’t even know how to tell you.”

  “But what do you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. What do you want?”

  He lets out this helpless noise. And then he says, “I want to be with you.” But before I can say anything, he’s rushing out with “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t—I don’t know how. God, Sam, I was such a terrible boyfriend. I was awful. And I’ve tried so hard to break those patterns, but look how badly I fucked up the first time I got scared. I don’t know how to be a good boyfriend to you. I don’t know how to be the person you deserve. I don’t know how to love you.”

  It really is quiet back here. I can’t hear anything except the hiss of white noise.

  “Is that all?” I ask.

  He does look at me now. And the surprise changes into annoyance. “Yeah, that seems like enough, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “It’s not something you can figure out.”

  “Why not?”

  He opens his mouth. And then he lets out a noise that would have gotten him a slipper to the ass.

  “You’re not perfect,” I say. “Neither am I. But you told me one time that anybody decent would be patient with me. Help me figure it out.” I wait, but he’s still staring at me. “Why can’t we do that for each other?”

  He rubs his eyes. They’re red, but he’s not crying anymore. His voice is scratchy when he says, “I don’t know.”

  And I’m guessing that means a lot of things. All the things he feels like he doesn’t know, but he should.

  So, I say, “That’s okay. Why don’t you come over here?”

  It takes him a while, but he does.

  “You can put your arms around me,” I say.

  He’s slower this time. But when he does, I move into him, pressing against him. We’re almost the same height, and I like how my forehead rests against his.

  “You can kiss me,” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes, and I wonder if maybe that’s the no.

  But then his lips touch mine.

  It’s what a first kiss should be: it’s gentle, tentative, like he’s asking me something. But then it grows stronger. His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. He must be crying again because his cheeks are wet.

  When he pulls back, it’s only by a few inches, so I feel his breath when he whispers, “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” And then I feel like I have to be honest, so I say, “I think I figured out how to get that drawer out.”

  He laughs for a long time about that, but he doesn’t let me go.

  “I’m sorry about WISP,” I say. “I’m sorry I messed everything up for you.”

  Gray shakes his head. “Fields was an asshole. Unfortunately, he was a rich asshole. It’s okay; WISP did some good work, and that’s what matters. I wish I could keep it open, but a detective’s salary isn’t exactly enough to run it on my own.”

  “Gray,” I say, because he’s what Gran would call a dum-dum sometimes. “You don’t have to do it on your own.”

  26

  Gray

  A month later, we’re backstage at the ballroom in the Acadia, and my thighs are shaking like a bride on her wedding night. I try to focus on Sammy as he works on my bow tie.

  “You look very handsome,” he says.

  Hey, look at that. I didn’t even have to prompt him.

  “My thighs are quivering like a bride on her wedding night,” I say because I like quivering better.

  Sam smiles and nods and keeps working on the bow tie. “It’s okay to be nervous. But you don’t need to be; everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Right,” I say. “Fine.”

  He gives the bow tie a pat, which means I’m done.

  “Full disclosure,” I say. “I’m thinking about doing some fucked-up stuff for attention and validation right now. Like, burn this place down and then get fucked by a fireman. Like, some weird arson porn.”

  Sam nods and says, “Hmm.”

  The silence that follows goes on long enough that I blurt, “I’m not going to do that, though. Because I’ve done therapy and shit. Because I might be a fuckboy, but I’m a reformed fuckboy.”

  Sam straightens my jacket across my shoulders.

  “Unless you wanted to fuck me,” I hear myself saying. “Just, like, a get-the-jitters-out fuck, you know? A quickie?”

  Sam lays his hands on my shoulders.

  He waits. And it’s hard, but I finally drag my eyes to his.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” I say. “This is what I was talking about. This is why I warned you I’d be a terrible boyfriend.”

  Sam’s got long lashes, I notice for the first time. He doesn’t even blink. He runs the backs of his hands down my lapels, and he says, “You know the first thing I learned about you? That I noticed, I mean. Before we really knew each other.”

  I shoot my eyebrows.

  “You like to run your mouth,” he says. And then he kisses me, and as he pulls back, he adds, “It’s cute.”

  It takes me a few seconds to say, “It’s not cute.”

  Sam is almost smiling.

  “It’s outrageous. It’s crass, and it’s vulgar, and it’s offensive. It’s annoying, for fuck’s sake, and it’s childish, and it’s—it’s a cry for attention!”

  “I know, sweetheart. Let’s get through dinner, and I’ll give you some attention.”

  That shouldn’t go straight to my cock.

  But it does.

  “I know it’s hard,” Sam says, and he takes my hands. “You care so much about this. Of course it’s going to be hard.”

  I shake my head, and I want to play it off, but what I say is “I feel like a failure.”

  “But you’re not. And your brain knows that, even though that little voice in your head says otherwise.”

  “I guess.”

  He squeezes my hands.

  At that moment, the curtain twitches, and three women come backstage. Aiyana Jordan is wearing a dark dress that manages to look appropriate for the occasion without being ostentatious—a fine line to walk for a minister, I guess. I recognize one of the two women. Maggie Grober has short salt-and-pepper hair, and she’s dressed in black slacks and a white top with a pashmina around her shoulders. I’ve seen her at various events around town, even though I don’t know her personally—she’s got money, and she sponsors some of the local art and fashion events. The other woman is taller, with a mane of curly hair that’s still dark, and she’s dressed in an oversized herringbone coat and wide-legged trousers. She must be June Louise Nelson.

  “Ready?” Aiyana says as she reaches us. “Gray, I think you know Maggie. And this is June Louise. And this is Sam.”

  Everybody shakes hands. Maggie is smiling, and she’s giving off some grandma vibes. June Louise looks like she smokes long, unfiltered cigarettes and loves gin.

  “Here we go,” Aiyana says, and she leads us toward the curtain.

  Sam squeezes my hand once more as we head for the stage. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable, so I start to let go of his hand, but to my surprise, he holds on, and when I look over my shoulder, he smiles at me.

  The ballroom at the Acadia is crowded, and my first thought is relief that I’m not going to be paying for a hundred plated dinners that nobody showed up to eat. Every seat is filled, as a matter of fact, and that should have been impossible.

  Sam spent a lot of time on the phone to make this happen.

  While Aiyana proceeds to the podium, the four of us sit in chairs lined up on the stage. Looking out, I see people I know—John-Henry and Emery are there, of course, with their friends Theo and Auggie. Foley’s there with his wife, and the big Irish fuck looks like he’s grown out of his shirt, the collar is so tight. Chief Peterson is there with his wife, too. But it’s not just my friends, and not just people from the department. Emery and John-Henry’s neighbors are there, and Sam’s gran, and one of Sam’s neighbors. Even Robin showed up, sitting at a table with other people from WISP, although—probably with good reason—he doesn’t look at me. It’s not the whole town; we had a hundred seats to fill. But in a way, it feels like the whole town.

  Aiyana is saying something, and I barely catch the end of it when Sam nudges me.

  “—let him say a few words. Thank you again for supporting such an important program.”

  She moves back from the podium, and I take her place. It’s different, now, looking out at that crowd. Lots of faces. All their attention on me. And there’s still some part of me that thinks they’re waiting for me to fuck up.

  But I guess I already have. And in a way, that’s what sets me free.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I say. “I’m amazed to see so many people here. Amazed and grateful and honestly overwhelmed.” And I am overwhelmed; my throat is tight, and I have to stop for a second. “Thank you for showing up tonight. Thank you for caring about WISP, about the work we’re doing.” I have to stop again. And then I say, “This is where it gets a little tricky, and I’m glad you all paid upfront because it’s too late, and you can’t get your money back.”