I do a quick walkthrough. Aside from the boxes, which are stacked everywhere, and Darnell’s furniture, which is neatly wrapped, the house is empty. The kitchen, of course. The bedroom I’d used—I couldn’t bring myself to call it my bedroom. The bathroom. His bedroom, or I guess our bedroom. His office.

  The house looks good. He’s repainted some of the rooms. He’s changed a couple of the light fixtures. The old aluminum mini blinds in his office are gone, replaced by new, faux wood ones that are consistent with the rest of the house. It takes me a moment to put my finger on something else that is different, and then I get it—the baseboards. It shouldn’t make such a difference, but it does.

  That’s the kind of thing responsible homeowners know, I guess. Responsible people in general. What to paint and change and replace so that your house has sweat equity. Fuck, for that matter, responsible people know how to buy and sell a house. They have furniture, and they have—shit, I don’t know, lawnmowers. They aren’t almost thirty years old, living in a tiny apartment, with a twin bed they got off one of those neighborhood apps. If I lived here, I could invite the donors over, show them my baseboards, and say, Take a fucking look at that. And then they’d give me shitloads of money, probably.

  “What are you doing?” Darnell asks as he passes through the hall. “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been staring at the baseboards for five minutes.” He takes a step and tries to peer past me. “Is something wrong?”

  I raise the coffee cup in salute. “Just admiring the handiwork.”

  He’s got dark eyes, and he doesn’t miss much. Finally, he says, “Gray, boxes in the dining room.”

  So, I start carrying boxes to the truck, and for a while, I don’t have to think about how in the fucking world I’m supposed to make myself respectable and responsible and a fucking pillar of the community and—fuck me—a family man. Maybe I could become Emery’s live-in gimp. Fuck, that’d probably be a step up from where I was now.

  Okay, maybe I don’t stop thinking about it entirely.

  After we clear the dining room, Darnell wants to get the big pieces of furniture loaded. So, we do that. Sofa. Beds. Desk. His face is red, and I think about telling him to go slow because he’s already had one heart attack.

  “I’m fine,” he says before I can open my mouth.

  “You’re sweating a lot.”

  “Because I’m wearing clothes, Gray.”

  I smirk at him over the back of the loveseat as we maneuver it down the steps. I mean, a bro-cut tee, shorty shorts, and the absolute sluttiest socks I could find are still clothes. But I know what he meant.

  Then, back to the boxes.

  If you asked me, I never would have said that Darnell was a hoarder. And I’d moved all my stuff out after we’d broken up. But there is a lot of shit, and even though we start at six, we aren’t done until almost noon, and by then I’m as dirty, sweaty, and exhausted as Darnell.

  I sit on the truck’s tailgate, cooling down in the spring breeze, while Darnell does a final walkthrough of the house. When he comes back, he looks at me, and then he does that thing he does where he puts his hands on his hips.

  I flap the bottom of my tee to get some cool air on my skin.

  He rolls his eyes.

  I stretch, arms behind my head. I’ve got great pits.

  “Good God, Gray.”

  For some reason, it makes me laugh.

  “Do you ever stop?” he asks.

  “Just keeping in practice.”

  “Uh huh.” He’s still looking at me, though. And then he says, “What’s wrong?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been quiet all morning. You haven’t talked about some new porn star you found. You haven’t bragged about some eighteen-year-old you did a pile-drive on. You haven’t even mentioned any random boners.”

  “Dude!”

  He smiles.

  It hasn’t always been easy like this. For a long time after the breakup, we didn’t see each other. For a long time, he hated me. I guess he had a right to hate me. I sure hated myself. But then one day, Darnell texted me out of the blue and wanted to get coffee, and let me tell you, that sent me into crazy-motherfucker overdrive. When I finally got my shit together enough to, you know, contemplate a face-to-face conversation, it went a lot better than I thought. I mean, it wasn’t easy. But he was working on some stuff. And I was definitely working on some stuff. And it was nice, seeing him again. Seeing that he was working on being happy.

  The bullshit part they don’t tell you about patching things up with your ex, though, is that then you have to help him move if he asks.

  “Spill it,” Darnell says.

  So, I tell him about WISP and the colossal thunderfuck that’s coming my way. And when I finish, I say, “That’s why I think you should marry me and keep the house.”

  “Okay,” Darnell says. “I’m going to ignore that.”

  “Bro, it’s perfect. This house is, like, totally sensible and practical and shit. It’s like the fucking definition of a boner-killer. Donors would see this place and fucking quiver.”

  “That house is not a boner-killer.”

  “And you’d be like this butch, manly, stalwart presence to make sure nothing went wrong, you know? You could even tell them you’d spank me if I dipped into the piggy bank.”

  “What’s the scenario here? Who are these donors?”

  “I don’t know, bro. The main one, Fields, he sounds like a fucking lunatic. He wants a fucking family man? Dude, you know my family was super fucked up.”

  He looks at me some more. Then he sits on the tailgate. The truck settles on its suspension under the new weight, and then it’s quiet again. I fan myself with my shirt some more, staring off down the street. The daffodils are out in Mrs. Swenka’s yard, and it looks like somebody jumped the curb down the street and took out a mailbox.

  “I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this,” Darnell says, “but I’m not marrying you.”

  “Bro!”

  He still gets me, though; that’s why he smiles. “And I’m selling this goddamn house.”

  My eyebrows go up.

  “Did I say that out loud?” Darnell mutters.

  But I get it. “Yeah, I guess—I guess I hadn’t thought about that. A fresh start and stuff.”

  “I guess.”

  An old sedan rolls past us, a Honda so faded it’s not really any color at all anymore.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I say.

  “I’m moving across town.”

  I shrug and grin.

  Darnell’s silent, but it’s his thinking silence. He’s a big guy, and I guess some people might look at him, with his beard and the linebacker shoulders and—God help me—the overalls, and they might get the wrong idea. But Darnell’s not only smart. He’s smart and careful. And he’s being extra careful right now.

  Finally he says, “Why do I do this to myself?”

  “You’re going to do it? Bro, fuck yeah. We are going to be the best fucking married couple—”

  “God, no. Absolutely not. That is seriously the worst idea I’ve heard in my entire life.” He takes a breath. “People don’t know you, Gray. Not the real you.”

  “Uh, people have a pretty good idea.”

  “They see what you let them see. All that big talk. But you keep a lot of yourself hidden away from people.” I open my mouth, and he holds up his hand. “That’s not an accusation, and I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m trying to say that I think you’re a good guy, and other people would think that too if they knew you.”

  I don’t say anything for a few minutes. I can hear the air moving against the frame of the truck. When I do manage to speak, my voice is tighter than I’d like. “I have worked so fucking hard this last year to—to not be that guy. For nothing. For fucking zero. Jesus fucking Christ, who am I trying to kid? I mean, everybody saw a couple of strangers pissing on me in an alley. You don’t exactly get the keys to the city after that.”

  Darnell’s look is sharp. “I thought you got that taken down.”

  I wave the words away. “I did. It’s—I don’t know. I’ve tried so fucking hard, bro. And it doesn’t matter.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Dude, what is going on with you? That’s two swears in one day.”

  “You have changed. And you’ve done a lot of good in the last year. I’m not only talking about your job, either. What you’ve done with WISP, what you’re doing there, that’s important, Gray. And nobody else was doing it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not going to last much longer.”

  “How about this? How about you stop feeling sorry for yourself, and you put in the work to convince these donors they’re wrong about you?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll just put on a fucking polo and some dad jeans and join the fucking Kiwanis.”

  Darnell takes out his phone. He starts typing. “Step one: a meaningful relationship.”

  This is one of the things we don’t talk about—not because we have rules, but because we never have. “Uh, yeah, not exactly my thing. I mean, not that I’m not—I mean, a few times a month, like, maybe once a week, or if I’m crazy horny maybe—”

  “Please stop talking,” Darnell says without looking up. “I’m not talking about a romantic relationship. You could get a pet.”

  “If I want to pick up somebody’s shit, I’ll get into that daddy/little scene.”

  He actually pauses and takes a breath.

  “Dude, some of those guys will pay a lot of money for you to put them in a diaper.”

  “Okay,” he says because that’s his way of moving on. “No pets. What about a friend group? And I’m not talking about Emery and John-Henry. I know they’re your friends, but they’re dealing with their own stuff right now. You need a group of friends—ideally, friends who are grounded in the community, who have connections, who can talk about you and WISP to their friends. And they need to be people you genuinely like.”

  “Throw a key party,” I say. “Got it.”

  That makes him look up. “You ought to be taking this seriously.”

  “Come on, this isn’t going to work. Find a group of friends? And what? Circle-jerk while we talk about lawn care and parenting tips and the fucking PTA?”

  “It can’t be just you, Gray. That’s what you’re not hearing. You want these donors to take you seriously, and they want to see someone who’s stable. That means more than showing up on time and fulfilling your responsibilities. They’re looking for patterns in your life to make them trust you, and you do that by showing them that other people love and trust you, outside of the work you’re doing and the professional commitments you already have.”

  “But that’s so fucking stupid!”

  “That’s life.” Darnell flashes a surprisingly evil grin. “Welcome to adulthood.”

  “Bro, no. Adulthood is the fucking worst. I want to fuck adulthood raw.”

  He shrugs. “Then do it. You don’t have to change anything. You can keep being Gray Dulac. Do whatever you want.”

  He doesn’t have to say the part at the end: and watch WISP fall apart.

  Dirty looks aren’t enough, so I say, “Fuck, bro.”

  He shrugs again.

  “If I get a cat,” I say, “do I have to carry it everywhere and talk to it in public and that kind of shit?”

  “Yes. You have to do all of that.”

  He thinks he’s fucking hilarious.

  “Gray, you’re so good at talking to people. When you want to, I mean. When you’re not trying to rub them the wrong way, or when you’re not trying to get attention, or when you’re not trying to get in their pants—”

  “Bro, okay, I get it.”

  “And I know you know you’re good at it. I know that’s part of the reason you started WISP. Because you wanted to help people, and you knew you could. So, you can put on this show about how you’re a reformed fuckboy—well, kind of reformed, I guess—and I guess I wonder why you’re still pretending to be something that you’re not. Maybe that’s not the right way to say it. Maybe you’re not pretending. But you’re not being honest, either.”

  “Yeah, well, talking to somebody when they drop in or call the crisis line, that’s one thing. Because eventually, they walk out the door, or the phone call’s over, and I don’t stick around to fuck up their life. And I’m not pretending to be anything.”

  I jump down from the tailgate. Darnell drops the door.

  “You want to pick up something to eat?” I ask, trying to make my voice casual. “And then we’ll get this unloaded.”

  He’s still red from the move, but I swear to God, his cheeks get a little pinker. “Yeah, actually, I only needed your help this morning.”

  “You’ve got to unload all your shit, bro. It can’t sit in the truck.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t do it yourself.”

  “I’m not going to do it myself.”

  “All right, then, but—” Sometimes I think I’m smart. And sometimes I realize I’m a fucking moron. “Oh shit.”

  Darnell looks physically pained. “It’s—”

  “What’s his name? I’m going to cut him. No, wait, bro, I’m happy for you. No, I’m going to cut that bitch. For real, what’s his name?”

  “It’s not that serious, Gray.”

  “He’s helping you move. That’s pretty fucking serious. Wait, are you moving in with him?”

  “No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Is he a baby? Did you find a twink fresh out of his packaging?”

  “Bye, Gray. Thanks for the help.”

  “Oh my God, is he super old? Is he rich? Does he have a big dick?”

  Darnell starts toward the cab of the truck.

  “Does he have those really saggy balls? Do they feel spongy like—dude, you know when an orange is about to go bad?”

  Darnell stops, hand on the door, and then he looks at me. “Are you seriously not dating?”

  “Uh, no, definitely not. Wait? Why? Is he into threesomes? A rich, big-donged old dude who’s kinky as fuck? Fucking hell, Darnell, how’d you get so lucky?”

  “Why not?”

  The day feels colder now. I adjust the tee over one shoulder. Darnell stands there, waiting.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’m not ready.”

  He makes a noise that sounds a lot like yeah fucking right.

  “I’m not, bro. I just—I have a lot of bad patterns. And I’m working on them, trying to do better. And I’m still healing, too, okay? It’s okay for me to take some time for myself.”

  Darnell nods. “Is it the scars?”

  If he were somebody else, I might have popped him one, but there’s this weird, transparent vulnerability between the two of us that never totally went away, and so I hear myself saying, “No. I mean, if it’s a problem for them, fuck them. But no.”

  “Then why?”

  “I told you—”

  “Why?”

  “I fucked up your life,” I say. The tee is sliding again, so I hitch it up one more time, and the breeze is cold in my hair. “Isn’t that enough?”

  6

  Sam

  WISP has a website, and the website shows drop-in hours over the weekend.

  I spend Saturday trying to decide what I’m going to do.

  I’m off this Saturday, which means I spend most of it the way I usually do: I work out, I read, I do part of an online training on traffic stops, and I catch up on chores. After cleaning the bathroom and helping Gran move some boxes in the basement, I mow the lawn. It’s a nice day, and I like the way my sweat cools in the breeze.

  When I’m done, the rest of the day is mine, and since I still haven’t decided, I end up on the couch playing Stardew Valley. It’s pretty fun. You get your own farm in Stardew Valley. You move there from the city, and you’ve got to fix your house and get rid of all the weeds. It’s not like real farming at all; I knew guys who grew up on farms in Iberia. But it’s a nice idea. You get to live out there on that farm with your animals. And nobody bothers you. You can go into town if you want, but nobody’s around, nobody’s asking about your life. Nobody cares if you go on dates. Nobody talks about you getting married.

  Mr. Somerset said not to volunteer at Detective Dulac’s nonprofit.

  But Mr. Somerset and Mr. Hazard might be volunteering there.

  I’m planting radishes because I try to plant one three-by-three section of each crop. I like how it looks.

  And it didn’t mean anything, him calling me beefcake. It’s just him being who he is. He runs his mouth. Some guys are like that. Detective Dulac wouldn’t flirt with me even if I were—I mean, he could get any guy he wanted. He’s pretty much the most handsome guy in the department. I guess I should say Mr. Somerset is, but he doesn’t work there now.

  Gran’s getting ready in her room, and she’s playing something from My Fair Lady. She sings as she goes. She can’t hit the high notes. Well, she can’t really hit any of the notes, but she’s having fun, and the closet door is squeaking on its hinges and she’s opening drawers and the floor creaks as she dances around the room. Gran’s in love, and you might think, since she falls in love about three times a week, it would get old. But it doesn’t, somehow. It’s kind of magical, actually. Gran’s been married four times and divorced four times. Martha Shaumberg made a crack about that—Martha’s one of her friends who’s not actually her friend, if you know what I mean—and Gran said what’s the point in living if you don’t believe in love.

  Me, I’m fine playing Stardew Valley.

  It’s winter when Gran comes out of her room. In the game, when it’s winter you can’t do a whole lot on your farm except clear things up, so that’s when you have adventures. You can go down in a haunted mine looking for treasure. Or you can travel to the oasis. Some people say winter is when you should be in town, making friends with all the villagers. And there is something special about the holiday festival. You can’t see all those people with their families, with the lights and the games and everybody having fun, and not wish real life were a little more like a game sometimes.