Chapter 18 #2
“Tomorrow they’ll be focused on someone else,” he continued. “Online drama only lasts until the next post goes up. You’ll get past this. I promise you.”
The breath she let out shook and she gave a soft laugh. “You think?”
“Yes,” Mark said. “I know.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Anyone gutsy enough to speak openly about that kind of betrayal has the spine to survive it. No question.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice lifting.
“And I’m here if you ever want to talk. Hell, we’re all here for you, Tasha.”
Trent had been watching Dylan all afternoon—the squared shoulders, the careful stillness, the way he seemed ready to absorb impact.
Now he dropped into the chair beside him.
“You lift?” he asked.
“Yeah. For football.”
“Bench?”
“Two-fifteen.”
Trent nodded, impressed. “Nice.”
A flicker of pride crossed Dylan’s face before he buried it.
Trent leaned back. “You hate the locker room, don’t you?”
Dylan went still. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” Trent said gently. “I can tell.”
Silence.
“It’s just weird,” Dylan muttered.
“Because?”
“It’s all bodies. I don’t know where to look. If I look too long, it means something.”
“Like you’re dangerous,” he said, then flashed Dylan a wry look. “Or trolling.”
Dylan looked at him, startled. “Yeah! Exactly!”
“I felt that,” Trent said. “I was a swimmer. Showers, speedos, nowhere to hide.” He gave a small huff of laughter. “I used to make the jokes first.”
“What changed?”
“I got tired of acting like my feelings were a crime.”
Dylan stared at the floor. “What if they think they are?”
“Some of them will,” Trent said. “Doesn’t make it true.”
Dylan’s jaw worked. “I don’t want to be the gay guy on the team.”
“Then don’t be. Be the one who shows up. The one who runs his routes. The rest is noise.”
“And the body stuff?” Dylan asked.
Trent nudged his shoe lightly against Dylan’s.
“Tomorrow, when you walk in, feel your feet hit the floor. Take a breath. Drop your shoulders. You’re not a threat. You’re just a kid changing clothes.”
Dylan huffed a laugh. “That sounds stupid.”
“Trust me. It helps. A lot of times, we think there are more eyes on us than there actually are.”
A moment passed.
“Does it get easier?” Dylan asked.
“Yes,” Trent told him.
Dylan nodded.
Trent grinned at him. “You’re not the first gay athlete. You won’t be the last. Just remember, you’re not alone in this. You don’t have to figure it out all by yourself. If things start to get to you, give Mark a call. He’ll be here for you.”
Something in Dylan’s posture relaxed, and he gave Trent a slow smile. “Thanks, Trent.”
“Tell me about your team. What’s your record?”
Behind them, a few kids drifted toward the bottled water. Someone cracked a joke that didn’t quite land.
Tasha returned to her seat.
She had been the loudest one the first night—sharp, fast, defensive. Today she looked smaller somehow, hunched over her phone, thumb flicking upward in restless, habitual motion.
Nate noticed.
He didn’t approach immediately. He grabbed a bottle of water, took a sip, then wandered over as if he’d just happened to land there.
“Can I see something?” he asked gently.
Tasha glanced up, suspicious. “What?”
“Your notebook.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because you haven’t opened it once.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe I don’t want to.”
“That’s allowed.” Nate smiled. “I just wondered if you knew it doesn’t have to be for poetry.”
She gave a short, incredulous laugh. “I don’t write poetry.”
“Good,” Nate said. “Neither do most people who think they do.”
That earned him the smallest twitch of a smile.
He lowered himself into the chair beside her. “When everything feels loud,” he said quietly, “like it all has to be posted or responded to or defended in real time… journaling can be the opposite of that. No audience. No algorithm. No comments section.”
Tasha’s thumb stilled on her screen.
“You don’t have to be impressive in it,” Nate continued. “You don’t even have to be coherent. Half the time mine is just sentences that start with ‘I’m so sick of—’”
She huffed a laugh.
“You get to feel whatever you feel without someone screenshotting it,” he said. “Without someone twisting it. And it doesn’t even have to be words,” Nate added. “You can draw.”
Tasha’s brow creased. “I’m not an artist.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said easily. “Nobody’s grading it. Nobody’s liking it or ignoring it. If you’re angry, draw something jagged. Press hard. Use red. Fill the whole page with it if you need to. You can’t really do that online. You can’t feel the pen dig into paper through a screen.”
Her thumb hovered over her phone.
“Sometimes your hands know what you’re feeling before your brain does,” he said quietly. “Drawing lets it out without having to explain it to anybody.”
She stared at the floor for a long moment.
“What if it’s stupid?” she asked.
“It probably will be,” Nate said lightly.
Her head snapped up.
“So are all first drafts. So are most second drafts.” He shrugged. “The point isn’t to impress anyone. The point is to get it out of you.”
She studied him, trying to decide if he was serious.
“You don’t have to quit being online,” he said. “But you might try giving yourself one place that belongs only to you. Where you can sort things out before the world gets them.”
She hesitated.
Then she closed her phone and set it face down on the chair next to her.
That alone felt like something.
She opened the notebook.
Her pen hovered over the page.
For a second, she just stared at it.
“What do I even start with?” she asked.
“Start with what made you the angriest this week,” Nate said. “Or what you almost posted but didn’t.”
“That’s a long list.”
“Good. Pick the one that still makes your stomach tight.”
Then she pressed down hard and drew a single, jagged slash straight across the paper.
Nate didn’t flinch.
He just nodded once and took another sip of water.
After a moment, she said quietly, “I don’t want them deciding who I am.”
“Then don’t let them,” Nate replied. “Decide it yourself. On paper first.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t close the notebook either.
And when the circle called everyone back, she carried it with her.
Later that afternoon, the students drifted out slowly—reluctant, as people are when something important has happened, and they don’t quite know how to return to ordinary life.
A few murmured thank-yous. One kid offered Mark a quick, fierce nod on the way past. Tasha gave Nate a small smile, her notebook tucked under her arm.
Dylan gave Mark’s arm a soft punch. The door opened and closed and, finally, stayed closed.
Mark bent to gather the wreckage—empty bottles, crumpled napkins, a pencil rolled beneath a chair. His hands had held steady while they needed him.
Now they shook.
Joshua noticed, of course and moved to Mark’s side.
“Hey,” he said.
Mark looked up, tried for a smile, and missed. “Hey.”
Joshua’s gaze moved over the circle. “You kept them with you.”
“I thought I was drowning,” Mark admitted. “Every time someone opened their mouth, I thought—this is it. This is where I lose them.”
“But you didn’t.”
Mark swallowed. “I wanted to fix every problem.”
“Yeah,” Joshua said. “I know the feeling.”
Mark gave a small, helpless laugh at that.
They stood together in the aftermath, the air still charged, like the echo of a bell.
Mark looked at Joshua and felt it all over again—that moment in the circle when he had reached for rescue and found trust instead.
“I kept waiting for you,” Mark said, “thinking you’d step in.”
Joshua met his eyes. “I know.”
Something in Mark’s chest expanded. “But you didn’t.”
Joshua shook his head. “You didn’t need me, Mark. You owned the room. Every kid in there knew who was running that meeting.”
Emotion surged up so quickly that Mark had to press his lips together to keep it contained. “What if I’m not ready for this?” he asked.
“Mark, you’re ready.”
Mark breathed that in.
“What if they don’t come back?” he whispered.
Joshua picked up his coat from the chair where he’d left it. “They came back today,” he reminded Mark gently.
Out in the parking lot, someone laughed. A car door slammed. The late sun reached through the high windows and brushed the Pride flag on the whiteboard, setting its colors briefly on fire.
Joshua glanced toward the exit. Colin stood waiting, leaning against the doorframe, smiling. Joshua moved toward him, then turned back to Mark. “Whenever it feels bigger than you, give us a shout. We’ll be there.”
Mark nodded—not trusting his voice.
Joshua held his gaze a moment longer—long enough to be sure—then he took Colin’s hand and stepped into the hallway.
Mark stayed behind.
Seven chairs.
Still in a circle.
Waiting.
He grabbed his playbook, reached up, switched off the lights, and followed Joshua and Colin down the hall.