Chapter 7 Darius
DARIUS
I’m standing by the hallway entrance to the gym when Harry walks up with his class. Fifth graders have PE twice a week, and regardless of how much he’d like to avoid me, we have to see each other at least these few moments when he drops them off and picks them up.
But something’s off with Harry. He’s usually calm and collected, especially with his students. But not today. I sense it immediately—the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes as he hurries Penny at the front of the line into the gym.
He checks his watch as the class files in, heading to the center circle and sitting. This is their third year at Crossroads, and they know what I expect.
When the last few in line cross the doorway, I call to them, “Two minutes of deep breathing. Center yourselves for dodgeball.”
“Hey, you okay?” I ask Harry, my voice low, but not so much that it feels like an interrogation.
Harry exhales, long and loud. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just forgot my lunch,” he mutters, and I can tell by the way his jaw clenches that it’s more than just a minor inconvenience.
“Forgot your lunch?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. Harry doesn’t seem like the type of guy who forgets anything. “What happened?”
He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Being away the first part of the weekend . . .” He shoots me a look, not having to say more about him unexpectedly chaperoning.
“I was catching up on planning yesterday but didn’t get a chance to hit the store.
And I need to eat during my prep this afternoon because I have lunch duty today. ”
I know exactly what he means. Lunch duty is a commitment. Chattering kids and scraping chairs blend into one long, noisy symphony. You can’t just shove a sandwich in your face and call it a day. And anyway, it sounds like Harry doesn’t have a sandwich to shove.
I feel a grin tug at my mouth. “Listen, I’ve got time at lunch. I know a little sandwich shop just off Cumberland. It’s tucked back between some houses. They make the best melts. Tuna melt. Turkey melt. Veggie melt, if that’s your jam. I can run and grab something for you. What do you want?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve got some crackers in the classroom for the kids who forget snacks.”
My heart sinks because I know the drill. Kids forget, or worse, their families don’t have the resources, and the school doesn’t step up to help. Who picks up the slack from their own underfunded pockets? Teachers.
“Worst-case scenario,” he says with a groan. “I can always just grab . . .” He gulps. “School lunch.” His tone drips with disdain as he says it, and I can’t say I blame him.
“Don’t torture yourself,” I say. “It’s hot dogs and beans today.”
That seems to do it. His face twists like he’s just smelled something foul. He sighs, giving in. “Fine. I’ll take you up on your offer. But I’m not picky. Anything’s fine.”
He reaches for his wallet, but I stop him.
“My treat.” I give him a quick nod and head over to the students before he can protest or change his mind.
Class is uneventful. Johnny wins the first round and, riding high from his assist at the big game, there’s a shift in the way the other students are treating him. It’s heartwarming to watch kids discover their passions and talents.
When Harry picks them up, I’ve already got my track jacket on and my car keys in my pocket. I could walk to Sammy’s Sammies but want to get there and back as quickly as possible. Because fourth grade has lunch during this period, there’s no class in the gym, so I have my prep period.
When I return, walking through the corridor with the sandwich shop bag, it feels like I’m carrying the weight of the entire planning period in my hand.
I head to Harry’s classroom, the faint sounds of students singing about Jimmy cracking corn drifting into the hallway as I pass Christine’s room. Good, he’s alone.
I knock once, then open the door.
“Lunchtime,” I say, setting the bag on his desk. He looks up, and for a moment, that weight on his face seems to ease. He glances at the bag like it’s a small miracle.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he mutters, tearing open the bag. He pulls out two wrapped sandwiches—one marked with a V and the other a T.
“Veggie and tuna melts. You choose because I’ll smash either.”
It registers on his face. One is for me. I pull a chair out at the small kidney-shaped table near his desk. I’ve seen teachers pull small groups at these, and I figure it’ll make a fine place to eat.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean the table after.”
Harry lets out a small sigh, then presses his lips in. “Why don’t we split them?” He stands and walks over to the chair in the middle, behind the table. “This way I can try both.”
A foolish smile forms on my face. He’s relenting. At least for lunch.
Harry opens the sandwiches, using the brown bag as a plate.
He takes half of each for himself, then slides the other combined sandwich over to me on the paper they were wrapped in.
My mind races, thinking of the next right thing to say, but comes up completely empty.
For now, we’re here, eating our sandwiches, and for a minute, it’s just us. Quiet—the weight of the day paused.
“Damn, this is good.” His mouth is full, but he covers it with the sandwich.
He’s started with the veggie, just some random vegetables slathered in smoked gouda.
A thin, almost invisible string of melted cheese stretches from his bottom lip when he puts the sandwich down.
I nod in his general direction and hand him a napkin from the pile between us, which he places on his lap.
“No, Harry, you’ve got a little . . .” I reach over, swiping at the cheese and wiping it on my napkin.
“Thanks,” he says.
“They use a ton of cheese,” I reply. “That’s what makes it so tasty.”
“No, I meant for this. Lunch. Going to get it. You didn’t have to do that.” He picks the tuna half up. “How much do I owe you? I don’t have any cash, but I can send you money. Or get cash after school?”
“I told you, Harry. It’s on me. It’s my pleasure. Truly.”
His eyes flit up at me, and then he sinks into the sandwich. “Okay, how did I not know about this place? Sammy’s Sammies?”
“Teachers don’t have time to go out at lunch. With two consecutive lunch periods in the cafeteria, I get a double prep. And it’s always splat in the middle of the day. Sometimes, I walk around. You find things.”
“And sometimes you hang out in the teacher’s lounge, making my life miserable.”
“Harry, I thought we went over this. When a boy teases someone . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
“Is that what this is all about? Are you mad because I razzed you for . . .”
“Years.”
“Well, let me officially apologize.” I set my veggie melt down. “Harry Peterson, I’m sorry I teased you. I was an immature ass who didn’t know how to express his feelings, so instead I taunted you.”
I take a deep breath. Now’s not the time to hold back.
“It’s like I’m stuck between two worlds. Most people assume I’m straight—probably because of all the sports.”
“And the hat.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t help.” I tug on the brim. “But I’m not. And whenever I try to meet guys at clubs or bars, they don’t really get me either—because of, well . . . the sports.”
“Don’t forget the hat.” A hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
“Do you really hate it that much?”
“No. It’s kind of cute, actually.”
My body relaxes into the chair. “And you, Harry . . . you’re so damn smart. Handsome. You’re into books and theater and all this stuff I know nothing about. And even though you made my insides turn to mush, I was sure someone like you would never give someone like me the time of day.”
“So you teased me.”
“If I could take it all back, I would. I should’ve just told you how I felt from the start.”
Harry chews on my apology—and his lunch.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say as I stand.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“No, listen. I’m going to walk out of the room and come back in, and we’ll pretend it’s your first day here at Crossroads.”
Before he can object, I’m out the door. With a quick shake of my shoulders, I walk back in, determined to make this right.
“Hey, there, I’m Darius Hill—PE teacher and peewee hockey coach. What’s your name?”
Harry looks at me like I have ten heads.
“Harry Peterson,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” I retake my seat, leaving my half-eaten sandwich.
“I know you’re new here. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime?
Let me give you my number.” I grab a pad of sticky notes and a pencil from the little caddy in the middle of the table and jot my cell down.
“Here, text me if you have questions about school or whatever. Or call. Welcome to Crossroads!”
Harry dips his chin as his eyebrows rise. He’s not buying it.
“Oh, and I’m gay. Yeah, I know, never would’ve guessed it from the tracksuit and intense interest in sports. And the hat. But I am. Totally gay. Gay, gay, gay. If you don’t believe me, I could dig up a few numbers of guys who could vouch for me.”
Because I’m staring at his face, I notice the first signs of Harry’s lips turning up. Nothing spurs me on like a cute guy smiling.
“Let’s see, Doug was my boyfriend in college.
We haven’t talked in years, but I think I could message him online.
And I hooked up with some stranger about five years ago during Pride in Ogunquit.
Rick. Richard. Dick? Well, yeah, there was definitely dick.
But I can’t be sure of his name. I could hire a skywriter and try to track him down. ”
Harry’s full-on laughing now. His lunch rests beside mine, and his beautiful blonde curls bounce as his body shakes with laughter.
“Okay, okay, enough,” he manages through chuckling, his laugh warm and easy.
It makes me want to gather him up next to me on a blanket under the stars.
“Anyway, I’m sorry.” My heart races, but I puff my chest out, determined to keep eye contact. “For being a dick. For so long.”
Harry stares at me for a moment. His eyes scan my face, searching.
“I’m partial to long dicks,” he says.
“Good one,” I say.
The desire to spend more time with Harry consumes me like a relentless player chasing the winning shot at the buzzer.
“You didn’t get to experience the ice in Warwick. Let me take you.”
His face drops, and he picks up his sandwich. “Darius, I don’t do sports. You know this.”
“Skating isn’t sports. We’re not playing hockey or doing double axels. Just skating. It’s barely cardio.” I widen my eyes and give him my best pleading face. “Come on, Peterson. It’ll be fun. I promise.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You’ll want to be comfortable on the ice before we head to Hartford next week.”
I wiggle my eyebrows at him.
“Who said anything about me going to the finals?”
“Coach Applegate has a litter of puppies to look after. And the team loves you. Come on, Harry.”
He swipes the sticky notes and pen from the table, jots something, and slides it over.
“My address. Tomorrow night. Pick me up at six.”
A victorious grin plasters across my face.
“But if I fall, I’m blaming you.”
I chuckle. “Deal.”
I carefully tuck Harry’s address into my pocket. As he picks up his sandwich again, I catch the slightest hint of another smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He’s probably not looking forward to it, but deep down, I know he’s going to have a blast.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at six, Peterson,” I repeat with a wink.
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. It’s happening. We’re going on a skating date.