Chapter 16 Harry
HARRY
There’s a giant, avocado-sized pit in my stomach as I follow Darius down a side street in downtown Portland.
It’s one of the small ones I’ve walked a million times but never really paid much attention to.
I couldn’t tell you the name of the street or any of the shops on it, but I can tell you it’s four blocks from the library.
He’s taking me to some place he swears has “the best wings in the city.” I’ve never been.
Or heard of it. Wing connoisseur isn’t a title I aspire to.
But I’m trying to be open-minded. Darius has been nothing but kind to me since Rhode Island, so the least I can do is pretend I didn’t pack little pink chewable tablets in anticipation of the nightmare these wings will do on my stomach.
The recommended dose is two. I’ve got six. He’s probably going to need them, too.
Darius smiles sweetly and grabs the door, holding it open for me.
I’m not usually one to fall for the gentlemanly schtick, but in his case, I’m buying it hook, line, and sinker.
He’s wearing only part of his uniform—the tracksuit jacket.
He’s replaced the coordinating pants with jeans.
Which I think is his attempt at being slightly more dressed up. It’s ridiculous. And totally hot.
Entering The Sauce Boss, the aroma of condiments and fried food smacks me like a flavor explosion to the face.
The noise makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle—people laughing, shouting at the TVs mounted on every wall in the place, the clink of bottles and silverware. These are not my people.
Darius fits right in.
And I fit with Darius.
He takes my hand, pulling me to a high top in the corner. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet the house we’re the only queer folks in here. And yet, Darius doesn’t seem to care about the tiny display of public affection.
He holds the chair out for me, and I really could get used to this kind of doting.
The waitress comes over and hands us water and menus. Mine is sticky, and I sure hope it’s hot sauce. “Be back in a few, boys.”
I shoot Darius a look. “This is your idea of fine dining?”
“Settle down, Peterson. It may not be fancy, but it’s delicious. Trust me.”
Trust him. What I’ve been pushing myself to do for the last week. I’m here. Having wings. About to go to a professional sports game. I’ve clearly crossed the threshold.
“Yeah. I trust you.”
He gives me a wink, and I guess I’m a wings guy now.
I glance at the menu quickly, trying to make sense of all the options. I’m totally out of my league here.
Darius catches my confusion and chuckles. “You’re looking at the menu like it’s in Latin, aren’t you?”
“Latin, I could handle. But this?” I hold up the menu, doing my best to avoid the sticky corner. “What’s the difference between dry rub and wet wings? And why are there so many flavors?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never had wings before?”
“Nope. You’re looking at a rookie.” I laugh awkwardly.
He leans back in his seat, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Alright, Peterson. I got you. Let’s start simple. Wings. Buffalo sauce. Mild or medium?”
“Mild,” I say quickly, patting the medicine in my pocket.
When the waitress returns, Darius nods and she leans down to hear him over the noise. He orders for us, which strangely makes my insides simmer.
The food arrives fairly fast, which is a blessing, as I’m starving.
“Go on,” Darius prods. “They won’t bite you. Actually, you’re supposed to bite them.”
He laughs at himself, and feeling brave, I take my first taste, and—wow.
“Well?” He’s holding a wing but hasn’t taken a bite yet.
The flavor floats around in my mouth. It’s crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, and the sauce? It’s the perfect balance of sweetness and heat without burning my mouth.
“These are . . .” I take another small bite. “Ridiculously good.”
With a closed-lip smile, Darius slowly nods as he watches me eat. “Told you.”
He takes a small bite, the satisfaction of flavor washing over his face. “You gotta trust me more often, Harry.”
I roll my eyes but smile as the flavor bomb continues detonating in my mouth.
Darius has a way of making me feel at ease, even when something is outside my comfort zone.
At the semi-final game. In the hotel room.
On the ice rink. At my apartment. I’ve never had a thing for guys like him.
Athletic guys. Sports guys. Guys who wear baseball hats like their head will float away without it.
But with him, I can’t deny it. He’s sweet, kind, and completely unique to anyone I’ve ever known.
We finish the basket of wings, and when the waitress brings the check, I grab it and take my wallet out.
“Harry, no.” Darius reaches for the check, but I pull it back. “Let me get it.”
“You bought the tickets. Dinner’s on me.”
And then he stands. He’s next to me, and even though I’m sitting, we’re still pretty much eye to eye.
“Harry.” He holds his hand out. “I asked you out for wings and a hockey game. I want to pay. Let me pay. Please.”
“You have to let me take care of something,” I say.
“Later.” He dips in, kissing me on the cheek and gently taking the bill out of my hand.
His touch is light, but there’s something firm in the way he does it—like he needs this. Like letting me pay would somehow chip away at the evening he's trying to build. There’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—pride, maybe, or hope—and it catches me off guard.
My pulse quickens as we approach the arena just across the street.
It’s massive. I’ve never been, and I’m taking in every single detail.
The lights are blinding, and the crowd is buzzing with excitement.
The air smells like popcorn, beer, and cold metal.
People are wearing jerseys and team colors, faces painted, carrying foam fingers and giant cups of soda.
It’s like I’ve landed on a distant planet and am witnessing the ritual of a completely different species.
Darius leads me to our seats, and I can feel the energy of the crowd surrounding us. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and I can’t help but feel a little out of place. This is all so . . . not me. But so him. Them. Hockey fans. Straight folks. Big, loud, rough-and-tumble.
My father used to take my brothers to games all the time. Not just hockey, all the sports. I never went. I was never really invited. Being here, my body feels off-kilter, as if I’m walking on one of those rides where the floor shifts beneath you.
“Relax,” Darius says, as we sit down. He pats my shoulder reassuringly. “It’s just a hockey game.”
“Yeah, just a game,” I mutter, glancing at the surrounding people. Everyone’s chatting excitedly, giving high-fives to strangers, laughing. And then, just as I’m about to settle in, I see them.
Two guys approach us. They’re big, loud, and wearing matching Mariners jerseys. They sit next to us, and before I can speak, Darius is up, greeting them like long lost brothers.
“Joey! Chuckster.” He hugs them both, but in that hetero bro-hug way that’s not too intimate. “Didn’t realize you boys were coming.”
After they finish, they bump fists, and my stomach swirls. I wasn’t expecting his friends.
“Joey, Chuck, this is Harry,” Darius says casually.
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention who I am.
And who am I anyway? This is our second actual date—I don’t count the hotel room.
What would he call me other than Harry? I have no idea if they know Darius is gay.
Or who they think I am to him or what they think of me in my button-down shirt and khakis.
“Hey, man,” Joey says, giving me a handshake that feels more like a slap.
“I’m Chuck,” the other guy adds, nodding.
The three of them talk about the game. Hockey. Making jokes I don’t get and I’m just . . . sitting there. I have nothing to add to the conversation, and all I know about hockey was taught to me by ten-year-old Johnny Rodriguez on the bench of the semi-final game in Rhode Island.
I do my best to follow the conversation and show interest, but my mind keeps floating back to the fact that these men are so different from me. The way they laugh, the way they talk, and the way they all feel are so foreign.
I glance at Darius, expecting him to notice, but he’s completely lost in the conversation with his buddies. He’s joking, laughing along, like he’s one of them. Because he is.
I felt so optimistic about the night, but now I feel like an outsider here. Because I am.
The game starts, and Darius settles next to me. He leans forward, intent on the game, but every so often, he pats my leg, alternating between my knee and thigh. Joey and Chuck either don’t notice or don’t care, but I still worry about showing affection here.
During the first break, Darius leans in close, his arm draping across my shoulder as if he has all the time in the world. I can feel his warmth, and his breath brushes the side of my neck. He grins at me, wide and casual.
“Well, I need to hit the bathroom. I’m going to grab us some popcorn and drinks. Want a soda? Beer?”
I dip my chin, giving him my best teacher look—just the right mix of disapproval and amusement, the kind that tells him to keep it light.
“No beer. Soda then. Got it.”
He gives me a little wink before he’s off, walking toward the concessions with an easy swagger. But then, just as I’m trying to let out a breath, Joey and Chuck are suddenly near, sitting too close, leaning in like they’ve got questions that aren’t really questions.
“So, you and Darius have been hanging out lately?” Joey asks, his tone too casual, like he’s just making small talk. But his eyes—there’s something a little too sharp in them.
Chuck nods. “Glad to see it. You. With Darius. How’s that going? With the two of you.”
I feel my heart skip. It’s not that I don’t like them—they’re cool, I guess—but this?
This is pushing it. Do they know he’s gay?
I’m not trying to out him. I shift, uncomfortable, my gaze flicking to where Darius disappeared.
They don’t seem to care. It’s just casual, right?
But why does it feel like they’re waiting for me to define and announce something?
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “We’re good.” It comes out flat, but what else can I say? I can’t explain the discomfort in my chest, or the way their curiosity feels like a weight on me.
Joey leans back, smirking. “Cool.”
“Yeah, cool,” Chuck says.
I blink, unsure about what just happened, but I think Darius’s hockey buds interrogated me. Or their version of it, anyway.
Darius returns with popcorn and sodas for everyone. He passes the refreshments out, and sits next to me again, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as the game resumes.
After the Mariners defeat the Norfolk Admirals to the cheers and excitement of the crowd, we bid farewell to Joey and Chuck and head to Darius’s car.
It’s a cloudy night and without the stars, the darker city streets feel endless as the crowd dissipates the further we walk.
The silence presses on me like a weight, until finally, Darius takes my hand as we walk down the empty street.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft.
I nod, but it’s half-hearted. Watching him with Joey and Chuck—laughing, teasing, high-fiving like they’ve known each other since birth—brought back a feeling I thought I’d left behind.
That twinge of being just outside the circle.
Like when my dad and brothers crowded around the TV for game night, talking stats and trash like it was their native language, while I lingered at the edges, invisible.
They bonded over sports; I learned how to disappear.
It’s not that Darius made me feel that way. Not exactly. But the echoes shook me.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, hoping that’s enough for him.
We get in the car, and as I buckle my seatbelt, I notice my fists are clenched. My heart races as the weight of the evening presses down on my chest. Darius pulls out of the parking spot, and we head toward my apartment.
After a few minutes of silence, my hands are still balled into fists, my head spins, and the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“We’re too different, Darius.” I keep my eyes on my lap. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
He looks over at me, confused. “What? Harry, what are you talking about?”
I blink, pull my lips in and turn to face him. “The hockey game, your friends—everything. This.” I point to his hat. “I feel like I’m trying to be someone I’m not. You’re . . . you. And I’m . . . me. And I like you. I really do. But I don’t know if we should keep doing this.”
There’s a thick silence in the car. Darius doesn’t say anything for a few blocks.
Then, that soft gentle voice of his breaks the tension.
“Harry, if you like me, why does it matter if I like sports? Or who my friends are? Or if I always wear a hat?” He reaches up and runs his finger along the bill.
“I just like wearing a hat. Always have.”
“The thing is, I was trying. Am trying, but the way I felt in there. With your friends. With the entire crowd. Smaller. Less than. Like I don’t fit. I don’t like feeling that way.”
“Harry, I don’t want you to feel that way. Ever. Fuck. I thought we were having such a good time.” He takes a deep inhale. “Was it Joey and Chuck? Did they say something when I went to the bathroom?”
“No. I mean, yes, but nothing bad. They know something.”
“Of course they do. Just because you didn’t have a clue about me, doesn’t mean my friends don’t know.”
They knew. Know. That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
“It’s not them. It’s me. I’m just too . . . different.”
Silence stretches between us, and finally, we pull up to my place. Darius is quiet as he stops the car and looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out what this all means.
“Goodbye, Darius.”
I leave the car without looking back, feeling like I’m walking away from something I didn’t even know I wanted. And I hate myself for it.