Chapter 12 The Pact #2
For a second, I think he’s going to lie. His eyes cut away, back to the water, and he tenses his jaw like he’s chewing glass.
“I never thought about it,” he says. “I mean, I knew other guys did. I just… assumed I was normal. That the feelings were just respect, or competition, or whatever.”
I laugh, but softly. “Yeah, the old ‘it’s not a crush, it’s just deep, abiding rage and a desire to die on the same ice as him.’ Classic.”
He cracks a smile, small but real. “It’s not funny.”
“No,” I agree. “But it kind of is.”
Another silence, longer this time. We watch a ferry crawl across the bay, the white hull stained with old salt and the shadow of city grime. Darius taps his fingers, once, twice, then speaks.
“So what do we do?”
The question is simple, but it’s huge. It’s the only question that matters, and I have no idea how to answer it.
“Do you want to keep it quiet?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “We have to.”
He’s right. We have to. The team is a zoo right now, everyone’s nerves shot, and if even one person found out we were… whatever this is, it’d go nuclear in a week.
I try to picture O’Doul’s reaction, or Raz’s, or any of the other guys who still think being alive means never showing a single crack in your armor. It’s not a good look.
“Okay,” I say. “So we keep it between us.”
He nods, but I can see he’s not happy about it. There’s a stubborn set to his mouth, like he’s used to getting his way, and this is the first time in years he’s been forced to compromise.
I want to make a joke, something to cut the tension, but I can’t think of one that doesn’t make us both sound pathetic. Instead, I ask, “You want to set ground rules, or just wing it?”
He thinks about it. Then, “We take it slow. I don’t… I don’t want to wreck this before it even starts.”
The words hit me in a weird way. Nobody’s ever said “this” about me before.
Not even girls, not even my therapist, not even Maya, and she’s been rooting for me to date someone with a pulse since I was in braces.
I nod. “No physical stuff. At least, not until we’re sure.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t trust yourself?”
I snort. “I don’t trust either of us. We’re one bad day away from setting the city on fire.”
He grins, and it’s the most honest expression I’ve ever seen on his face.
“We can hang out,” he says. “But nothing else.”
“Like friends,” I say.
He tilts his head, considering. “Better than friends.”
“Best friends with a secret,” I say.
His hand squeezes mine, just a little, and then he lets go.
We sit like that for a while, the space between us still humming with whatever it is we just built.
I watch the gulls dive for scraps, the boats crawl across the bay, the city crawl toward noon. At some point, my leg goes numb, but I don’t move.
After a while, he says, “You hungry?”
I shrug. “I could eat.”
He stands, stretches, shakes out his hands like he’s about to face off against a heavyweight. “Piroshki on 3rd?”
I laugh, because of course he remembers. The first time he dragged me there, I nearly died from the butter, but kept going back. It’s the only place in the city I actually crave.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We walk side by side up the hill, careful not to touch, but every so often our shoulders brush, just for a second, like the universe is reminding us it’s still allowed.
The streets are busier now, the coffee shops overflowing, the city’s population of lost souls all jostling for sidewalk space. Nobody notices us. Nobody cares.
For the first time in months, I feel normal, or at least like I could be, if I tried hard enough.
We get our food to go, and eat it sitting on a curb, watching the foot traffic.
He tells me about growing up in Oakland, the fights he got into, the teachers who hated him, the way his mom used to sneak him candy bars in his backpack before big games.
I tell him about the time my dad shaved off one eyebrow as a “life lesson,” and we both agree that’s grounds for calling CPS.
He laughs. I laugh. We finish our food, and neither of us wants to leave.
“Tomorrow?” he says, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” I promise.
We walk back to the waterfront, side by side, close enough that our fingers almost brush with every step. Almost. Neither of us reaches.
The pact is barely an hour old and already it's the hardest thing I've ever done.
At the split where he goes north and I go south, we stop. He looks at me, and I can see his hand twitch at his side, the same way mine does.
"Tomorrow?" he says.
"Tomorrow," I promise.
He walks away. I watch until he turns the corner.
Then I walk the last mile alone, holding the book against my chest like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
When I get home, my phone is buzzing. I ignore it.
I don’t check the apps. I don’t do anything but sit on my bed, back pressed to the wall, and watch the light crawl across my ceiling.
It’s not fixed, not even close. But for the first time since the world broke, I think maybe it can be.
I think maybe we’re allowed to want things, even if we don’t know how to have them yet.
I sleep, and in the dream, we’re on the bench, watching the ferries. He’s there, and so am I, and nothing hurts.
———
By the time I make it home, the city’s lost the sharp white of morning and slipped into that blue-gray soup that means the day is over, at least for people like me.
I trudge up the stairs, backpack digging into my shoulder, the weight of a thousand unreturned texts and a week’s worth of failed Tinder experiments pulling me down with every step.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t even look. Whatever’s out there can wait. Whatever’s waiting in here is more important.
I unlock my door and step inside. The apartment’s colder than I remember, but not in a bad way.
The old radiator’s got that metallic tang, the air heavy with the smell of cheap detergent and something sweet I can’t place.
Maybe it’s the flowers from the neighbors, or maybe it’s just the aftertaste of butter from the piroshki.
I drop my stuff on the table, toe off my sneakers, and go straight to the nightstand.
The book is there, right where I left it, the battered Penguin edition of Borges, the edges softening more every time I pick it up.
I run my thumb along the spine, the crack in the cover, the faint ghost of someone else’s name on the inside page.
I hold it up to my chest and just breathe.
It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a book.
It’s not like Darius wrote me a poem or baked me a cake or even said anything out loud about what it meant.
But the act of giving it, the way he fished it out of the bin, the way he tossed it at me without looking, the way he tried so hard to make it mean nothing, said more than anything he could have actually said.
This is what it’s like to be seen.
I sit on the edge of the bed and flip through the pages, landing on a story at random. The sentences are dense, circular, the kind of thing that makes my brain feel like it’s spiraling down a drain, but I love it.
I love that he remembered. I love that he cared enough to listen, even if I was just running my mouth to fill the silence at the gym.
I read the first paragraph three times and don’t take in a word.
Instead, I close the book and set it on the pillow next to me.
I strip down to my boxers, crawl under the blanket, and drag the book close. I put my hand on the cover, fingers spread, and let myself believe for one second that the world hasn’t ended yet.
That maybe it’s just starting over.
I close my eyes.
I dream of the bench, the water, the sound of his voice saying my name, like it’s the only thing that matters.
And for the first time in months, I sleep without fear.
When I wake, the book is still there, warm under my palm.
I smile.
I am not fixed.
But I am here.
And that is enough.