Chapter 10
Sam
When I finally get home, Gran’s out on a date, and so I’ve got the place to myself.
I walk around for a while. Not doing anything—but I can’t sit down.
I go to the fridge and look inside. I walk to the front window.
I make my way along the hall to the back of the house, where Gran’s bedroom is.
The only light is the lamp Gran left on in the living room, but it’s like I don’t even notice how dark it is.
He’s always running his mouth, I think, so that’s why nobody ever notices.
He’s always in your face, so you think you see everything there is to see.
Like you can’t miss anything because he’s always putting on such a big show.
But I’m starting to think—to use one of Gran’s favorite expressions—I’ve been a horse’s ass, because I don’t think I know anything about him at all.
I don’t think anybody does. Maybe Mr. Somerset.
Maybe Detective Palomo, because they’re partners.
But does anybody else in the department know a single real thing about Gray?
He doesn’t have a good relationship with his family.
He told me that. But I’ve never heard him say anything about them, not where I could hear him.
He said he founded WISP for a reason. But he’s never talked about that either.
Everybody at the station thought it had something to do with the department initiative he’d been working on the year before—a safer sex program he collaborated on with campus security.
A few guys who have been around longer, like Foley, said maybe all this stuff with WISP was because he had to do it.
Because of how bad things had gotten last year.
But that’s not it at all. And nobody knows.
And tonight. How he’d looked. How serious he’d been. He’s always shit-talking, and tonight he’d been so quiet. It comes to me as I’m pacing, like I turn a corner too suddenly and it’s right there: he wasn’t upset; he was hurting.
What was I supposed to do about that?
The question snaps me out of whatever it is I’ve been doing.
I’m not supposed to do anything. It’s not any of my business. I need to pull off this Greek Life outreach, and then I’m done.
But he’s all alone. He said he thinks it’s better being alone.
And later, in bed, I think, It’s not. It’s not better. And I wish I’d said that to him.
In the morning, I’m brushing my teeth, and I’m making a decision.
I told him I’d be his boyfriend. And I know it’s fake.
I know it’s only to help him convince these donors he’s reliable.
But the thing is, Dad always says, Do it right, or do it twice.
I don’t know if that applies exactly to this situation—for some reason, my cheeks are red as I spit and rinse out my mouth—but I figure there’s something to it.
If I’m going to be a fake boyfriend, I might as well be a good fake boyfriend.
If that makes any sense.
So, that afternoon when I go in for my shift, I leave a box of protein bars on his desk in the bullpen.
Detective Palomo is sitting right there, and she looks at me.
She’s about as tough a lady as you’ll find, and she’s a good detective, and I guess if I make detective, I’m going to have to work with her because we’ll be colleagues. So, I manage to say, “Lost a bet.”
But I’m pretty sure I can still feel her eyes on me as I head to the locker room to change.
It’s almost nine, and the town is going dark, when I get a text from Gray. It’s a picture: a plate, with a fork and a knife crossed, and a little napkin tucked under the edge. On the plate is one of the protein bars.
I burst out laughing. Thank God tonight I’m riding alone.
I spend way too long thinking about what to text back, and I settle on not saying anything and liking the picture.
I figure that’s it, but then he texts: How’s the shift?
Alright. That doesn’t seem like enough, though, so I add, Pulled over Mr. Somerset again for speeding. His dad, I mean.
OMG.
It was a school zone.
Did he call JH?
Nah. He knows better by now.
Good boy. And before I can deal with that, he marks that message with the laugh response, and then he sends: You are one of a kind. And then, on the heels of that one: Be safe, Sammy.
I guess I could have left it at that, but I reply, Eat your dinner.
And he sends back the middle finger emoji.
Gray must think it’s funny because the next night, in the middle of my shift, I get another picture.
This time, it’s of Gray. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the waistband of his shorts is low enough that I can see the elastic of his underwear.
He’s got more definition to his chest than I expect, and tonight, he’s wearing a gold chain I don’t remember.
It takes me about five seconds to notice he’s preparing a salad, and he sent me the photo to prove he’s making dinner.
And a voice that sounds a little like Gran says, Yeah, right.
I figure since I’m on duty, I can buy myself a little time before I respond. The best I can come up with, though, is Nice.
Another picture comes through almost immediately.
He’s at the table now. He’s pouting, arms folded across his chest. You can’t tell in those suits, but he’s got great arms. And a joke goes through my head.
Not even a joke; something I heard Gray say to Mr. Somerset once when we were all at St. Taffy’s, and it was getting late.
Tops are so easy to manipulate. You say, ‘Oh my God, your arms are so big,’ and they’ll give you all the dick you want.
And that’s when Mr. Somerset called Gray a cab.
The words that come through, following this pouty picture, are Nice? Seriously? That’s all?
I’m not good at dating, but I do know what it means when people say they leave you on read. But I barely make it ten minutes before I send back, Very nice.
And then I wait.
And I send: Salad.
He FaceTimes me, and it’s the middle of my shift, but I pick up anyway.
The chain glitters at the hollow of his throat, and some of his hair is out of its part and curling across his forehead, and he’s pretending to be mad as he shouts, “Nice salad? Nice salad? You are a real fucking piece of work.”
And then he disconnects.
He messages me about five seconds later: Too much?
I don’t even know what’s happening.
I know. That’s what makes it so fun. And then the same message as the night before: Be safe, Sammy.
But I do know. Kind of.
It’s so easy. That’s what I don’t understand.
Probably because we’re pretending, and I’m not getting in my own way.
And because Gray’s so good at this. I mean, I know enough about him to know this is easy for him.
Picking up guys. Flirting. Messing around.
But it’s easy for me, too, and sometimes that sneaks up on me.
Because we’re pretending, I remind myself. Because it doesn’t mean anything.
But Saturday, he gets my location from dispatch and brings sandwiches, and we eat in my cruiser, parked on the bank of the Grand Rivere.
It’s a quiet night, and I’ll probably pick up some DUIs later, but for now, there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to be except here, the spring air smelling like the river and silt and the sedge that’s coming in thick and dark green, and the sharpness of the vinegar and salami, and something else, this musky, masculine scent on Gray that gets caught like a burr in my throat.
I don’t even remember what we talk about.
Something about WISP at first. But it feels like an excuse more than anything, and pretty soon we’re talking.
And Gray is being a shit, because he likes to, and I’m laughing because it’s funny when he doesn’t get what he wants, and then it’s over, and he’s packing up our trash.
Before he goes, when I’m sitting behind the wheel, he stands with one hand on the door, looking in at me, and there’s this moment where I’m confused, like I’m in two places at once, and in one of those places, he’s going to kiss me before he says goodnight.
But I’m not in that place. I’m in some other place, where he’s looking in at me, and all he says is “Be safe, Sammy,” and he shuts the door for me. Kind of like it’s the end of a date.
I’m brushing my teeth that night when I think I need to do something. Not protein bars. I mean, I’m supposed to be helping him, aren’t I? What have I done so far? Not a whole lot.
Instead of going straight to sleep, I get on my phone. I do some searching. And then I do some more searching. And then, before I can think about it too much, I text Gray.
Want to go to the Wrox-Out closing social? It’s Friday night.
I lock the phone because he’s probably asleep, but a message comes back right away. Why?
Because they’re a vulnerable group and WISP should be doing outreach to them, too. I hesitate, and then I add, It would be a good practice run for the Greek Life outreach.
His response takes longer this time, and I try not to read too much into it.
I still do, though. Is he mad because I’m overstepping?
Maybe he already tried to reach out to Wrox-Out—I mean, it would be natural for him to contact the LGBTQ student life group.
Or does he think this is a bad idea? Maybe there’s a reason he hasn’t gotten involved with them.
But then my phone buzzes: Sure. Pick you up?
I don’t even trust myself to type anything. I like the message and lock the phone.