Chapter 12
Sam
I have to go to work the next day, which is cruel and unusual punishment.
We didn’t get home all that late—barely midnight, which meant Gran was still watching Drag Race in the living room.
And it’s not like Gray came in, or we stayed out in the car talking, or anything.
He thanked me again for introducing him to those people.
He felt like we’d made a good impression on some key figures. He was happy, I could tell.
And then I went inside, gave Gran the bare minimum, and escaped to my room.
I thought I’d never sleep. But then I did. And when I woke up the next morning, for the first time in a long time, I hit snooze and didn’t go for a run.
I still make it to work on time. I’m on first shift for the next rotation, and it’s always an adjustment.
I make it through roll call still hopped up on adrenaline, like I never went to sleep the night before, and I grab an extra large coffee before I hit the road.
I don’t look around the station for Gray because I’m not a creeper.
Plus, it’s Saturday, and unless he’s working a big case, he gets weekends off.
It’s hard to put my finger on what’s different as the day goes on.
I’m tired, sure, and it starts catching up with me in spite of the coffee.
But it’s not that. I guess it’s just a nice day.
The sun seems brighter. It’s warmed up, and when I roll the windows down, I can smell lilac blooming.
It’s such a good day that the first guy I stop for speeding, I let him off with a warning.
And I’m having a hard time staying focused—probably because I’m so tired.
The whole shift, I catch my mind drifting off.
Like, I know Gray usually takes his coffee black at the station, but is that the way he likes it at home?
He’s definitely not a morning person, but does he still get up and go for a run—or maybe detectives don’t have to do that?
What does he look like when he wakes up first thing in the morning?
I decide he probably likes to lie in bed on the weekends.
I bet if he had coffee and his phone, he could stay there all morning.
I take a picture of a guy walking a little dog, because Gray has this theory about guys with little dogs, and I think he’s full of BS but it’s still funny.
I’ll send it to him later. And that makes me wonder if he likes pets, or if he had pets growing up.
Probably not because he made it sound like he didn’t have a very happy childhood, but I bet he’d like a dog.
I could see him with a beagle. Or maybe he doesn’t like pets; that’s okay too, because we never had a dog growing up either.
Dad always said raising a kid by himself was enough work.
When I take my lunch, I park on Market Street, not far from where Gray brought me that sandwich—it feels like a long time ago now.
I eat the meal I packed myself: a protein scramble, an apple, two Chips Ahoy cookies wrapped in wax paper.
The sun is warm on my back, and the murmur of the river keeps me company.
A car drives by, and the windows are down, and I hear one of the songs they played last night.
And I think I should probably text Gray and ask him what it was, because I kind of like it.
By the time I’m done with work, I don’t even remember half of what I did that day.
I change out in the locker room as fast as I can, only half hearing the other guys ribbing each other, and head outside.
It’s only midafternoon, which is another perk of being on first shift, and I barely make it to my car before I text Gray the picture of the guy with the little dog.
He doesn’t answer.
There’s half a heartbeat when I think: is he mad at me? Because of last night?
But then my phone buzzes, and Gray says: You are such a nerd. And I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m totally right.
And then I ask him about the song, and it’s like we never stopped talking last night, messages going back and forth. I even check my phone when I get to stoplights, and I never do that.
“Somebody looks happy,” Gran says as I come into the house.
“It’s a nice day,” I say.
Gran glances at me, smiles, and goes back to looking at her earrings. She keeps them in binders, in these vinyl sheets that have lots of pockets. She’s got them lined up on a shelf in her room, except for now when they’re spread on the coffee table, and she calls them the family albums.
I change into workout clothes—shorts and a tee—in my room, still texting with Gray, even when I’m pulling the shirt over my head.
What are you doing? I ask, and all of a sudden, I’ve got this idea that I’m going to ask him to go to the gym with me.
Catching up on paperwork. And then a second message comes through—the knife emoji, and the words Kill me.
Want some help?
So much for the gym, I guess.
Thanks, but I’m in too deep at this point.
But he’s not in too deep that he doesn’t keep answering every time I text him.
He wants to know about work, so I tell him about the guy I let off with a warning.
I guess he thinks that’s hilarious because he sends me about fifteen different texts saying lol and omg and a lot of the skull and laughing emojis.
I ask him if he’s eaten anything, and he sends me a picture—it’s from his office at WISP, and it shows one of those protein smoothies on the corner of his desk.
The cup is empty, so I guess that counts for something.
It’s like that all the way to the gym. I’m doing arms today, and I’m limping through the sets because I’ve got no gas, not after last night.
But the time flies by anyway because I’m texting Gray between sets.
He’s trying to wind me up about whatever he can think of—right now, he’s trying to come up with a profile name for me on Prowler.
He thought I didn’t know that was a gay dating app, but it’s not like I live under a rock.
So far, the best name he’s come up with is saddysam, which he says is like Sam plus Daddy, like Zaddy.
When I tell him it sounds like I’m sad, he swears. A lot.
The idea pops into my head when I’m doing pull-ups.
And it’s dumb, but I kind of like it too because it’s silly, and it’s the kind of thing Gray would do, and I know he’ll think it’s funny.
I grab my phone and do one last pull-up, only this time, when I’m at the top, I shift around so I’m holding myself up one-handed, and I snap a photo.
It’s not bad, actually. My arms look enormous, and my shirt’s riding up to show a hint of my stomach. I even got the expression right. Kind of cocky. The way Gray looks when he’s pulling shit off.
Before I can think about it too much, I send it.
It takes zero-point-zero seconds for him to write back, Hot.
And there it is again. That feeling like electricity is running through my gut and all the way up my spine.
I don’t let myself think about it too much.
It’s not a big deal. He’s my friend—and that’s more of a surprise than anything else, the fact that Gray and I are friends now, and I’m not even sure how it happened.
Anyway, he’s my friend, and friends send each other pictures all the time.
Gay guys and straight guys can be friends.
Gay guys can tell their straight friends they’re hot.
Sometimes Gran watches Queer Eye, and that’s basically the whole premise.
And Gray sent the first picture, so it’s not like—well, I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask for consent first.
And then Gray asks me if he can use that photo for my Prowler profile, and the conversation moves on.
Gran’s going out with Dr. Jacobson tonight, so after I shower, I make myself a quick dinner—a chicken breast, some vegetables, and a protein shake.
I think about texting Gray to see if he wants me to drop off some food for him, but I don’t.
I don’t want that to be a thing. Like I’m always bringing him food.
Or he’s bringing me food. It would be weird, I think. Wouldn’t it?
Gran’s wearing flamingo-pink capris and a lacy white top from the Pure Reba collection when she goes out for the night. Her hoops are so big she gets caught in the screen door and I have to rescue her, and then I have to wash the lipstick off my cheek from where she kissed me goodbye.
I get out the workbook for Unmuzzled, but for some reason, I’m not feeling it tonight.
I try the TV, but I can’t find anything good.
I text Gray to tell him there’s nothing good on TV and for the first time ever—he won’t believe it—I don’t want to study, but he doesn’t reply.
That’s okay; he’s busy with a lot of stuff at WISP, and I know in the evenings is when they have walk-ins.
If you’d told me a month ago that Gray could sit and talk to somebody, that he’d done all the training and he knew what to say, that he could actually listen long enough without talking about some big-dicked jock he’d smashed pissers with—he actually said that once, and it was right when the Baptist Ladies were in the lobby trying to get donations for their quilts—if you’d told me Gray could do any of that, I probably would have laughed.
But that was before I knew him. The real him, I guess.
So now I know that if he’s talking to someone right now, he’s listening, and he’s helping, and he’s trying to do his best.
I fall asleep on the couch because of the night before and the gym, and when I wake up, it’s almost eleven. I check my phone, but still nothing from Gray.
Are you still at WISP? I text.
No reply.
I brush my teeth. I check my phone. I floss. I look at the screen in case he’s texted. I wash my face, and I’m only halfway done when I think I hear my phone buzz, so I’m dripping face wash all over everything when I check it again.
Nothing.
I’m in my trunks, about to climb into bed, when I think maybe I’ll drive by.
No, I tell myself. That would be crazy.
I pull back the covers, but then I stop.
What if it’s not crazy? What if something happened?
I’m a police officer, so my mind jumps to the reality of what happens at places like WISP.
It’s not only the people who need help who show up.
It’s not only people like Lexi. Sometimes, it’s the people they’re trying to get away from.
Sometimes, it’s Charles. And this late at night, who would still be at WISP?
Gray. Maybe Robin. It would be the two of them, all by themselves, if somebody showed up, somebody looking for trouble. Maybe just Gray.
I went back and forth about it for almost a minute. And then I gave up. As I flopped onto the bed, I texted: Sorry, not trying to bother you, but wanted to make sure you got home okay.
And still nothing.
I close my eyes against the overhead light, but I’m not trying to go to sleep.
Not everybody’s the same, but a lot of police, if they’re on the job long enough, get a sense for when something’s not right.
It might not even be something you can point to, something you can say made you suspicious or worried or afraid. You can just tell.
Against my closed eyelids, the ceiling light makes a red-orange ball.
I launch out of bed, throw on my staples: shirt, shorts. I don’t even bother with socks—I shove my feet into my Adidas, grab my keys and wallet, and run for the car.