Chapter 25
Sam
When I get to WISP, the lights are on, but something’s different.
It’s late afternoon, and campus is busy with students, but the little hallway where WISP is located is quiet, and that’s what it is: the WISP offices are quiet too.
The door is shut. There’s one of those hanging signs you can buy at the hardware store that says CLOSED.
It’s probably locked, I tell myself. And I’ll drive home.
But it’s not. And the door opens.
The quiet seems even deeper after I pull the door shut behind me. And everything’s different. All the furniture has been moved against one wall. The computer on Robin’s desk is gone. Boxes line another wall. The ones on top are still open, and it looks like they’re full of old desk phones.
A thud comes from the back of the maze of rooms, and then a familiar, “Come-sucking son of a bitch, come out!”
I make my way back.
Gray’s sitting on the floor. He’s in a tee and shorts, and he’s looking at his desk, a screwdriver on the floor next to him, and a hammer, and an adjustable wrench.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I watch him. His hair is dark with sweat at his temples.
On his arm, he has a little gray fuzz from moving something dusty.
He’s wiggling a drawer, and then he pokes it with a screwdriver, and then he leans back and kicks it, and the whole desk rocks.
“Come the fuck out, you piece of shit!” He punctuates each word with another kick.
But the drawer doesn’t come out, and after another tug, he sits back and vapes.
“Hey,” I say.
He’s halfway to his feet before I think he even knows what he’s doing. And then he looks at me and says, “Jesus Christ!”
I don’t say anything.
“You gave me a fucking heart attack.”
“Sorry.”
He rubs his chest. Hits his vape again. He’s not looking at me, but he’s not not looking at me, if that makes sense. And then he says, “Can’t get this fucking drawer out.”
“Sometimes they’re screwed to the runners.”
He makes a gesture at it like it’s all mine, and when I step into the room, he moves backward. He’s giving me space to work. But that’s not why he moves. And I think we both know it.
I crouch. I pull on the drawer’s handle. It’s legit stuck, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s because he kicked it so many times. I work the blade of the screwdriver behind the face of the drawer to see if that helps.
“I already tried that,” Gray says.
I nod.
He lasts about five seconds before he says, “It’s stuck.”
I nod again.
He’s vaping hard and fast now, and the room smells like a Blow Pop, and I almost tell him because that’s the kind of thing Gray would immediately make a joke about. But I don’t. Instead, I lie on my back and scoot under the desk because I want to see why this drawer won’t come out.
“Fuck it,” Gray says after another minute. “It’s not worth it.”
“Hold on,” I say.
“It’s a piece of shit desk. I was going to donate it, but they want you to take out all the drawers before they’ll pick it up.” When I don’t say anything, he must move or something because his sneakers squeak, and then he says, “Sam, forget it.”
“I’m just looking at it,” I tell him.
“Oh my God,” he says, and he kind of laughs, but he sounds like he’s hanging off a cliff. “What is happening right now?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Great. So you can tell me what a piece of shit I am?”
“You’re not a piece of shit.”
“So you can tell me you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
I can practically feel him vibrating with all that pent-up energy. He probably needs to stop vaping. That’s something we could work on together. But I squash that thought.
“Sam,” he barks. “I feel like I’m showing a lot of fucking patience right now, but can you get your head out of that fucking desk?”
So, I crawl out from under the desk and get to my feet. He’s got red spots in his cheeks, and he’s holding the vape so tight his fingertips look white.
“I’m bi,” I tell him.
But there’s nothing on his face. Absolutely nothing. “Okay.”
“I wanted to tell you that.”
“Okay. Great. You discovered your secret sexual identity, and you told me.”
“I told my dad, too. And Gran.”
For the first time, the hardass mask cracks, and he says, “Oh God. How’d that go?”
“It’ll be okay. Gran’s real happy.” I feel like I have to give him something, so I say, “She keeps sliding dirty pictures under my door. I think she thinks we’re in college or something.”
He laughs, and it’s a startled sound, a cracked-open sound, raw. Happy, but hurting.
“I guess I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to tell you that it wasn’t fake,” I say. “It was real. And I don’t want it to be over.”
Gray looks around like somebody might come help him, and then he laughs again, and he says, “Sam.”
I give him a few more seconds, but that’s all, so I push off from the desk.
He tenses like he might retreat, but he stays where he is, and when I reach him, I take his head in my hands and kiss him.
He tastes like that Blow Pop smell, and like he’s had too much coffee and nothing to eat.
But he also tastes like Gray, and his mouth is as warm and soft as I remember.
He doesn’t touch me, though. He doesn’t move at all.
And when I pull back, he says, “Sam.”
“I love you.”
He shakes his head.
“That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything.
But I wanted you to know that. I—I spent a lot of my life wanting people to like me.
Wanting to feel like I belonged, because I grew up feeling like—like I didn’t, I guess.
And I did a lot of stupid things because of that.
I’m not proud of that.” I draw a deep breath.
“But I’m proud of who I am now. And I know who I am, and what I like, and what I want.
” I wait until he looks at me, and I say, “And I know who I love. I love you. You didn’t trick me.
You didn’t force me. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.
” I’m surprised I can laugh, and it’s a full, happy sound.
“God, Gray, I really wanted to do those things with you. And I’m happy I got to know you, the real you, because I love the real you, and I think he’s wonderful, and I wish more people got to see him.
” I stop again. It feels like I’ve been talking for hours.
But I open my mouth, and more words come out.
“I’m not saying this because I expect anything from you.
But I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry I let you leave. ”
He still hasn’t said anything. He’s pale, and he keeps looking at me and cutting his eyes away, and he turns the vape in his hand like it’s a genie’s lamp and he needs to make a wish.
“And thank you for the dog memes,” I say. “Because they made me happy. You made me happy.”
He’s breathing hard now, staring at the floor.
“I’m going to go,” I say.
I’m at the door when he says, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I wait, but that’s all. So I say, “You don’t have to do anything.”
He wipes his eyes, and now I can see that he’s crying.
“God, Sammy, I fuck everything up. I fucked up WISP. I fucked up my chance with you. Every fucking thing I touch—I’m a fucking disaster.
And I told myself I wouldn’t do it again.
I told myself I wouldn’t hurt someone again.
And I did it anyway. Fuck, Sam, I fucked up a fake fucking relationship.
What the fuck does that tell you about me? ”
“Well, I guess that you’re a person like everybody else.”
He looks up at the ceiling. He’s trying not to cry.
“Forget all that stuff about fucking things up,” I say. “What do you want right now?”
He shakes his head. But he says, “I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you, Sam, because I do. God, the last few days, it’s—I don’t even know how to tell you.”
“But what do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. What do you want?”
He lets out this helpless noise. And then he says, “I want to be with you.” But before I can say anything, he’s rushing out with “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you.
I don’t—I don’t know how. God, Sam, I was such a terrible boyfriend.
I was awful. And I’ve tried so hard to break those patterns, but look how badly I fucked up the first time I got scared.
I don’t know how to be a good boyfriend to you.
I don’t know how to be the person you deserve. I don’t know how to love you.”
It really is quiet back here. I can’t hear anything except the hiss of white noise.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He does look at me now. And the surprise changes into annoyance. “Yeah, that seems like enough, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not something you can figure out.”
“Why not?”
He opens his mouth. And then he lets out a noise that would have gotten him a slipper to the ass.
“You’re not perfect,” I say. “Neither am I. But you told me one time that anybody decent would be patient with me. Help me figure it out.” I wait, but he’s still staring at me. “Why can’t we do that for each other?”
He rubs his eyes. They’re red, but he’s not crying anymore. His voice is scratchy when he says, “I don’t know.”
And I’m guessing that means a lot of things. All the things he feels like he doesn’t know, but he should.
So, I say, “That’s okay. Why don’t you come over here?”
It takes him a while, but he does.
“You can put your arms around me,” I say.
He’s slower this time. But when he does, I move into him, pressing against him. We’re almost the same height, and I like how my forehead rests against his.
“You can kiss me,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if maybe that’s the no.
But then his lips touch mine.
It’s what a first kiss should be: it’s gentle, tentative, like he’s asking me something. But then it grows stronger. His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. He must be crying again because his cheeks are wet.
When he pulls back, it’s only by a few inches, so I feel his breath when he whispers, “I love you.”
“I love you too.” And then I feel like I have to be honest, so I say, “I think I figured out how to get that drawer out.”
He laughs for a long time about that, but he doesn’t let me go.
“I’m sorry about WISP,” I say. “I’m sorry I messed everything up for you.”
Gray shakes his head. “Fields was an asshole. Unfortunately, he was a rich asshole. It’s okay; WISP did some good work, and that’s what matters. I wish I could keep it open, but a detective’s salary isn’t exactly enough to run it on my own.”
“Gray,” I say, because he’s what Gran would call a dum-dum sometimes. “You don’t have to do it on your own.”