“For what?” asked Stanley.
“For the look on your face, the way you’re remembering,” said Devon. “I can see it in your eyes. I could find someone for you to talk to about it.”
It was disconcerting to be looked at the way Devon was looking at him, in that focused way he had, but usually that had been when Stanley had mentioned something about the war. Now Devon was looking at him as though Stanley was what he was now studying, and wanted to take notes about.
“You don’t believe me anyway,” said Stanley.
“I might,” said Devon. “Let’s just assume that you are telling the truth, even though time travel is impossible—”
“Is that what happened to me?” asked Stanley, more stunned than he’d thought he could be because he’d not considered it in those terms. “I keep thinking I’m just a ghost or something that shouldn’t exist.”
“I don’t know,” said Devon. He shook the box at Stanley and made the pastries rattle. There were three pastries and a grease spot where the missing fourth one had been. Stanley wondered whether they would each have one and split the remaining one, the way he and Isaac had done when they’d gone into the bakery.
“Have one,” said Devon. “Sugar is good for shock, they say.”
Stanley took a pastry, the nearest one to be polite, and bit into it, sighing at the taste of the sugar and the tender feel of the flakes coated with frosting. He ate it quickly, and watched while Devon ate his slowly. Then he realized he was staring and looked away. He was only a little surprised when Devon picked up the last pastry, tore it and held one half out to Stanley.
“Come on,” said Devon. “Help me eat this or I’ll need a new pant size.”
Devon laughed at his own joke, and Stanley tried to smile as he took the half of a pastry, but it was hard. Devon was like Isaac in some ways, but in most ways, he was different. He’d been so honest and open in admitting he was a homosexual, something Isaac never would have done, that it made Stanley want to be near Devon, to stay near him, and to talk until the sun came up.
But of course, they couldn’t do that. Devon got up, laid his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, and let it rest there, warm and heavy and solid.
“It’s going to be okay,” said Devon. “Whatever the truth is, it’ll look better in the morning. I’ll fix you up a bed on the couch, okay?”
Stanley looked up at Devon, who moved away. Stanley closed his eyes, thinking he’d much rather sleep where Devon was going to sleep. Where he’d be as safe as a bird in its nest, drowsy in the dark, hearing Devon’s even, low breath, sweet as a lullaby.
It was exhaustion making him think this way; even if the whole world were homosexual—gay, as Devon put it—there wasn’t a chance Stanley would have the courage to speak up, or that Devon might think that way about him. They’d just met, after all, and Devon thought that Stanley was either crazy or a liar, and neither was a good starting point.
Not to mention, Stanley felt wired and numb at the same time. As he got up from the table and pushed his chair back, he became dizzy. He had to stop right where he was, his hand on the chair back, the room growing dark and gray, speckled with white circles.
“Stanley, are you all right?” asked Devon, his voice coming from the darkness. In a moment, Devon was at his side. “You should sitdown. Here, I’ve made up a bed, and left a glass of water on the end table. Here.”
Stanley felt Devon’s warm hands on him, and let himself be guided across the room. His vision began to clear, bit by bit, until he was standing next to the couch with Devon looking at him, his anxious eyes wide, and nothing but kindness in his expression.
Stanley reached out to clasp Devon’s hand in both of his. He held Devon’s hand for a good, long minute, using it like a lifeline, taking slow breaths to steady himself.
“Maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll be 1917. Or maybe I’ll realize I’m not a ghost and didn’t come through time, but I’m just a crazy person who knows too much about trenches and shell shock and what a head looks like when it’s sliced through by shrapnel.”
“Maybe,” said Devon. “But you look ready to drop on your feet, so here—”
Devon guided Stanley to lie on the sheet that had been spread over the couch. Then, when Stanley’s head sank into the pillow, Devon pulled another sheet and a soft, fluffy duvet over him.
“Do you want me to call someone?” asked Devon. “Do you want me to call a doctor? I’ll do it right now, if you want me to.”
“No,” said Stanley. “Maybe if I get a good night’s sleep.”
Devon sat on the couch and took Stanley’s hand. Stanley kept his eyes closed in case he was imagining their closeness.
“I think you’re exhausted, regardless of anything else,” said Devon. “But I want you to know that whatever happens, whatever the truth turns out to be, I’ll help you. You can stay with me. I’ll take you back to Colorado with me. We’ll get you papers, whatever it takes, okay?”
Stanley sank into the moment. In his whole life, nobody had ever offered to help him the way Devon was offering. In his neighborhood back home, or in the army, you fended for yourself, you did for yourself. You pulled yourself up by your own bootstraps. And yet here Devon was, being kind. Stanley had barged in on his life, and Devon had every reason to not believe him, to even be disdainful of Stanley’s claims. But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t, and here he was making promises to be there for Stanley.
“Thank you,” said Stanley, his voice coming out a half-whisper. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, but I’m so tired.”
“You should sleep,” said Devon. He squeezed Stanley’s hand, then laid it over Stanley’s chest, and patted it. “I’m going to work a little more, but I’ll be quiet. If you need anything, you just let me know, okay?”
“Okay,” said Stanley, in such a small voice that he could barely hear himself in his own ears. He felt safe and warm and still, and if Devon were nearby, nothing bad could happen to him.
