I walk him out of that little dark cocoon, and in the relatively brighter light on the sidewalk, a half-smile breaks his face up in a white slash.“Am I under arrest, officer?”
“Here we go,” I say and start marching.
Gray comes along because he has to, and I know enough by now to know when he’s laughing at me even though I can’t hear him.“What if I resist?”
“Go ahead,” I say, and tighten my grip.I give him a little shake because I’m still kind of mad at him, even though I’m not sure why.“Find out.”
14
Gray
I’m not in love with the idea of leaving my car at the college, but there’s something so easy about letting Sam make the decision that I don’t even try to fight him.It’s been a long fucking year of making decisions.A long fucking year of trying to break toxic patterns, a long fucking year of trying to do better, to be better, a long fucking year of not falling back into old habits and actuallythinking,actually taking time to consider the consequences, to make choices, to do the right and responsible thing.
And I am so fucking tired of it.
The drive back is easy too.His truck is clean—God, of course it is—and it smells like the little air freshener clips he’s got on the vents.He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.The farther we get from that tiny black space where I told himwaytoo much, the harder it is not to be embarrassed.I’m a detective.I’m older than him.I’ve seen a lot of bad shit.Some really, really bad shit.I had my face blown off, for fuck’s sake.I crawled out of my own fucking grave.And all the stuff from the past, I dealt with it, and it’s done, and I’ve moved on.
So, it’s hard to explain to myself why, even though there’s this part of me that iscringingat how the words had rushed out of me—at the fact that Sammy heard it, heard all of it, heard how absolutely bat-shit bananas I actually am—I feel good.Or better, anyway.Definitely better than if I’d gone back to my apartment to lie there in the dark, alone, pretending I was going to sleep.
When we get to Sam’s house, a single lamp is on in the front room, and it makes the window glow through the sheers.Sam parks his truck, and I’m half-suspecting he’s going to put a restraining hold on my arm and drag me inside, but instead he gives me this look like he knows he can run faster than me if it comes to that, and let’s be one hundred percent fucking real: it goes straight to my cock.
And for the tenth time, I tell myself I better get that itch scratched safelybefore it comes back to bite me in the ass.
We go inside.Sam even holds the door for me like a gentleman.The house is a nice balance between lived-in and cluttered—I suspect part of that is because Sam’s grandmother only moved here a few years ago, so there must have been some sort of purge.It’s got a lot of touches that tell you what kind of person she is—and, by extension, who Sam is.The VHS and DVD collection, which mostly consists of ’70s and ’80s TV shows.The way they’ve got the place laid out, with the couch and the TV, and the little folding tables for eating in front of the television.And the pictures of Sammy, of course.There are pictures of other family members—a middle-aged man who looks like a real hardass, and the resemblance is so strong he has to be Sam’s dad.But most of the photos are of Sam.Big surprise, I think, because I’ve seen them together, and it takes about half a second to see how much they love each other.
Sam gestures to the couch and moves into the kitchen.He must be nervous because he’s bouncing his keys in his hand, and the jingling sound is the only noise in the whole house.But if he’s nervous, it’s not enough to make him back down.I think of thatlookin the truck, and I’m trying not to smile as I take a seat.The fridge opens and shuts.There’s a clink of glass.The microwave starts to whir.There’s a picture of Sammy on the side table.It must have been the day he graduated from the police academy because he looks like a baby.He’s got that horrible haircut, trying to spike his hair up, and he’s breaking out like crazy, and he’s such a quintessential skinny-ass country boy that I think again, in spite of myself, that he probablydoeshave a huge dick.You can’t know anything about anybody, I guess.Because who the fuck could have known how he’d turn out?And I guess that’s still true, because everything’s changing.We’re all still changing.Always.
I’m still looking at the picture when he says, “Oh God,” and he’s standing right next to me.
I start; I didn’t even hear him.
“I hate that picture,” he says as he hands me a plate.“Gran won’t let me get rid of it.”
“It’s cute,” I say, but that’s more automatic than anything, because he’s also passing me a beer.“Baby Sam.”
He groans as he flops down in an armchair.I can’t help making a note of it: there’s this part of me that’s calibrating everything, our positions, where we are next to each other, distances and angles and gaps.I don’t know when it started, but it is really fucking annoying when I catch myself doing it, which is pretty much always now.
To take my mind off it, I look down at what Sam brought me.The politest word for it is goop—a heap of whitish-gray stuff that might be food, with a little melted cheese on top.Steam wafts up, and it smells like chicken and green chilies, and my stomach rumbles.
“It’s Gran’s chicken enchilada casserole,” Sam says.“It’s one of her specialties.”
“Right,” I say, poking the mass with my fork.I tip the beer toward Sam.“Cheers.”
“You only get one of those, by the way.”
I almost smile, so instead, I scoop up a forkful and—
“You’d better blow on it because it microwaves up like hot lava.”
It turns out it’s surprisingly hard to blow on your food when you’re grinning.
When I finally manage to take a bite, though, I moan.And then I melt onto the couch.The enchilada or the casserole or whatever the fuck it is, it isn’t good.It’s fucking fantastic.
Sam sounds way too cocky for his own good when he says, “Told you.”
I don’t bother answering.I shovel food into my mouth.He’s not wrong—itislike hot lava—but I don’t even care.How long has it been since I’ve eaten real food?Something someone made at home, not something prepackaged, or fast food, or something I picked up at a “healthy” chain.Fuck, even the burrito bowls tasted processed after you ate enough of them.
I’m scraping the fork across the plate before I realize I’ve devoured everything.The beer’s gone too.And I’m full in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
