I don’t want to ruin his life.That’s what it is.I don’t want whatever this is, how good it is, to come back and bite him in the ass.That’s what keeps me up at nights, after I leave Sam, after I kiss him goodnight, after I text him that I’m back at my apartment, safe, after I text him goodnight and sweet dreams and see you tomorrow.After one final text, when I know he’s trying to go to sleep, because I like the fact that if I send Sam a dog meme, he will one hundred percent respond, even if he has to rise from the dead.
But it’s hard to think about ruining his life because most of the time, everything seems so good.Everything seems…perfect.
So, like I said, it’s not only thefuckpart of fuck buddy that we’ve got locked in.For the first time in a long time—my internal bitch is writhing in agony as I say this—I’ve got a friend.I see him at work, even if it’s in passing.We see each other at the bulletin board and shoot the shit.I catch him checking the tire pressure on his cruiser in the parking lot, and I want to throw him in the back and pull his pants down.I don’t, mostly because they’ve got cameras all over that lot, but God, Sammy-in-uniform makes it really fucking difficult sometimes.
When I’m not at work, I’m with Sam—unless he’s on duty, and I’m starting to realize that putting patrol on a rotating schedule is fucked up, because why the fuck should Sam have to work nights when that’s when I’m off?The only good thing is that, most of the time, Wahredua is so quiet that I can track Sammy down wherever he happens to be on patrol.Some nights I take him dinner, and we eat in the car, or in a park, or on a bench.Some nights, I don’t have time to stay, but I drop something off.One time, I get sandwiches from the Wahredua Family Bakery, and on a whim, I throw in a sugar cookie at the register.
That’s the night I learn Sammy has a sweet tooth.
And WISP—
Well, I’m vaguely aware that WISP is becoming a problem.
Not the organization itself.And not my responsibilities there.I still care about the work.I’m proud of what we’re doing.I’m showing up, attending meetings, running trainings.I don’t drop any balls.
But there’s this growing feeling of—I don’t know.Resentment.WISP takes up so much time.And not too long ago, that was a good thing.All I had was time.I went to work, I went to the gym, I went to WISP.It kept me busy.It kept my head on straight.I wasn’t dicking around—figuratively or literally.But now, it seems like I’m always juggling, and it’s hard to remember how I used to do this, how it used to seem like I had all the time in the world.
It helps that when Sam’s shifts allow, he’s at WISP almost as much as I am.I find another office chair in the Closet of Broken Things (left to us by the college), and this one is onlyslightlybroken, which means Sam has to be careful not to lean back too far.We set it up at my desk, and there’s room for both of us to work.The first night we do, it’s surreal.I keep looking up, surprised to see Sam there.He doesn’t even look at me; he’s too busy with his plans for the Greek Life outreach.But by the end of the night, it’s like he’s always been there.
When Robin leaves that night, he slams the door.
It doesn’t help that we’re all stressed because everything with WISP is picking up momentum.The school year is wrapping up, and Sam and I are spending almost every night in the office—me on the phone, talking to anyone I can get to talk to me, and Sam working on the outreach event.If he cares half as much about being a detective as he does about getting this right, he’s going to be one hell of an addition to the team.And the thing is, I know he does.And I know he will be.
But I’m focused on getting my own shit done.One night, I get in touch with Rashad from the Mid-Missouri LGBTQ Alliance.It’s a good conversation, and even though there’s nothing he can do directly, he puts me in touch with a friend at the Missouri Council for Mental Health, and they know somebody who does DV outreach and might know about additional grant opportunities—and on and on like that, chasing down leads—which, in the end, means chasing down money.
I talk to Dr.Jordan, the Unitarian minister who works with the Wroxall students, several times.In part because she’s local and gives good advice.And in part because she and I vibe.And in part because she has two older women in her congregation who are looking for a passion project, and they’ve got an influential group of friends.She thinks I should meet them over lunch.And she says bring Sam.
But Ben Fields is the big fish I’m trying to land—or the whale, or however that saying goes because he’s gotrealmoney, and he’s got connections, he’s the kind of person who, to borrow Orion’s phrase, could bankroll WISP for years.And Kayla finally agrees to put us in contact.
Pretty soon, I start to suspect he’s playing hard to get.
When I call, I get his assistant.Or I get voicemail.I ask for a time to call when he’ll definitely be available—an appointment, in other words—and I get it.But something comes up.And so I try again.
Until, finally, one night I’m sitting in the WISP offices while Sam playsWizard Cheeseburger 3—turns out, he’s not perfect, especially after eleven when he’s tired, and he’s only sticking around because, well, he wants to be with you—and my phone buzzes with a call from Mr.Fields.
“Detective Dulac,” he says.“It’s Ben Fields.”
“Evening, Mr.Fields.Just Gray, please.I’m not on duty, and this doesn’t have any official connection to the Wahredua PD.”
“All right then.Gray, I’m not going to beat around the bush.I’ve had my people looking into this program you’ve started, and they tell me it’s impressive, very impressive.And I like what I hear.It’s important work, and it’s good for the community, and nobody’s doing quite what you’re doing—and all of those things make me think this is a good place for me to spend a little coin.”
My chest is so tight I can’t breathe, but somehow I say, “I’m happy to hear it.I started WISP because I believe—”
“But I’m not going to lie to you, Gray.I’m not going to beat around the bush.I’m concerned too.I’m very concerned.”
Sam must see something on my face because he’s not playingWizard Cheeseburgeranymore.
“Okay,” I say.“Why don’t we talk about that?What are you concerned about?”
“Frankly, Gray, I’m concerned about you.”He waits a beat, like I might jump in to defend myself, but when I don’t, he continues, “When I get behind a project like this, it’s important for me to know that I’m working with responsible, solid people.People I can trust.Good people—people I’m proud to work with.I meant it when I told you I like what you’re doing.But I had my people do some digging on you too, and I’m not going to beat around the bush, it was upsetting, Gray.It was very upsetting.”
And there’s this part of me thatknowswhat John-Henry would say.Knowshow he would handle it, and how I should handle it, and that it’s the only safe way forward.But a year of working on myself, trying to be someone better, obviously hasn’t been enough because what I say is “You’ll have to be more specific,” and I sound—to myself at least—like a cheery give-no-fucks.
Fields’s voice is chilly when he speaks again.“The last few years, in particular.”
“The last few years.Well, Mr.Fields, in the last few years, I was the victim of a domestic terrorist.Is that what you’re referring to?”
“No—”
