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 notnotlooking 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.
