Kit wasn’t sure what to say. Everything felt inadequate. Like he didn’t have the right to be here, when in the self-centered depths of his heart, he couldn’t help wondering: what would anyone say about him after his death?
I know he’s dead and all, but Kit was a mess. A naive, selfish idiot whose very existence caused more harm than good.
Tentatively, Kit rested his hand on Holden’s thigh. He meant it as a comforting gesture, but the feel of firm muscle under denim was undeniably electric.Comforting. Sympathetic,Kit instructed himself.
“Assholes die too,” Kit said. “That’s just how it works. It’s okay to feel however you feel about him.”
Kit was terrible at this—but it worked. Holden cracked a grin. “Thanks.”
“While I have you here in my interrogation chamber…” Kit let his hand shift half an inch higher. “Is there anyone else Bishop should talk to?”
“You’re shameless,” Holden murmured. It was definitely a compliment. “I guess… Alan Tanner. They were teammates, but he hasn’t been at any of the memorial events Soraya’s dragged me to. It could be nothing. Everyone handles shit different.”
Yeah. Kit knew all about that. “Could be nothing. Or something. Thanks.”
Shadows deepened as the sun sank behind campus, and tiny lights flickered through the crowd. The volunteers were handing out the electric candles. Holden stretched to his feet and reached down. “Let’s go.”
Kit allowed Holden to pull him up. Warmth lingered long after they let go, walking side by side back to the gathered crowd.
News crews pointed cameras at the families, faculty, and students. Bishop met Kit and Holden at an edge of the crowd.
“Sorry that took so long,” Bishop said, his eyes dark in the fading light. “Who’s this?”
This wasn’t the plan. Kit and Bishop were supposed to avoid each other at the vigil. But Bishop must know what he was doing.
Kit gestured between the two men. “Bishop, this is Holden. Holden, this is Bishop.”
Holden extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Bishop seemed used to being called sir. Maybe it was an arrogant ex-cop thing. “Likewise. Do you know the family?”
Holden shrugged, glancing off to the side. “Marco was my friend’s boyfriend. I should get back to her.” He touched Kit’s arm, his thumb gently rubbing through the jacket from James. “Text me if there’s anything I can help with. Or if you just want to text me.”
Before Kit could reply, Holden slipped away. A few clusters of people away, he wrapped an arm around Soraya, who hugged him back.
Which Kit felt totally, completely reasonable about.
“We can go now,” Bishop said. “Unless you want to stay for the candle ceremony.”
And everything crashed into Kit at once.
Every whisper of grief, every breath of guilt and shame and unwarranted envy that had swirled around him all evening—everything was suddenly too sharp. Too real. Except for Kit himself. All these tiny lights, and Kit was just another shadow.
He told Bishop once that he didn’t want anything. He’d meant that completely. Escape, safety, harm. Wanting had been beyond him then.
“I want to go,” Kit whispered now.
Bishop just nodded and set off towards the parking lot. Kit followed as if on a tether, cold hands tucked into his pockets. A pathetic, vulnerable part of him wanted Bishop to hold his hand, because James was right. Kit was greedy. He wanted the certainty of Bishop’s touch—except if Bishop reached out, Kit would surely pull away.
His mind cleared under the yellow lights of the parking lot. They were at Bishop’s car already.
“Sorry,” Kit said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Bishop thankfully didn’t pry. “I didn’t want to stick around either. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
Kit grinned in dazed relief. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”
Fifteen minutes later, they settled in Bishop’s car with steaming cups from a little café down the street. The café was too crowded with college students, and they both turned back to the car without having to talk about it. Bishop made no move to turn the engine on, and they just sat there in the yellow half-light.
