I reached for him, but he stepped back.
He stared at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw fear in his eyes. Not of me, but for himself. Like he was afraid he’d disappear if he didn’t say it out loud.
“I care about you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe too much. But I can’t be your dirty secret anymore. I deserve better.”
I felt my face flush, shame burning up from my collarbone. “Don’t do this,” I begged. “Not now. Not after—”
He shook his head. “I have to.”
He stepped forward, closed the gap, and pressed his lips to mine—soft, final, a benediction. He lingered just long enough for me to taste the salt of his tears.
When he pulled back, he held my face in his hands. “Goodbye, Floyd.”
He let go. He turned and walked out the door, jacket flaring in the cold, boots heavy on the steps. I watched him go, unable to move, unable to even close the door behind him. The house filled with cold air, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t bring myself to fix it.
The sound of the door latch finally settling snapped me out of my trance. The room seemed to vibrate around the space Ransom had just vacated. I stood there, still in socks, my mouth full of bitter spit, and waited for something—maybe the house to fall in on itself. When nothing happened, when the world refused to reset, I panicked.
I lunged for my keys, barely remembered to lock the door behind me, and sprinted down the front steps. I slipped on the dew-slick grass, skinned my knee, and kept moving. I tore out of the driveway with my headlights off, not thinking, not even seeing. I ran the first stop sign on muscle memory, cut a right on orange at the second light, and didn’t look back.
His place was five minutes away, but I made it in three. I skidded to a halt, left the engine running, and sprinted up the walk. No lights. The bike was gone.
I pounded on the door anyway, shouting his name. I checked the handle, knowing it would be locked. The sound of my own voice echoing off the dark porch made me flinch. Nothing. No movement inside, not even a shadow.
Back in the truck, I called him. Once, twice, three times. Voicemail each time. I texted:“Please. Come home. I need you.”
The screen stayed black.
I ran through the possibilities. Where would he go? The river, maybe, or the high school ball field. I tried the river first, parked in the dirt lot near the old footbridge, ran to the bank and scanned the water for any sign of him. Just the slow churn of current, the black ribbon of water rolling off to nowhere. My breath burned in my lungs. I tried the ballfield, then the empty lot behind the Blacktail Bar, but there was nothing. No sign of him.
Last hope: the family farm. I floored it, dirt and gravel spraying behind me. I passed the speed trap on Route 9 at eighty, dared a patrol car to pull me over. The McKenzie house was dark, windows like empty eyes. The motorcycle wasn’t there. I banged on the door anyway, the urgency in my fists louder than the knock. No one answered.
I called again. This time I left a message:“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please call me. I’ll fix this.”
I sat in the cab of my truck, knuckles white on the wheel, sweat icing on my skin. I replayed every minute of the last month, every stupid choice, every silence, every failure to just say what I wanted. What I needed. The words “dirty secret” echoed, bouncing around the cab, trapping me with their truth.
The horizon was starting to gray with dawn when I gave up. I drove home like a man twice my age, every muscle slow and stiff. The mug was still on the table, the spill dried into a brown halo. The whole house looked like the inside of an abandoned exhibit—every surface too clean, every object stripped of meaning.
I sank onto the couch, the cushions swallowing me. My phone lay on my thigh, dead. I stared at the ceiling and waited for the world to start again. It didn’t. I tried to move, tried to breathe, but the weight was too much.
The first tear caught me off guard. It stung my cheek, hot and humiliating. The next came faster. My chest locked up, ribsthreatening to snap. I folded forward, head in my hands, and sobbed so hard I thought I might choke.
I cried until I couldn’t, until I was empty, until there was nothing left but the ache. I lay on my side, curled up like a kid, and tried to imagine a day where this wouldn’t hurt. I couldn’t.
But even at rock bottom, there was a sliver of something: a hard, bright point of pain that felt suspiciously like hope. I wasn’t done. I wouldn’t be done until I found him, until I put everything on the table and made him see how much I needed this. Needed him.
I wiped my face, sat up, and took a shaky breath. The house was still a mess. So was I. But for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I had to do. Tomorrow, I’d find him. I’d tell him. I’d be the man he deserved.
Even if it killed me.
Chapter Ten
~ Floyd ~
My body woke me before the world did. That was the deal: if you let your guard down, even for a minute, the universe took everything you cared about and set it on fire. I learned that lesson in the Army, but the aftermath was always worse—waking to silence, every muscle on alert, every part of you desperate to move before the dread caught up.
The house was colder than usual, which made sense because I’d turned down the thermostat in a fit of insomnia at 4:16 AM. I watched the numbers drop on the digital display, thinking if I made it uncomfortable enough, maybe I’d stop associating the inside of my own skin with Ransom’s hands, Ransom’s mouth, Ransom’s fucking laugh.
Didn’t work. The only thing I succeeded at was making my fingers stiff on the first round of lock-checking.
