I didn’t see it because he doesn’t look like what I’m used to looking for, and that says something about me and my assumptions.
But more than the surprise, is what he said.
I was gay. Now I’m not anything.
Mickey erased himself in one sentence. And the worst part is how easily he said it. Like he’d already decided.
My mouth has nothing to say. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow and the backs of my eyes are on fire.
I know what it looks like when a person erases themselves. I watched my mother do it for years after my father left. She stopped wearing the red lipstick. She stopped playing music in the kitchen.
I can’t watch it happen again. Not to Mickey. Not while I’m in this room.
Scooting my chair closer to his bed, I fold my arms on the edge and lower my head onto them. I’m so tired. The weight of everything — the wedding, the driving, my ribs, what he said — comes down on me all at once. My body just gives up and folds.
My forehead rests on my arms. The thin hospital blanket is warm under my elbows.
Neither of us speaks. We stay like that. After a minute I lift my head.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him. “Never let me hear you say again that ‘you’re not anything.’ That’s not how it works.”
“Benji...”
“No. You don’t get to erase who you are because your body is hurt. You’re still you. You’re still the guy who stole peach schnapps with his best friend and said ‘me too.’ You’re still the guy who came out at seventeen in a red county and became a cop anyway. A bullet doesn’t get to take that.”
“Benji, I have an incomplete spinal injury. Not to be blunt, but right now I can’t feel my dick. I’m numb from thewaist down. Nothing works. At all. Maybe things will come back, maybe they won’t.”
He’s not asking for sympathy. He’s reporting a fact with no feeling attached.
Dead dick. Moving on.
“You’re a lot more than your dick, you know,” I say. “I like you and I’ve never met your dick. I’m sure it’s a perfectly fine dick but you’re not just your dick, Mickey.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Is that so?”
“Damn straight it is. You’re going to get better. You’re the toughest man I’ve ever met and I’ve met Tex, so that’s saying something.”
He sighs and reaches for the last packet of fries and holds them out to me. “You want these?” he asks.
“No, go ahead. I’m too tired to eat.”
“About the wedding,” he says, flipping the subject. A habit of his I’ve noticed every time the conversation gets tough. “It’s coming up fast. You’ve got work to do.”
I know what he’s doing because I do the same thing. Deflect, redirect, move the conversation away from the wound and back to the surface where it’s safe. I let him do it because he’s earned the right to decide what he can talk about right now.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “Since Dante’s coming. He’ll handle the logistics and I’ll handle the ceremony. Between us we’ll pull it off. We always do.”
“Seriously, you need to stop coming every day. Focus on the job.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Why do I think that means no?”
“Historically that means no, but I’m giving myself the illusion of being open to reason.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a small, tired smile. I hold onto it.
At seven-thirty I stand up and begin tidying up the food. I’m leaving earlier than usual because I’m so tired my legs are heavy and a migraine is coming in fast.
