His mom.
Millie.
Even—if only in Keme’s mind—Bobby.
I focused on getting on my hands and knees. That sense of wetness curled along my nape, ran warm then cold over the side of my neck. The bus was rattling so loudly that the noise seemed to take up all the space inside my skull, and when I moved, the world seemed to zoom in and out greasily. Darkness irised shut at the edges of my vision. Adrenaline, that little writer voice said at the back of my head. And maybe a touch of shock.
But somehow, I got to my feet.
Because he was asking me a question.
And I was going to answer it.
My vision was still doing that weird zooming thing, and for what felt like a long time, I couldn’t seem to find him. Then I did. He was lit from the side by the glow of the headlight. His face was twisted with an expression familiar from long hours of watching me be unbelievably terrible at Xbox—like I was too stupid to survive. He made a drawn-out sound in his throat, the pitch rising toward the end, and took a threatening step toward me.
“I’m not leaving,” I said. The words hung in the emptiness of the night, like the string of a tin can phone stretching out between us.
Keme took another of those challenging steps. “Why are you so stupid? I don’t want you to go with me. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”
I nodded. It made silent fireworks go off inside my head—no pain, only those bright, disorienting flashes.
Keme advanced again. “Don’t just stand there!”
I probably should have said something to that, but I seemed to have run out of words.
He reached me on the next step. Over his shoulder, the bus seemed to float, lit up inside with low-wattage light like the world’s grimmest UFO. The driver had gotten out of his seat and was staring at us. And maybe it was the concussion talking, but I could have sworn he was holding a carpet sweeper like a baseball bat.
“You’re a loser,” Keme said. His breath was hot in my face, white, whipping away on the breeze. “You’re so freaking sad. Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?”
He shoved me, but his heart seemed to have gone out of it—it was barely a push, and even in my current condition, it didn’t move me. He pushed me again, and this time I caught his wrist.
“I don’t need you,” Keme said. His voice was coming apart the way paper did when it got wet. “I don’t need anybody!”
My hand was still latched on to his wrist. I pulled, and he came.
“I hate you,” he said. “I hate you!”
He shoved me again as I drew him into a hug.
For one long moment, he was a bundle of wiry muscles and raised hackles and, God, so many elbows. And then he collapsed against me and started to sob.
Chapter 17
Believe it or not, the people at Cold Stone are not thrilled when you come inside covered in blood. I guess, to be fair, it’s probably a health code violation. They did still let me use their restroom, but you could tell they didn’t like it, and attitude goes a long way in the service industry.
“Stop being such a baby,” Keme said as he dabbed at the back of my head with a paper towel. His heart wasn’t really in it, though— the words were snotty and loose. His eyes were so red and puffy that I was surprised he could see what he was doing, and his hands trembled against my hair. A few seconds later, he mumbled, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I still had that lucid brightness that might have been a warning sign. “I’m actually planning on being a huge baby about this.”
Keme’s groan might have qualified, barely, as subvocal.
“I’m going to make Bobby do so many sweet things for me.”
His sound of disgust, on the other hand, definitely moved into the vocal range.
“I’m going to make him give me a million kisses.”
“Why are you like this?” Keme moaned, but mostly to himself. “Why can’t you be a normal gay who can actually help me with my hair?”
