When I turned around, he had one hand curled into a fist and pressed to his chest.The sun made it hard to tell if he was looking at me.“More pathetic than letting me do it?”
Only the rough sounds of his breathing answered.
“Everyone in this shithole town would have felt sorry for me if I’d stayed home and acted like my life was over, but nobody can stand it that I won’t shut myself up in this house and be a fucking recluse.Nobody can stand that I just want to live my life.”
“Your life is over!”Darnell struggled to sit up in the chair.His lips looked chalky.“That part of your life is over.And you won’t let it go.You won’t move on.You’re not even trying to get better.”
“I don’t need to get better!”It was a scream, and it left my throat raw.“I’m fine!This is who I am!”
Darnell ran his hands through his hair and looked down.He didn’t look back up.
Shaking, I turned for the side of the house again.
But once more, he called after me.Pain—or something more—blunted the edge of his voice.“I’m sorry you feel this way.I’m sorry it happened to you.And I’m sorry you hate yourself so much.”
“See, that’s what you never got, Darnell.”I made myself walk, and I didn’t look back.“I’ve hated myself for a long, long time.”
27
I didn’t remember getting in the car.I didn’t remember driving.Red washed my vision, my head pounded, and the anger was so big that there wasn’t room for anything else.Everything Darnell had said.Everything I’d said.All of it going round and round, and with every pass, my rage ratcheting up again.
Eventually, though, it passed.Or it changed.Or something.Awareness returned, enough for me to make sense of where I was.And then I only got angrier.
It was a beautiful old Arts and Crafts home, the kind of place that just lookslike it’s meant for a family.A kid’s bike—pink and silver, with training wheels—was parked on the porch.The old truck that had taken up residence in the driveway was gone.On the mailbox, peel-and-stick letters from the hardware store said HAZARD & SOMERSET.
I got out of the car.
When I got up on the porch, I knocked on the door.I didn’t let myself think.I waited five seconds and then I knocked again.I couldn’t stand still, so I started to pace.I had to dodge the bike.I shook out my hands, tried to roll my shoulders, thought briefly about how loose my head felt on my neck.Answer the door.I shook out my hands again.Answer the fucking door.
It opened, and there he was: my boy John-Henry.Saint Somerset.He looked perfect, as always—hair mussed in a way that looked sexy instead of messy, a faded Mizzou tee, running shorts.He was starting to get crow’s feet around his eyes, and they were more visible now, when he smiled.
I stared at him.
He must have known, at the last moment, because his expression changed.
I launched myself at him.My shoulder caught him in the chest, and my arms went around his waist, and we crashed backward through the door.We landed together; John-Henry hit the floor, and I landed on top of him.He was saying something—shouting—but I couldn’t hear him.Didn’t want to hear him.I got one arm free and swung, but he was moving too, drawing his knees up between us to force me away.
He almost got free, but when he scooted back, I threw myself at him again.We both thumped down onto the floor again.This time, I didn’t care about punching.I rolled, dragging him with me, and slammed his head into the old floorboards.He let out a pained noise, and his body slackened.I scrambled upright to straddle him and took another swing.
He must not have been as disoriented as I’d thought because he got one arm up to block me.Then he started grappling with me.He grabbed my wrists.I jerked away, trying to get free, but he held on.All I could think about was pummeling him.Hitting him in his fucking face over and over again.He was shouting, “Gray, stop!Stop!”I didn’t stop.I couldn’t.
John-Henry bucked his hips and sent me sliding off him.I slammed into the wall, and that gave him an opening.He got to his feet, hands out to ward me off as I stood.A red mark on his cheek made me wonder if I’d gotten in a punch without realizing it.
“Calm down,” he was saying.“Calm down!Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it, but you need to—”
I tackled him again.We stumbled through the opening into the dining room.I was distantly aware of hitting the table as we fell.Something—several somethings—fell, hitting me on the head and shoulders as I tried to land another blow.This time, I got a really good one—my fist connected, and his head rocked back and clipped the boards.But John-Henry brought his knee up into my gut, and the breath exploded out of me.
Flopping onto my side, I wheezed, trying to get air into lungs that had forgotten how to work.John-Henry stood above me.He’d grabbed one of the packages that had fallen from the table, and he was holding it like a weapon now.Some of the packaging had been torn away during the tussle.I stared, trying to process what I was seeing.This was it.My brain had finally broken.
But somehow, sucking in air, I managed to ask, “Bro.”Another gasping breath.“Is that a dildo?”
John-Henry stared at me, eyes blank.Then he looked at the package.
“Rodeo King.”I held my fist out for a bump.“Nice.”
He left me hanging, but I was kind of used to it by then.He just stared at me.And then it all seemed to catch up to him, and he blushed and held the package out at his side, as far as his arm would stretch.It wasn’t quite as bad as hiding it behind his back, but it was the next best thing.His eyes were huge.
I started to laugh.It came out of nowhere, and it grew until I was shaking, my chest and belly tight with it, muscles aching.John-Henry started to laugh too.He leaned against the wall and sank down to sit on the floor, head back, wiping his eyes with one hand.The other hand, I couldn’t help noticing, never let go of the dildo.That only made me laugh harder.
