by Shae Connor
I laugh as I remember my determination back then to be an astronaut. That lasted a year or two, until I started doing well enough in my gymnastics classes to decide that was what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’ve mostly stuck with it, though my goals have shifted over the years.
Sometimes I miss that wide-eyed kid—the little boy who wanted nothing more out of life than to read with his mom and learn to ride a bicycle and tease his twin sister and maybe someday get the chance to chase after the stars.
I sigh into the darkness. The stars are still out there, but they’re doing fine on their own. My goals have shifted closer to home. School, gymnastics, family, friends…and Darryn. Always Darryn.
I pick up my phone again and pull up our text message thread. I don’t know how to start, so I dive right in.
I came out to my parents tonight.
The response takes only minutes. Wow, go you. How’d that go?
I blow out a breath. It went great, actually. Easier than I thought it would.
I’m glad, Darryn replies. I know that’s got to be a relief.
Yeah. Despite my best efforts, my eyes are falling shut. I must’ve been more tense about it than I realized, because now all I want to do is sleep.
Then sleep. I’d sing you a lullaby, but that’d just be painful for everyone.
I smile at my phone. See you tomorrow?
See you tomorrow. Sleep well.
I set down my phone, roll onto my side, and close my eyes, reaching for a mental image of Darryn smiling to take me to sleep.
Works like a charm.
Chapter Twelve
Late Saturday afternoon, I walk through drizzling rain from the car to the Kanekos’ front porch, my backpack over one shoulder. The weather’s been nasty all day, wet and chilly, which made our family tradition of going to get a Christmas tree that morning a freezingly fun time. I’d had to change clothes right down to my underwear after we got home.
Darryn’s mom must have been watching for me, because the door opens as I hit the top step. She gives me a soft, warm look and a small but genuine smile.
“Hello, Grant.” Her speech is still measured and formal, but her manner is open and welcoming, and I find myself responding with my own heartfelt smile, not the polite one I had in reserve.
“Hi, Mrs. Kaneko.”
“Please, come in.” Mrs. Kaneko steps back to allow me inside. The room is warm and dry, and I relax into the feeling immediately.
“I’m in here, Grant.”
I give Mrs. Kaneko a nod and head toward the living room, following the sound of Darryn’s voice. I find him nestled into one end of the long leather sofa with his biology book and a notebook and pen on the coffee table in front of him.
I stop in my tracks and drink in the sight of him—whole, smiling, and right in front of me for the first time in months. My chest constricts, and I can’t hold back a grin as I move toward him. As I lower my backpack to the floor and myself onto the opposite end of the couch, I notice that his injured wrist rests on a pillow in his lap, but he’s not wearing a sling. His gaze follows mine, and I lift an eyebrow in silent question.
“I’ve gotten the okay to go a few hours at a time without the sling,” he tells me. “No heavy lifting and no reaching.” He shrugs the uninjured side only. “It’s a little sore. Feels good not to have that thing pinning me down.”
“I bet.” I glance at his wrist before returning my attention to his handsome face. “How’s the healing?”
“Too slow. I mean,” he adds quickly, “it’s fine as far as healing goes. It’s still taking for-freaking-ever.” He runs the fingers of his free hand along the edge of the splint. “At least I get this thing off on Monday.”
“Really?” I pull a throw pillow into my lap and wrap an arm around it, in part to give me something to do with my hands to keep me from reaching out to touch him. “I figured it would be longer than that.”
“Oh, I won’t be free.” He lifts his arm and then lays it back down. “I’ll have a smaller splint for a few weeks, depending on how things go, and probably a brace for support after that. Once this is off, I can start physical therapy on my wrist, at least.”
I bite back the next question I want to ask, not wanting to bring up gymnastics. He reads my mind anyway.
“Six weeks of physical therapy,” he tells me, “then a strength test. If I pass, I can start light weights. Six weeks after that, they might let me start practice again. With a lot of limitations even then.”
Quick mental math tells me that’s at least mid-March. Which means…
“No competition this year,” Darryn confirms my silent calculations. He shrugs his healthy shoulder again. “It sucks, but not really anything anyone can do about it.”
I nod. “Rushing it would just mean reinjury.”
We’ve both been injured before. Many times over, to be honest. Most gymnasts at the college and elite levels have practiced and competed hurt for at least part of their careers. But a light strain or a blister is a far cry from a serious sprain plus a dislocated shoulder.
Our joints take enough abuse as it is. Overdoing it during recovery from Darryn’s injuries would risk permanent injury—the kind that could have repercussions outside the gym.
“Anyway.” Darryn leans forward to snag his notebook. “That’s what I have to look forward to. Right now, I need to get up to speed on bio. Won’t do me any good to get back to tumbling form if I don’t have the grades to compete.” He snorts out a short laugh. “At least I’m right-handed.”
I bend down to dig my textbook and notebook out of my backpack. “Your grades will be fine,” I reassure him. “And even if they weren’t, you know the school’s not going to dock you after what Rich—I mean, after what happened.”
Darryn freezes, staring at me. “I need to tell you something.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Darryn’s gaze flits away from mine. “I almost called the school to ask them to drop the reports against Rich.”
I sink back against the cushions. “Darryn.”
He holds up his uninjured hand. “I know, I know. Dad talked me out of it. And he was right.” He lets the hand fall onto the sofa cushion. “I just want it to be over, you know? I’m tired of being in limbo. My wrist is healing, my shoulder’s a million times better, but even after I’m back to one hundred percent and out on the mats, he’s still going to be hanging over my head.”
I wish I could slide over and wrap my arms around him. My body aches for it, but I hold myself back. “I know it has to suck,” I say instead, feeling wholly inadequate.
“Yeah.” He picks at a loose thread on the cushion. “And intellectually, I know it’s the right thing to do. To make him face up to what he did and to get closure or whatever for me. But I…”
“Want it to be over,” I finish. That’s a sentiment I share with my whole heart. “I know this is easier said than done, but try not to think about it? You have schoolwork to do and physical therapy coming up, plus there’s the holidays and all that. You have plenty to keep you distracted. Don’t worry about what’s happening with him unless you have to.”
A small smile tips up the corners of Darryn’s mouth, and he looks up at me from under his lashes. “You planning to help keep me distracted?”
Lust slams into me like a rocket, and it’s all I can do to hold back a gasp. Holy shit. With everything else that’s been going on, keeping my attraction to Darryn internal and not external has become second nature. Apparently one little flirtatious comment is enough to blow the lid right off.
I breathe through it until I can speak. “I’ll do what I can,” I manage. “How about we start with biology? Notes, I mean,” I scramble to add as the smile on his face grows into a knowing grin. “Let’s go over my notes.”
Darryn lets me squirm for another few mom
ents before he picks up his notebook and pen. “All right, catch me up,” he says. “What do I need to know from chapter ten?”
…
We fall into the studying routine easily, which is great, because it gives me a chance to recover from Darryn’s moment of suggestiveness and prepare myself in case he does it again. A part of me is dancing with joy, both that he’s recovered enough from The Asshole to feel like flirting and that he still sees me as a potential target of his affection. Okay, I’m assuming on that last part, but considering he never pulled anything quite that overt during the first year we knew each other, that’s gotta mean something, right?
We spend the next two hours going over my biology notes—I brought photocopies so he wouldn’t have to rewrite anything—and referring back to the textbook when needed. By the time we’re done, Darryn’s copies are covered with highlights and notes where my handwriting had gotten illegible. He’s filled a page and a half in his notebook, too. When he finally leans back and lets his pen drop, he smiles.
“I think that’s it,” he says. “I need to take two quizzes to cover those chapters by tomorrow night. Then I’ll be caught up. Thank you.” His tone is earnest, and he’s looking at me in such an open and honest way, I find myself holding my breath. “I never could’ve gotten this done that fast without your help.”
My face heats, and I let out a shaky exhale. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t mind helping.”
“Yeah, I know.” He leans forward to slide his notebook onto the coffee table. “I still appreciate it. So just say you’re welcome and get over it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re welcome and get over it.”
I stick out my tongue, and even though I know it’s childish, I don’t care because Darryn laughs. I decide that’s my goal for every time we get together from now on, to make Darryn laugh. If that means acting silly, so be it.
A door closes down the hall and footsteps head in our direction. I clap a hand over my mouth and widen my eyes, and Darryn laughs again, just as his dad comes around the corner and into the room.
“Now, what’s all this?” He crosses his arms over his chest and surveys us with what’s supposed to be suspicion, but the amusement in his eyes gives him away. “I thought you two were supposed to be studying, not acting the fool.”
“We’ve decided to change schools, Dad,” Darryn says, shooting me a wink. “We’re dropping out of U of A and transferring to clown college. What do you think?”
Mr. Kaneko plants both hands on his hips and lifts one eyebrow. “I think you’re both naturals. I’ll spring for your first bottle of seltzer.”
Darryn cracks up then and we all laugh, Mr. Kaneko’s more subdued but no less amused. He starts to lower himself into his recliner when a voice from the kitchen stops him.
“Ken, could you come empty the trash? It’s overflowing, and I’m in the middle of dinner.”
Mr. Kaneko lets out a fake, put-upon sigh. “A husband’s work is never done.” He winks again. “Even when there’s two husbands. Keep that in mind for your future, boys.”
I stare, open-mouthed, as he crosses the room and disappears into the kitchen. Darryn looks as surprised as me, but the expression quickly gives way to embarrassment. “Sorry about that,” he mutters. “I had no idea he would even think something like that, much less say it.”
I try to shrug it off, but my heated ears and neck have got to be giving me away. “Hey, at least he’s okay with…everything,” I finish lamely. “A lot of people aren’t so lucky.”
Darryn’s expression softens. “Yeah.” He glances back toward the kitchen. “They’ve been awesome through all this. I…I didn’t…” He stops and takes a breath. “I hadn’t told them. I mean”—he bites his lip—“about me. Not until we were at the hospital.”
I can’t imagine how that conversation went. At least when I told my parents, I had Annie there as backup. “I wasn’t sure. When I saw them at the hospital, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to out you if you hadn’t…you know.”
“Yeah.” Darryn blows out a shaky breath. “Bad enough that their son was hurt. They found out that it was his boyfriend who did it, and they didn’t even know I was dating anyone, much less a guy.”
My heart constricts as I think of him having to come out to his parents while in serious pain, from an emergency room bed. It’d been hard enough doing it from the comfort of my living room sofa.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think of to say. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. All of that. I’m sorry I screwed things up. I’m sorry I didn’t get into our room faster that night. I’m sorry—”
I don’t know how Darryn moves that fast with his injuries. Between one word and the next, he’s across the sofa, laying his uninjured hand over my mouth. I suck in a breath and my gaze snaps to his, finding his shining brown eyes full of warmth and humor.
“Shut up.” The words are soft and affectionate. “It’s not your fault. None of it. I know the past few months have been hard for you, too. Not in the same way,” he continues when I try to interrupt, “but I know it’s been painful.”
He sits back and slides his hand down until his fingertips are brushing my lips, which are suddenly incredibly sensitive. “I wish I could say it’s all over and everything’s fine now.” He lets his hand fall away and wraps it around mine where it sits on my thigh. “It’s not fine. Not yet. But I promise you”—he squeezes my hand—“it will be.”
His vow sinks into my bones, soothing every ache, a balm to my soul. I bring my other hand up to cover his. “It will,” I tell him. “We’re going to be just fine.”
He smiles, and I feel as if I could live in that moment forever.
Chapter Thirteen
“Clark! You’re up!”
It’s late Tuesday afternoon, halfway into our first practice since Thanksgiving break, and I’m standing at the end of the vault runway, my feet and hands dusted with chalk. I nod to acknowledge Coach Everson’s direction and move into position a couple of feet up from the end of the runway. Vault has never been my best apparatus, though I’m glad to be using a modern vaulting table, which is four feet wide by three feet deep, not the long, narrow horse from years ago. By the time I was old enough to attempt the vault, the old version had been relegated to the scrap heap of history.
I fix my gaze on a much more reasonable target—the springboard that sits in front of the vault table. I lift one arm to signal my intent to start my run, take a deep breath, tip up onto my toes, and then take off down the run.
Officially, it’s just over eighty feet from the end of the runway to the front edge of the vault. In practice, it’s a skip, a hop, fourteen running steps, and one big leap onto the springboard. I hit the sweet spot with both feet and bounce into the air, making a half turn before hitting the vault with both hands, and push back off, bringing my arms in tight to make another one and a half turns in the air. I hit the mat solidly and, with a little effort, manage to stay there—sticking the landing.
I pump one fist in celebration but head directly toward Coach Everson for correction. It felt good, but good isn’t perfect. There’s always something more to be done.
Coach gives me a pat on the shoulder and a nod in recognition of my work, then launches into his commentary. It’s mostly everything I’ve heard before—punch up harder for more height, tighten up the rotation—but before he finishes, there’s a commotion off to the side, people chattering and cheering.
I turn to see Darryn standing a few feet inside the gymnasium door.
My heart flips over in my chest, and a grin breaks across my face. I jog in his direction, never mind that I’ve left Coach in mid-instruction. I’ll run laps for that one later, I’m sure. I don’t even care.
I pull up to a stop in front of Darryn, still smiling.
“Hi.” It’s all I can think of to say.
He almost sm
iles. “Hi.”
The rest of the team joins us before we can get past that awkward first moment. There are smiles and laughter and (gentle) slaps on the back, until finally Coach Everson intervenes.
“All right, guys, let’s give him room to breathe.” He wraps an arm around Darryn’s shoulders. “Come on over. We’ll get you a front-row seat.” He tosses a quick glance at the rest of us. “Everybody else, get back to work.”
Everyone else scatters, but I can’t. I follow Darryn and Coach over to the front row of seats nearest the floor exercise mat and hover—there’s no other word for it—while Darryn sits.
“Glad to have you back, Kaneko,” Coach tells him. He turns my way. “I said back to work, Clark. You can schmooze later.”
I bite back a retort and nod instead. “Yes, Coach.” With one last, lingering look at Darryn, I turn and jog back over to the vault. I have at least two more runs to complete before we’re done, and I want to get them out of the way so I can get back to Darryn.
The next half hour gives me a crash course in compartmentalizing. It takes all my concentration to push aside the knowledge that Darryn is across the room—that Darryn is watching, probably—and zero in on the vault. I might get away with my thoughts drifting on another apparatus, but the vault is unique. The punishment for losing focus here can be pretty severe.
I make my required two more runs, plus a third after I fumble the landing on the second. Coach Everson gives me some final instruction and then slaps me on the shoulder. “All right, go. I know you’re dying to talk to him.”
I flash a grin and head back across the floor. Darryn smiles as I approach and pats the bench next to him with the tips of the fingers on his left hand. That arm is still wrapped with a brace that stretches almost up to the elbow, and his right arm’s still in a sling. I take the seat next to him and nod at the latter.
“How’s it hangin’?”
He follows my gaze and snorts out a laugh. “I keep telling my physical therapist it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt. She keeps making me wear the thing anyway. I’m hoping I’ll get to leave it behind before much longer.”
