by Eli Easton
“You can see the screen better with the blinds closed,” I said, going for cheerful but sounding awkward. I got up and closed them, shutting out the backyard behind a wall of white slats. When I turned around, Brian’s face was flushed.
“You must think I’m a total basket case.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it’s stupid, but I just can’t seem to help it.”
“No, I get it. When I was ten I watched Manhunter. I was so freaked out, I couldn’t pass an open window for weeks without thinking someone was out there watching me.”
“Really?” He looked skeptical.
“Swear ta God. My mom still reminds me about it whenever I watch a horror movie.” I grinned.
“But… you don’t feel like that since the shooting,” Brian said in a tone that sounded self-loathing. Jesus.
This discussion was suddenly all kinds of serious. “Brian, I wasn’t in front of their guns. I wasn’t shot.”
He looked away and blinked, but his expression grew more tortured. “You ran into danger. You wanted to save lives. I just hid. So.”
Is that what he really thought? A surge of burning anger washed through me. So many people were damaged, so many lives shoved off the rails. People look at the body count as if that defines a shooting. But for everyone who died, there were another twenty who were still bleeding from invisible wounds. I saw them every day at school. But Brian was truly shattered. It broke my heart.
“Come here.” Taking his wrist, I stepped over to the bed. I sat down and pulled him down next to me. Brian stared at his knees.
“Listen,” I said, trying to keep the anger from my voice. “If the shooters had come into the auditorium, where me and Madison were? We would have panicked and run and hid. And that’s it. When someone is coming at you with a gun, there’s nothing else you can do. I mean, you didn’t have a weapon. What do you think you should have done?”
He glanced up at me, his brow furrowed. “I could have….” Confusion flashed across his face.
“Yes?”
I could see him trying to think it through. “If I’d rushed them, they would have just shot me. But I could have given someone else that spot by the water fountain. It wasn’t much cover, but I knew it was better than hiding behind a table.” His voice shook with emotion.
Oh my God. He really thought that? The very idea made me feel hot and cold and gave me a low flutter of dread. But I kept my face blank.
“Okay. And how long did you have to make that decision, Brian?”
He swallowed. I could see the answer on his face. No time at all.
“Did you shove someone else out of the way to take that spot?”
“No.” His voice was a whisper.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You heard the shooters coming right at you, and you responded the way anyone would when in mortal danger, looking for any possible place to hide. I would have done exactly the same thing.”
He bit his lip, thinking about it. The frown on his forehead smoothed out, though. He slumped and shook his head. “Thanks. I mean, I appreciate that.”
“Well, it’s true.” I put a hand on his shoulder. It was a “bro” gesture, and I kept it brief, pulling back after a quick squeeze, even though I would have given anything to pull him into my arms. “Besides, if you hadn’t hidden behind the water fountain you would have been—” My voice cracked. I pressed on. “I’m just glad you did.”
“I’m barely holding it together, you know?” he said, looking into my eyes. “When is it gonna get better?”
“I don’t know.”
Fuck it. I put my arms around him. His arms came around my back and his head rested on my shoulder. We sat there for a long moment. Hugging.
Despite his recent weight loss, his back felt broad and strong. He was warm, like overly warm, and his body burned against me. But mostly? It was Brian Marshall. In my bedroom. In my arms. Which was a complete and total mind fuck. Yet, this thing that we shared was bigger than any of that old shit, any of that “Brian is so hot” bull, like the way I felt about him from across the hall or sitting in the football bleachers during a game. He wasn’t that distant icon anymore, and I wasn’t the same either. My heart felt cut open and I just… I poured into him what I could. Understanding. Acceptance. Love—the universal kind. It was all I could do.
He pulled back after a moment, and I stood up, not wanting it to be awkward. “I feel like… for me… I want to fight. I have to fight. Because I’m so goddamned pissed off. And maybe that’s my way of dealing with it.”
Brian wiped his face with his elbow, but if he’d shed any tears they were gone now.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re right. All the stuff you guys talk about at lunch. It’s important. It’s just….”
“What?”
He gave me a helpless look. “It could happen again at any time. In our school. Until we—they—find the shooters, anything bigger or longer term seems sort of pointless.”
I sighed and thought about that. “I see what you mean. But hopefully the cops will get them soon.”
“Yeah,” Brian said. His gaze shifted to my desk. But instead of looking at the closed blinds, it landed on his Frosty. Both our plastic cups were sitting on my desk, partially eaten and melting. Brian stood and picked his up, taking a big bite.
“This is good,” he said again.
I got up and took mine too, suddenly hungry. I scooped a big bite into my mouth. “Wanna play a game or watch a movie for a while?”
A bit of Frosty dribbled on my lips. Smooth. I rolled my eyes and wiped it with the back of my hand.
Brian’s gaze dropped to my mouth, staring even after my hand moved away. He licked his lips—probably just checking for ice cream himself, only it socked me in the gut. I felt my cheeks heat and my belly tighten.
Stop it. That’s not what this is. Get a grip.
I turned my back on him. “Um. I have an Xbox. You like drag-racing games?”
“Got Nascar ’15?”
I smiled and waggled my eyebrows.
“Dude! I am so gonna own your ass,” said Brian.
If only. A guy could dream.
We played for a few hours, going after each other’s cars with gleeful abandon and even laughing. It was good. It was a bit of normality we both needed. My mom came home and poked her head in. She invited Brian to stay for dinner. We didn’t put the controllers down until she called us to say the food was on the table.
We went downstairs, and I introduced Brian to my mom and dad. I could see they recognized his name, and they both shot me sympathetic looks, but they were superfriendly and kept it light.
My parents are awesome.
We talked about the possible visit with the Parkland kids over dinner. My mom was excited, and she and I got on a tear. But then my dad changed the subject to talk about Thanksgiving plans, even though it was still a ways off. Which was a good thing. Because Brian probably didn’t need me going on about the shooting all the time, even though it was hard for me to stop. I noticed Brian ate only a few bites of the macaroni casserole.
As we got up to leave the table, my mom stood too. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” she asked Brian.
He blinked. “Sure.”
She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. “I just wanted to say I’m so sorry you were hurt, honey. You’re a sweet, beautiful boy. And you are welcome here anytime. Anytime. Okay?”
Brian’s face got red, but he patted her back. “Thanks, Mrs. Hughes.”
“Call us Sandra and Rex.” She let him go. “I’ll make some root beer floats later. Okay?”
Brian and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Um… we’re sort of ice creamed out today. But nice thought, Mom.” I pursed my lips and patted her shoulder. “Good maternal instinct. Gold star, you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go on back to your game, then. Your dad and I will pig out alone.”
Only it didn’t really happen that way. We went up to my room, and I left Bri
an there to go use the bathroom. I decided to brush my teeth while I was there. For no particular reason. When I got back, Brian was stretched out on the bed on his stomach, arms under the pillow beneath his head.
I studied him for a moment, hating to wake him. His face was turned to the side, and I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the not-at-all-good pallor of his skin. He’d all but melted into the bed, his face slack. Man. He was totally out.
I quietly shut the door and went back downstairs. I stood in the kitchen and bit my lip until my mom stopped wiping the counters and looked at me. “What is it?”
“Uh… Brian fell asleep in my room. I hate to wake him up. Don’t think he’s been sleeping much. Or eating much.”
My mom’s face fell. “Poor baby. He’s been through the wringer. He’s the boy you helped in the cafeteria, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
She shuddered. “God, Landon. I can barely stand to think about it.”
“Me too.” I got a mental flash of Brian the way he’d looked on that cafeteria floor. I shook my head, willing it away, and checked my phone. It was just after seven. “Do you think it’d be okay if I let him sleep?”
“Fine with me. Lemme call his mom. Any idea what his home number is?”
I didn’t know it but found it with a quick search in the online white pages. My mom took my phone and placed the call.
I hoped I wasn’t stepping over the line here. Maybe Brian really wanted to go home. “Tell her we don’t know for sure if he’ll spend the night. He might wake up and want to—”
“Landon,” she shushed me.
I shut up.
She talked to someone who was probably Brian’s mom. They shared a lot of concerned mom-isms back and forth about Brian needing rest, etcetera. Finally she hung up.
“She says it’s fine if he stays the night. So at least we have that option. We can get the trundle bed out.”
“Too noisy. I don’t want to wake him. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll put out sheets and blankets for you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, giving her a grateful hug.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” she said.
“Will you buy me a Land Rover?”
“Except that.” She laughed and swatted my bum.
I went back upstairs. Brian hadn’t moved an inch. I sat down in my IKEA armchair and took out a book. I studied for a while, but it was hard to focus. What diplomatic crises had led up to World War II didn’t seem that relevant now. Time was precious, and lives were brief. There was real evil in the world, here and now, that had to be stopped. Doing anything ordinary felt like fiddling while Rome burned.
That afternoon I’d held Brian while he shook. He’d basically admitted that he was lost. And somehow, silently, we’d agreed to help each other through this. That was real. Brian was real. And I wanted to wrap him up and warm him and make him feel better. I wanted to do more than that, let’s face it. Looking at him in my bed was a peculiar kind of torture. He was so perfect. And now that I was getting to know him, he was so much more than a beautiful body. He was quiet. And smart. And sweet. He had a soft quality, a gentleness. All that was so much more appealing to me than just his looks.
Stop it. We’re buds. Bros. Two little fish swimming side by side briefly in the current of life. That’s it.
“Will you kiss me?”
Those words came back to me with a jolt. I’d told myself it didn’t mean that. But… what if I was wrong? What if….
What if?
He was asleep in my bed, after all. Maybe the fact that he’d clung to me, specifically, as a friend, meant something?
Stop it, Landon. If you let your mind go there, you’ll be an awkward, crushing mess around him. He’s in pain and hurting. Don’t be an asshole and take advantage of that.
Right. Right. The poor guy could barely eat. He didn’t need any lovesick-gay-friend drama.
I forced myself to focus on my books and even got some studying done. Eventually I yawned, my eyelids heavy. Exhaustion hit me like a sledgehammer these days, as if my body ran out of patience waiting for my mind to shut up—it never did—and just demanded what it wanted. I looked at my phone. Ten o’clock. Boy, it was party central around here.
Brian hadn’t moved. I covered him with a blanket, turned off the light, and went down the hall to the guest room to crash.
Chapter 13
Brian
FRIDAY AFTERNOON after Biology, I headed for my locker. It was in D-Wing, where I had first period, but it was at the start of the hall, close to the cafeteria. I’d had no choice but to go through the center of the school this week, since the only open doors were the main entrance and the D-Wing exit. But I’d avoided the hallway with the gym and cafeteria. Now, I absolutely had to get some stuff from my locker if I was gonna do my homework over the weekend.
You’d think by Friday it would’ve gotten easier to be at school. But Friday brought a fresh wave of torment. I was constantly reminded there was a big game that night and, for the first time in years, I wasn’t playing. It was the first game since the shooting, and the principal had approved it as “an event to bring the community together,” so it was a big deal. There was a banner—Go, Tigers! We love you!—at the end of A-Wing by the central hall. I’d had a dozen people ask me if I was playing. And my coach had sent me an email saying “if I felt up to it” to suit up and sit with the team on the bench. Apparently they were doing a moment of silence and prayer and stuff before the game.
I didn’t want to go. Wasn’t sure I could handle it, sitting with the team without Jake or Austin. I didn’t want to be trotted out and applauded for being wounded, like it was something I’d achieved instead of something that had been done to me against my will. And the idea of being on the field under the lights, with all those people in the bleachers looking down on me—out in the open where anyone could get a bead on me—the very idea made me want to puke.
On the way to my locker, three cheerleaders in their yellow-and-black uniforms passed me. They gave me hugs and kisses and sympathetic gasps of “Oh, no!” and “Oh, God that sucks!” and “We’ll miss you!” when I explained that I wouldn’t be playing football the rest of the season.
By the time I was grabbing stuff from my locker, I was barely holding it together. I considered skipping seventh period and going out to sit under the bleachers to wait for my ride with Landon. I’d slept at his place last night—fell asleep after dinner and hadn’t had another conscious moment until I’d opened my eyes and saw the sun streaming in his bedroom window this morning. It was a little embarrassing, but Landon and his parents were cool with it; they’d called my mom and everything. I guess my body had finally decided to shut down and take the sleep it needed. I’d had no dreams at all that I could remember. It rocked.
I finished at my locker and was just about to close it when someone called my name. “Brian.”
I pasted a blank look on my face and turned. Cameron strode toward me through the crowded hallway with Gordo behind him. They did not look happy.
“Hey.” I shut my locker door with a loud clang.
Cameron stopped in front of me, his face even more bulldoggish than usual thanks to a frown. “Dude. Where the hell have you been? You came back to school Monday, and we haven’t seen you all week. You never answer my texts.”
I shifted the backpack on my shoulders. “I told you. I’m out of football practice for the rest of the year. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yeah, that sucks,” Cameron said. “But if you’re good enough to come back to school, why can’t you at least hang with the team? Run some drills?”
“Not real interested in sitting on the bench,” I said levelly. “And Jake’s gone. So.”
“It would suck ass to be benched,” Gordo agreed. “After being, like, a big, hairy deal for so long.”
I gave him a look but didn’t say anything. The way he’d said “a big, hairy deal” was not a complime
nt.
“But we never see you at lunch or anything. What the hell, man?” Cameron pushed.
“I’m not real interested in hanging out in the cafeteria.”
“They fixed the windows and painted,” Gordo said, as if that was the problem. What an idiot.
But Cameron shrugged. “So. We could meet you outside or something. Right, Gordo?”
“Sure,” Gordo said, but his expression said he thought it was a lame idea.
I appreciated the fact that Cameron wasn’t going to make fun of me for being afraid of a room, like he just wanted to hang out with me. It made me feel guilty for brushing them off. They’d lost Jake too, and maybe that should have made us closer. But for me, Jake was the only reason I’d hung out with them in the first place. And while I didn’t hate them or anything, when it came down to it, I’d rather hang out with Landon. By a mile.
“Maybe one day next week,” I said, because what else could I say? “See you around.”
I started to walk away, but Cameron stepped in front of me. He was a good head taller than me and heavy—over two hundred pounds. He glared down at me from inches away, his expression going hard. “Guess you’d rather hang out with fags and losers.”
“Yeah, man,” Gordo agreed. “Two faggots and a fat chick. What the hell are you doing, man? Jake must be rolling in his grave.”
“Shut up about Jake,” Cameron said testily.
“I’m just sayin’,” Gordo mumbled.
So much for Cameron being nice. I stood there with my fists clenched so tight they hurt. “Okay, first of all—you don’t speak for Jake. And second, the last time I checked, you don’t own me.”
Cameron’s nose wrinkled like he smelled something bad. “Never said we owned you, asswipe. But is that what you want? To be labeled a pussy faggot lover? Or a fag yourself? You need to get a fucking grip, Brian.”
“Yeah.” Gordo nodded his head vigorously. “Your rep is going in the crapper, and that makes us all look bad. You’re our fucking quarterback. Or you were, anyway.”
Darkness swirled inside me. Part of me wanted to punch Cameron in the face for the way he was talking about Landon. But I was still weak from the surgery, and I knew it was the last thing I should do. I didn’t want to get in a fight and end up back in the hospital.
