Page 133 of Bobby Green

Yes. Yes, it had been.

And he wasn’t sure if it was one somebody could forgive.

He wiped his eyes with his palms, and again, and again. Lance stood, pulled his face gently to his middle, and let him cry.

But Reg knew, a dull certainty in his stomach, that this was all they would do. There’d be no sex, no fucking. Because they used to do that for comfort, but now it would hurt more than help.

As he wept on his friend’s stomach, he thought bitterly that putting off being an adult for most of his life had saved him a shit-ton of pain.

HIS HEADgot better, and he went back to work.

Booking gigs got easier, and he started doing things like putting out a sign-up sheet for the guys and coordinating it with guys who had scenes coming out. In short order he had a calendar full of events for the next two months.

Some of them needed his presence. About two weeks after he got back to work, he and John drove to San Francisco to escape the bone-crushing heat, and they and four other guys did a signing at a huge, busy nightclub. Reg was glad John was there—he shook hands and danced and laughed a lot—but Reg mostly made sure everybody had what they needed and were taken care of. The guys were new—they stayed at the club that night to do blow and get laid, John supposed—but John and Reg drove back together. John dropped Reg off at two in the morning and shook his hand.

“Nice job, Reggie. You did Johnnies proud.”

Reg nodded and looked behind him at his completely empty house. No worries about V tonight. No asking someone to sit with her. No checking for meds.

But no Bobby waiting either.

“Thanks,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m glad I could do a good job for you.”

John pursed his lips and sighed. “He gets out tomorrow.”

Reg swallowed hard. He’d had updates from various sources—Dex, Lance, Skylar—who all told him about Bobby in jail. Apparently a whole batch of guys went to visit him on visiting day, which had made Bobby laugh because, two weeks? What was two weeks? But nobody had invited Reg to that party. Reg wasn’t sure he would have gone.

“What am I supposed to say to him?”

“Maybe let him talk, Reg. He knows what you think of him. You’re the one who isn’t listening.”

Reg nodded, backing away from the car to slam the door shut. He made his way across his creaking porch, sweat still running down his spine. He wondered if he bought the materials, could he get some of the guys to come help him fix his house?

But it wasn’t the thought of how hard it would be that stopped him.

It was the sudden grief that it would be anybody else’s job.

KELSEY HADher baby the next day. Reg went on visiting crew, not just to see her and the baby but on the hopes that Bobby would be there.

He wasn’t, and nobody there had talked to him.

Reg congratulated Kelsey, gave her a baby gift he’d bought on the way, and went home, feeling like a coward.

That night Bobby sent him a text.

How are you?

Should ask the same. I’m sorry about jail.

Jail was my bad. I’m sorry about everything.

Reg just stared at the phone. What waseverything? How exactly did one define “everything”? Was “everything” what Bobby said? Was it how he felt? Was he sorry about Reg’s sister? About leaving when Reg needed him most?

Reg didn’t answer, and Bobby didn’t press. Reg couldn’t text about it. He couldn’t talk about it. He was slow—he always had been. For once in his life, he was going to have to sit in his house and listen to the silence and let his heart and his brain whirr slowly, telling him things in their own time.

It would be easier for them to move if he wasn’t afraid they were muffled by the hurt, like a car engine in shaving cream, but he didn’t have a cure for that.

Done and Raw