Darnell drove me home. He talked. He asked me how I liked the new deodorant he’d bought me. He told me about a new notetaking app on his phone. At a stoplight, he pointed to a new barbeque joint and told me he’d heard they were famous for their black pepper rub.

When we got home, the deputies were gone; they’d finished processing the scene. Darnell held my arm and walked me inside. To their credit, the deputies had tried to put things to rights after they’d finished, but that was an impossible task. Everything was out of place. Traces of fingerprint powder lingered. It felt like we were coming home to someone else’s house, and it just happened to look a lot like ours.

Darnell turned on all the lights. He didn’t even ask.

Apparently, I was allowed to go to the bathroom on my own. They’d cleaned me up as best they could at the hospital, but I stayed under the hot water for a long time, the spray needling the knots in my shoulders and back. They can’t make me say anything, I thought. I can go and sit there. For an hour a week or whatever it is. Every week. As long as he wants. They can’t make me talk.

The hot water ran out eventually. I dried off. I checked myself in the mirror. Looking rough, bro. Looking very rough. I thought maybe, a little, I could still smell it. It had gotten up my nose.

I dressed—shorts and a tee. I lay on my bed with my phone. On Prowler, there were the usual pics of twinks tenting their PJ Mask boxers while trying to pull off tough shit in the profile like POWER BOTTOMS ONLY and I WILL WRECK YOU. There was a guy who had an electric keyboard in every picture—no face, just the keyboard, and in a lot of them, he was humping it. There was another guy who had a picture of himself from the ass down, in position, on what looked like an old lady’s sofa. His “Never have I ever,” one of Prowler’s profile options, said Never have I ever been fucked on my grandma’s sofa. So, there went that last scrap of my soul.

I was still scrolling when the text came through.

It was from my boy. And it said, Gray, I hope you’re okay. I heard what’s going on. If you need to talk, I’m here any time, day or night.

And then a second message came through: I don’t understand everything you’re going through, but I know about this. Please call me or text me or come over. Whatever you need, bro.

It was the bro that did me in.

The pain was in my guts, in my belly, deep in there, twisting around until my mouth opened. I didn’t make a noise. I didn’t think I did. But I couldn’t help myself; all I could do was lie there, taking shallow, urgent breaths, the world shrinking around me as I tried to get through one moment, and then the next.

I know about this.

Saint Somerset, with his perfectly messy hair.

I know about this.

Saint Somerset, with his perfect smile, perfect skin, perfect body.

I know about this .

Saint fucking Somerset, with his perfect house and his perfect husband and his perfect son and his perfect daughter. With his perfect life.

I know .

He thought he knew? He thought he understood what I was going through? He thought he understood anything?

I locked my phone and tossed it on the floor. The lights were still on, and the thought of getting up, of dealing with that, was too much. I pulled a pillow over my face instead. It smelled like everything in this house, neat and clean the way he wanted. I could hear him, now, out there—straightening, wiping down, returning everything to where it was supposed to be. Pretty soon, he would have fixed it. The way he fixed everything.

For a long time, I played out scenarios in my head: calling him on the phone, telling him what I thought of that fucking message, what I thought of him presuming to know anything about me, about this, about anything. For having the fucking gall . I got stuck on that word. Gall. The gall. The fucking gall. What the fuck is wrong with you? Where do you get off?

I felt feverish. My head throbbed. My stomach ached. And the anger made it hard to think clearly. Hard to think about anything else. Hard to remember.

I wasn’t sure when I fell asleep, but I woke in the night, clenching my teeth so hard that I thought my jaw had locked. Water, Tylenol, back to sleep, the light still blazing overhead.