Page 24

By ten the next morning, I was ready to claw my skin off.

I’d woken up feeling an unfamiliar combination of clear headed and hollow. It was like my brain had rebooted sometime during that dreamless night, but my body hadn’t managed any rest. I’d lain there, because I didn’t have anywhere else to be, and I’d found myself thinking through that hour in Pauline’s office.

In the light of morning, I was weirdly embarrassed of myself. What I’d said. How it had all come pouring out. I had the strange sense that I’d been tricked. And that somehow, Darnell and Pauline had gotten a kick out of seeing me lose control like that. Seeing me fall apart. And that stuff with my mom and dad, I thought, remembering the strange, urgent need to say everything. Where had that come from?

Finally, I shrugged it off as best I could. I’d been in a weird headspace after almost bumping into my boy. And, if I was being honest, after that fuck. People said and did weird shit all the time, especially if you had them trapped, if you kept asking. People would break down crying in the middle of an interview and tell you the strangest shit if you kept working them long enough.

And a very small part of me remembered, though, that it hadn’t been like that at all. Remembered that disorienting moment, and how I’d just started to talk. Like I might have died if they hadn’t let me talk.

Eventually, I made myself stop thinking about it, after a promise not to let my guard down next time. One psycho breakdown per year sounded like enough.

Since I didn’t have a job, though, I didn’t have a reason to get up. Normally, I would have checked Prowler and Grindr and Scruff, but for some reason, the thought made me feel guilty. I mean, I’d fucked around enough—and fucked up enough of my life—that maybe it was time to take a break. Even if my meltdown in therapy had been—well, had been whatever—maybe it made sense not to get on the apps for, like, a month.

I mean, at least for a week.

I found my vape pen in the mess of junk on my nightstand, but that made me feel like shit too, so I threw it in a drawer.

I thought about jerking off, but that felt like too much work.

Finally, I watched some porn, but my heart wasn’t really in it. To be fair, in the video I was watching, the top’s heart wasn’t really in it either. The guy looked like his mind was somewhere else the whole time. Like, he could have been eating a sandwich while he railed that tiny twink.

When I gave up on the video, the house was silent. Still silent.

And that didn’t make any sense, because where was Darnell?

That was enough to get me out of bed.

I eased the door open, in case he’d made his way to the kitchen without my hearing him. The lights were off, and he wasn’t there.

Maybe he was having the same kind of morning-after experience that I was. Maybe he was lying in bed, thinking about how weird yesterday had been, that uncomfortable mixture of humiliation and regret and…relief, if that was the right word. Like pressure had been building inside me, building and building, and now it was less. Almost gone, as a matter of fact.

But Darnell’s bedroom door was ajar, and when I nudged it open, his room was empty.

No note. No message on my phone.

He’d disappeared the other day, I thought. After he’d argued with Jordan and Rory. Before Tip had shown up dead in my bed. He’d gone somewhere, and he’d lied about it, and now he was gone again. And how many other times had he disappeared without my knowing because I’d been too wrapped up in my own slow-motion train wreck to notice.

I made my way back to the kitchen. We had plenty of windows. The light came through the blinds at an angle, and the beams caught motes of dust that floated in the still air. You couldn’t call the house dark, not at this time of day. But he’d left, and he hadn’t turned on any of the lights for me.

Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to wake me up.

I dug my vape out of the drawer where I’d thrown it.

I unlocked my phone. I locked it again. I unlocked it. I sat there, staring at those fucking apps, until it locked again.

This was why I needed a job.

I made myself coffee, and while it dripped, I went into Darnell’s office. I thought about getting on his computer and checking the Find My Device option, or maybe taking another look at his credit card statements. What if he’d gone for a drive and gotten hurt? What if he was about to do something stupid?

But that felt like crossing into stalker territory. He might have gone out for McDonald’s. He might have decided to work from one of those offices you can rent by the hour. He did that sometimes when he had an important video call.

I found a blank legal pad in his desk, grabbed some pens, and carried it all back to the kitchen. I poured myself coffee and sat there, staring at the pad. At the top, I wrote, GRAY’S SUBSTANCE LOG.

But that sounded like such a boner killer that I tore the sheet off and threw it away.

The next try was GRAY’S SUPER DUPER SECRET STASH LOG.

That sounded like I was barely old enough to jerk off into a sock, so I threw that one away too.

Finally, I decided no title might be the best option. I made an entry for the date. I wrote the time. And then I stared at the page and thought, Am I really going to do this?

I died a little inside as I wrote: Really want to vape. Like, really, really. I checked the email instructions Pauline had sent me and added a column for emotional context. I thought about it and wrote: Tired . Then I added, Bad mood . I had a momentary vision of somebody else finding this fucking thing. Somebody else reading it. I actually blushed, a whole-body heat wave. But since I didn’t want to end up on the Piss Boys next home video again, I added a third column for my notes and wrote, I hate this shit .

Well, at least it was honest.

I drank some coffee, but it tasted sour and set my teeth on edge. Maybe I needed to get out of the house. Maybe I needed to go for a run. Or go to the gym. There was this little gym bunny I saw some mornings. Blond, tan, probably twenty, clearly down to fuck. He was a total bottom (only did the treadmill), and he had a little cowlick that stuck up when he got sweaty. I’d caught him looking at me a couple of times.

Nope, I told myself. No more hookups. No more cruising. No more anonymous sex.

For at least three days.

I got up and checked the fridge. There were some leftovers from meals Darnell had cooked, but nothing that I wanted for breakfast. I closed the fridge. I poured myself more coffee and drank it. What went really good with coffee—what was actually the perfect pairing with coffee—was that first hit of nicotine in the morning. The vape pen shifted in my pocket as I sat at the counter again.

I mean, it wasn’t like I’d promised to quit cold turkey.

This is pathetic, I told myself. This is really fucking sad. Grow some nuts.

I drank more coffee and wondered why mine always tasted like shit.

Was my skin starting to itch? That was one of the things that happened when people tried to quit smoking. It drove them crazy. Nicotine withdrawal. People scratched themselves bloody sometimes.

This is the problem, I told myself. Not that some psycho bitch blew your face off. Your real problem is that you are a total fucking headcase. And not just being addicted to dick. This is the kind of crazy where they make a show about you on TLC. This is some Bravo-level shit.

I flipped to a new page on the pad and stared at it. Then, dying a little more on the inside, I wrote, GRAY’S LIST OF BEST FRIENDS – SECRET – DO NOT READ.

Since I wasn’t a treehouse explorer anymore, that one went in the trash.

GRAY’S SUPER SPECIAL PARTY LIST.

Nope, this wasn’t Animal House .

I gave up on a decent title for this one too. My heart beat faster in my chest. The pen felt slick in my hand. Pauline hadn’t said, They have to be your best friend . She hadn’t said, Only pick people you haven’t fucked everything up with. She’ d said people in my life. People I used to feel comfortable with.

I wrote it so fast that it was a scribble, almost illegible, and then I let out a breath like I’d run a race.

J-H.

It didn’t help. If anything, my heart felt like it was beating twice as fast now, and I barely caught myself pulling out my vape. I forced myself to drop it back in my pocket. I dried my hands on my shorts. It’s not like anybody would know what this means, I thought. It’s not like anybody could look at this piece of paper and have any idea what I was writing about.

I added a few more names—a couple of guys I’d been tight with in college, my partner from Springfield. Even as I wrote them, though, I felt something like despair. It had been a long time since Springfield. It felt like a long time, anyway. And even longer since college. I added Foley, since the big Irish fuck wasn’t all that bad, especially after he had a couple of beers in him. I put Peterson on there because, let’s face it, I had to. I tried to come up with more names, but what I got instead was a string of faces—and, full disclosure, sometimes just dicks. No names. Maybe I could ask twink_slave_2001 if he could be my emotional support bottom.

Finally I gave up and wrote Clark fucking Kent at the bottom of the list. Not that I was ever going to call Yarmark—although the little nerd would probably cream himself if I did. But it was a pretty short fucking list. I thought twink_slave_2001’s name had been Oliver. I wrote Oliver at the bottom. This, I realized, was the social-emotional version of dickflation.

The list was sad enough. What was worse was trying to come up with a low-key social event that wouldn’t be too much pressure or put me too far out of my comfort zone. I mean, what the fuck was that? I hadn’t interacted with people—not like a human being—in almost a year. Hey, John-Henry, want to grab a coffee? How’s Colt? How’s little Evie? I want to hear about your perfect life and your perfect family. How about a little girl talk, and you can tell me all about that big dick you love to ride?

Okay, honestly, that would be funny as shit. I penned Girl Talk next to my boy’s name.

But the more I tried to visualize some kind of low-key social event, the harder it got. Hey, Chief, want to get coffee and you can tell me how I’ve been fucking up your department? Hey Foley, I know I’ve acted like a total fuckhole for the last twelve months. How are the kids?

I tried to remember how it used to be. Not that long ago, I’d liked going out. I’d wanted to be around people. But what had I talked about? Hooking up. Fucking around. Jokes about threesomes, about getting laid, about running a train on some dumb twink. Locker room talk. Guy talk. Well, gaybro talk. How the fuck was I supposed to do that now? Hey, guy, have you and your husband ever thought about a three-way with Freddy Krueger?

A low-key social event. Something not too far outside my comfort zone. I tossed the pen down and rubbed my eyes. I’m throwing a little orgy. I’d love it if you could come. But on the invitation, I’d spell it cum .

I pulled my phone out and jumped on Prowler. It wasn’t like I was going to do anything. I just needed a break.

A lot of empty profile icons—blank, anonymous faces, with stupid names like dom_top_ and then an eggplant emoji, and dl_handsomeonyx, and cuminjector, which sounded like a medical device in one of those AO3 stories I’d read and then had to bleach my brain after. It was hard to believe sometimes that they were real people, and they were out there, and this wasn’t just a conveyor belt of dick and hole pics.

I scrolled for a while. I checked out profiles. It was the usual shit. Str8_boy with a toilet emoji had a cute little bio that said, I’m obviously not straight, but research shows that putting str8 in your profile name gives you 98% more views. MASC TOPS ONLY. And then there was virginsquirrel, whose profile sounded okay—lots of outdoor stuff, maybe trying a little too hard for butch—until I got to the end, where he said, Let’s make music like only two dudes can .

I was still scrolling when not_like_other_guys sent me a message that said, sup.

I didn’t even roll my eyes. I did, however, think about closing Prowler and, you know, doing some legit shit about the fucktastrophe of my life.

Instead, though, I wrote, nm. u?

So bored at work. That was followed immediately by another message. I see my boss on here all the time. It’s hilarious because I know he sees me and he can’t say anything .

Look at that, ladies and gentlemen. Complete sentences. Even, maybe, a sense of humor.

Is he hot? I asked.

What came back was the green, throwing-up emoji face.

Too bad. That’s a totally wasted opportunity to live out some rent boi porn.

Ikr?

If it makes you feel any better, I’m trying to think of something social to do that isn’t meeting up with a stranger to fuck.

Sounds fucking terrible. Why would u do that?

I sent back the shrugging emoji.

A picture came through—a man’s body, no face. Nice body, hairy but trimmed, a decent sized dick with big old grapefruit balls.

Trying to change ur mind , he sent next.

I mean, sometimes sex did clear my head. And for once, this seemed like a guy I could have a conversation with. He looked age appropriate. He was sexy. He was funny. I mean, what if I bought him coffee after? That would just be, like, me putting my own spin on Pauline’s homework. She’d probably be proud of me.

I sent him one of the body shots I kept on my phone.

A moment later, he sent back the fire emoji. U r fucking hot.

I slouched at the counter, my body looser now, feeling the old, familiar sense of gratification start in my belly and spread outward. I tried to decide what to say next.

Before I could, though, he sent another message: U want to choke on my dick while my wife pegs u

That was definitely a new one, I thought. Look at me, Pauline. Making couple friends.

And then, on the heels of that message, he sent another: Don’t know if you’d be cool with this, but we like the dogs to watch .

I closed the app.

So, I thought. That’s a thing that happened.

Maybe trying to plan a social activity wasn’t the best place to start. Maybe that was the kind of thing you had to work up to. Maybe you had to have friends first. Maybe I should start volunteering. Like, at a shelter or something. Or maybe I should get a hobby. Birdwatching. How long before I made a cock joke, though?

Birdwatching, I thought. Really?

What the fuck was happening to me?

I flipped to a new page on the legal pad. GRAY’S LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE HIM WANT TO SHIT HIMSELF. But that sounded a little too much like there’d be prunes and enemas and diaper play involved, so I tore that one off the pad and threw it away. I wrote GRAY’S LIST OF TRIGGERS, but that sounded so fucking bleak I tore it off the pad too. I left it untitled and wrote on the first line, Light switches .

I mean, that was the big one. That was basically it.

But then I wrote Lights turning on unexpectedly.

And Loud noises.

And Anything that startles me, really .

People staring at me .

Mirrors and reflections and shit.

I dropped the pen and pushed the pad of paper away. I got to my feet. I shook out my hands like they’d cramped, and then I had to start walking—around the room, around the house. I stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of water. I couldn’t even fill up the glass; most of the water from the faucet splashed across my knuckles, the back of my hand. I put the glass in the sink and walked some more. I thought I could hear my heartbeat in my head.

I ended up staring at the bank of switches that controlled the kitchen lights. It wasn’t like I’d never turned on a light switch. It wasn’t like I’d never touched one since the accident. I had to, sometimes. At work, mostly. Sometimes at home, if Darnell hadn’t turned them on for me. Had left them off. Had, I wanted to believe, forgotten. At work, it had to look normal. If I did what I did at home—turning them on with my back to the lights, or turning them on as I was leaving a room, or turning them on and darting behind a wall—I’ d have gotten myself a nice fucking stretch of psych leave before they figured out how to get rid of me. At work, I had to keep my face empty, had to keep my body relaxed, had to move normally, slowly, bring my hand up just right.

I blew out a breath that was kind of a laugh. Or that was supposed to be one, anyway. I dried my hands on my shorts. Homework. This was just homework. All I had to do was spend some time being uncomfortable with a trigger. Great. Easy. I was uncomfortable all the fucking time. How long? Had she said? A minute? Five minutes? I felt clammy, my hands cold now, my body greasy with flop sweat. I did this at work. I’d done this. I’d done this before.

I dropped into my seat at the counter, my back to the switches. I was trembling. It took me a couple of tries to get the vape out of my pocket. The rush of that first hit made my eyes sting. I hit it a few more times. After a few minutes, the knots in my back and shoulders began to undo themselves. The trembling eased. Did I have to write this down, I thought. Vaped. Terrified out of my fucking skull because of a light switch. Rating? 10/10.

Jesus Christ, I thought as I took another hit and stared out the window. The world was sliced into two halves: golden morning light, and lingering, cool blue shadows. A sparrow settled on the fence. Its little shadow looked like it had been Bic’d onto the patio. What am I going to do?

Maybe Darnell had been right. Maybe I wasn’t ready. But just thinking that felt like falling down a long, dark tunnel back to—back to somewhere. And I thought if I started to fall back there, I’d keep falling, maybe forever. Things would never change. Things would never get better. And one day, I realized with a clarity as cool and sharp-edged as that little Bic’d shadow, I’d eat my fucking gun, because I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t keep doing this.

Until now, I hadn’t let myself think about the strangeness of Darnell’s behavior the night before, but it was easier to try to think about that than to consider—well, the other stuff. Why had he gotten upset? That was the part that had stuck with me. Darnell didn’t yell. He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. Not until you pushed him past the limits of any reasonable person. I knew that firsthand. But last night, he hadn’t just been shouting. He’d been…furious.

Why?

Because he’s protective was the first answer. Because he’s protecting you.

That might have been true. Or it might have been what Darnell believed. But I remembered the dreamlike certainty, at the end of a horrible day, when I’d looked at Darnell and known— known— that it was something more. That, for some reason, he’d been scared of what Pauline had said. Frightened by the possibility that I might get better.

That didn’t make any sense. He loved me. Of course he wanted me to get better. For fuck’s sake, he’d been the one to suggest going to therapy. Why would he have suggested that if he hadn’t wanted me to get better?

Because he likes taking care of you. Because he likes when you need him.

No, I thought. I even shook my head—not that there was anyone there to see it, but it was more my body’s response to the suggestion than anything else.

But I kept coming back to one thing:

Why had he left the lights off?

It was more than I wanted to think about. More than I felt capable of thinking about—of processing, dealing with, having to face.

Instead of wasting my time on this sad boi emo jerkoff fest, I decided, I should be doing something useful. Something productive. Like figuring out who had killed Tip Wheeler.

I threw the legal pad in the nightstand drawer and took my vape outside. The patio furniture was still cool in the shade; when I sat, rusty springs creaked, and the sparrow blurred wings against the sky and was gone. A long way off, I could hear a diesel engine and the rattle of a heavy truck. The air smelled like dew.

Sunny had said he’d seen Tip and Jordan arguing. And that didn’t line up with what Tip and Jordan had told me. They’d said they hadn’t seen each other all night. They’d split up, that’s what they’d told me. And, even then, I’d known they’d been lying.

The smart thing to do, the responsible thing to do, would be to dig that notepad out of my nightstand and do some more homework. Wait for Darnell to come home. Start trying to dig myself out of Shit Mountain.

I hit my vape and went inside to find shoes. And underwear. Because I was an adult.

Because—what was that saying?

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

So, why not fuck things up?