Page 21

21

Henri

“Henri?”

I turn quickly at the sound of my name being called, and heft the armful of binders into the crook of my elbow. Sam Jameson walks toward me, casually dressed in slacks and a blue button-up shirt. As usual, he’s smiling at me in a friendly way that I’m sure is meant to put me at ease. Unfortunately, because anyone in a position of power makes me a little nervous, it does nothing to smother the butterflies that live in my stomach.

“Yes, sir?” He raises an eyebrow at me, and my cheeks burn as I correct myself immediately. “Sam. My apologies.”

“I’ve never had to work so hard to convince someone not to be polite,” he teases. There’s no bite to the words, and his eyes are warm, so I relax a little bit.

“I am sorry. This is a hard habit to break. I fear it might take all summer.”

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he smiles. “You busy? ”

“No,” I reply hastily, even though I am a little bit busy. This is the start of my fourth week into the internship, and I’m working with the media team. Today I’m supposed to be learning about the different players and accounts, and the sheer amount of reading I need to do is daunting. The department head also spoke to me about working together on a special project, which is both exciting and intimidating. All of a sudden, “busy” is an understatement.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Sam asks, nodding to the folders in my arms.

“I am to come up with interview questions,” I tell him. “Miss Denise would like to do foreign-language interviews on social media for the non-native players. She is thinking that it would be fun to have me interview in German, French, and Russian, and we can put subtitles for the American fans. She says…well, she says some things that I should probably not repeat to my boss.”

Sam laughs, reaching out a hand to pull some of the binders off of my pile.

“Here, let me help you carry. And don’t worry, I already know Denise curses like a sailor. It sounds like a good idea—utilize all those languages you’ve got in your repertoire. Particularly now, when we’ve got two KHL rookies joining. I would like to speak with you, though, if you can spare a minute or two.”

“Of course,” I tell him, nerves multiplying as I follow him toward his office. Sam is the nicest of anyone I’ve worked with here, but he’s still technically my boss and being told he needs to speak with me doesn’t make me feel great. I’m desperate to do a good job here, and the thought that I might have done something wrong is terrifying.

“No need to look so nervous,” he comments, letting me walk into the office before he closes the door behind us. “I just wanted to check in. Nothing bad.”

“Okay.” I take a seat in front of his desk—a chair I’ve sat in many times so far this summer. Placing my media folders on the floor, I rest my hands in my lap and wait for him to speak.

“First of all, how are things going here? Any complaints? How are you liking the job so far?”

“Oh, no, I do not wish to complain. I am liking it here very much. If I do not become a sportscaster, I think perhaps I will try equipment manager. I believe I would enjoy Mr. Brad’s job.”

“I bet he loves it when you call him Mr. Brad,” Sam muses. I smile, and relax a little more. He’s so nice to me, it’s impossible to be uncomfortable around him. “Is the commute okay? I know you’re coming from the university area and that can be a bit of a drive.”

“It is not so bad if traffic cooperates.” I shrug. “Thank you for asking.”

“Learning a lot?”

“Yes! There are many things I did not know that happen behind the scenes. I am only wishing it was the regular season, so I could be a part of it.”

“Well, I’ve got an inbox full of nothing but compliments about you, so if you’re looking for a job after you graduate, I’d say this would be a good place to start.”

My chest burns like it’s on fire at that, and I sit up a little straighter. “Thank you.”

Sam clears his throat, fiddling with a pen sitting on his desk.

“Now, I’m not trying to overstep here, but I’m wondering if everything is going okay for you otherwise? Outside of here, I mean. ”

“You mean at home? At Carter’s house?” I’m surprised by this. I would never gossip or complain while I am at work, and certainly not about Carter and Zeke. I would not have anything to complain about, even if I wanted to do so.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I’m just asking if you’re all right. You come to work on time every day and you work hard—harder, in fact, than many of the actual employees. You don’t complain, and you take direction with a smile on your face. But”—he pauses, fingers teasing the end of the pen again and sending it spinning—“the guy I met almost a year ago seemed a lot happier than the guy sitting in front of me. I just want to make sure there isn’t anything I can do for you, that’s all.”

There is something a little shocking about kindness offered in such a straightforward fashion. I sit there in silence, listening to him speak as my throat slowly closes and my head fills with pressure. I can’t even remember the last time I cried, and yet I worry I might start right now. All I can think about is Atlas and how last year I was happier than I am now. It seems incredible to me that Sam—who knows me only from these past three weeks of work—was able to pick up on that.

“Oh,” I reply, because it’s the only English word I’m able to wrap my tongue around at the moment.

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention. It’s just that I know it can be hard to be so far away from family, and although I’m sure Carter Morgan is an excellent friend, I somehow doubt he’s the best guy to bounce emotions off of.”

We share a smile at that. I haven’t really talked to anyone about what happened with Atlas, yet. I’ve never been one of those people who talks about themselves—I’m far more comfortable listening and offering advice to others than asking for it. But I’m also not presented with an opportunity to do so very often. I always try and project an air of competence, which occasionally backfires as it then gives people the impression that I don’t need help, even when I do.

“I am not uncomfortable,” I tell him, even though I am a little bit. Not because of him, though. Rather, because being the center of this type of attention makes me shy. “I, uhm, I do not wish to complain, and I am sorry if I have been in a rotten mood.”

Mouth twisting, he runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Henri, that is not what I was trying to say. I only want to convey my willingness to listen in the event you needed someone to talk to.”

“I am thinking you will laugh at me, when you hear that I am sad because of relationship problems,” I tell him, trying for a joke and failing spectacularly. Sam doesn’t laugh; doesn’t even crack a smile.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says seriously. All of a sudden, I can hardly wait to keep speaking. The words I’d tucked carefully away all summer pile up in my throat, desperate for air.

“Yes. I thought things were fine, but I was wrong because he has broken up with me.” If Sam is surprised to hear my significant other was a man, he doesn’t let on. I suppose the most surprising thing about this conversation is that I had a significant other at all. “Atlas—that is his name—is very hard to get to know. He is…what is it, when you are thinking only the bad things will happen? Cyclical?”

“Cynical,” Sam corrects quietly, and I nod in agreement.

“Yes, he is cynical. He thinks I will break up with him, so he breaks up with me.” There really isn’t anything more to say than that. I could tell him that I’ve barely been able to sleep these past few weeks, and that my heart hurts . Nobody warned me that heartbreak was a physical ailment, beyond just the emotional. I miss Atlas so much, my body aches with it.

“That’s difficult, especially for someone your age.”

I nod, because I’ve thought this exact thing. Atlas is too young to be so angry about the world.

“Yes, I agree. I have had an easy life, though, and I think perhaps I am not understanding Atlas because of that.”

Sam cocks his head to the side, surveying me. “Have you tried reaching out?”

“No. I am too nervous,” I admit.

“But you want to?” he prompts.

“Yes, I want to. I want to do better at convincing him to keep me around. I was surprised before, and I did not say any of the things I wanted to say. If he spoke German, I would have done much better.”

Sam chuckles. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t see you being much of an arguer in any language.”

“Well, no. But you are thinking I should call him, yes?” I fidget a little in my seat, eyes trained on Sam. This isn’t how I saw this conversation going, but I mean to see it through, now. I really do want advice.

“I think you could check in; let him know you’re thinking about him. Sometimes things don’t work out, though, no matter how hard we try.”

“I would be happy if he only wanted to be my friend. I only need him around to be happy,” I tell him, and earn myself a soft smile.

The truth is, I like having sex with Atlas. He’s the only person I’ve ever found that level of connection with—the only person I’ve ever looked at and wanted . But my favorite things are not the blowjobs or the kissing. My very favorite things are when he holds my hand, or finger-combs my hair; when he brings me ridiculous apple-themed items, and smiles when I call him German nicknames. If Atlas never wanted to kiss me again, I would be sad, but if he never wanted to talk to me again, I would be devastated.

Sam and I talk a little longer, and it’s as though I can feel the muscles in my back unlocking. It’s as though I’ve been holding myself still—bracing for impact—and unable to relax. Suddenly, I am exhausted. I want to crawl into my bed at Carter and Zeke’s house, and think about dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. I want to think about what I am going to say when I call Atlas, and fall asleep as I let myself dream of maybes.

“Why don’t you finish up early today?” Sam suggests, tapping his phone and noting that it’s still several hours before quitting time. “You’ve earned it.”

“Could I bring these with me, do you think?” I point at the media files. Sam nods.

“Absolutely. But don’t spend all evening working on that. Relax a little bit too, okay?”

After giving him my word that I wouldn’t squander my free afternoon working, I leave the building to blinding sunlight and thick, humid heat. I can’t wait to get home and change out of my work clothes—slip into something casual and less constricting. Clothes Atlas would prefer to the polo shirt and khakis I’m wearing right now. Sighing, and desperately fighting against the gloom that threatens once more, I slowly walk to my car and stow my homework on the passenger seat.

The drive home, as Sam correctly observed, is long, but today I don’t mind. I use the time to think about Atlas, and what I’m going to say when I call him, because that decision has been made—I am going to reach out, and I’m going to do it tonight. Even if Atlas no longer wants to date, I mean to convince him that friendship is still an option. What absolutely is not an option is this: no contact, and a yawning emptiness in my chest.

Carter’s car is sitting in the driveway when I get home. Carefully, I pull up next to it and get out. Neither him nor Zeke was home this morning when I left for work, since they’d spent the night in Charlotte for a “mini getaway” as Zeke called it. I’ve been feeling badly about it ever since they packed up the car and left, worried that I’d chased them out of their own home.

Quietly, I walk in the front door, taking my shoes off and leaving them in the hall closet next to Zeke’s. Carter’s appear to have been kicked in haphazardly, so I take a moment to straighten those as well. As I always do when I come home—ever aware of the fact that they might be naked in the living room—I shout out a greeting to let them know they’re no longer alone.

“Hello, I am home.”

“Vas!” Zeke shouts happily from the kitchen, making me smile. He peeks his head around the corner and beams at me, walking forward to wrap an arm around my waist and give me a side-armed hug. This is a new development in the last few weeks, but I can’t say I mind it. Nobody else is hugging me.

“Hello, my friend. How was your trip?”

“It was a blast. I’ll have to show you pictures of the bed-and-breakfast. It was so nice! We missed you, though. How was work? ”

“It was…” I pause, thinking back to the conversation I had with Sam Jameson. “It was very interesting. I was missing you and Carter—it is strange to be here alone.”

Zeke grins and leads the way back to the kitchen where Carter is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot with a wooden spoon. He’s glaring down at it, apparently trying to frighten it into cooking. Zeke reaches over, lips twitching, and takes the spoon back.

“What are we making?” I ask.

“Spaghetti,” Carter grunts. “We brought this for you, Vas.”

He shoves a paper gift bag across the counter roughly. Sitting down at the island, I pull out a box of chocolates.

“Those are from a local, family-owned business,” Zeke explains. “Carter almost made himself sick by eating a dozen at once.”

Chuckling, I pop open the box and select a piece. When I hold it out to Carter, he holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“Those are for you,” he tells me. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Thank you. That was kind of you to think of me.” Carter waves this away, too, embarrassed. He comes to sit beside me at the island, watching Zeke drain the water from the pasta. “May I help you, Zeke?”

“I’ve got it,” he replies.

I wait until we are all seated, and their mouths are busy with spaghetti, before I bring up Atlas. Clearing my throat, I set my fork down on the counter and link my fingers in front of me on the island.

“I am going to call Atlas,” I announce.

“Fuck that guy,” Carter mumbles around a half-chewed mouthful.

“Well, I am just wanting to talk to him. I miss him. I think perhaps we could be friends, if nothing else. ”

“I get it,” Zeke tells me, smiling kindly. “I’d be the same way if our positions were reversed.”

“Except I would never have said that shit to you,” Carter points out, and Zeke sighs.

“True.”

“Even so,” I cut in, “I am going to call him after dinner. I am not going to let him get rid of me so easily.”

“Be careful,” Carter says, voice low as he fiddles with his fork and it clinks against the side of the bowl. “You’re a nice guy…I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

I pat his arm to show him I’m grateful. Carter is a good friend—he is unfailingly loyal and feels a deep responsibility for those he cares about. It was this, more than anything, that had me keeping my mouth shut about Atlas and our breakup during my first week living here. But Zeke, ever tuned to the emotions of others, had carefully asked me one night if everything was okay. I certainly wasn’t going to lie, so I’d told them some of what happened. Not word for word, but just enough for them to understand. Carter, predictably, had been mutinous on my behalf, though this has seemed to cool slightly in the weeks since.

“I will be careful,” I promise, and then promptly change the subject. “Now, tell me about your getaway.”

Later, I sit on the edge of my bed, door closed and room dark except for a single lamp on my nightstand. My phone, cradled in my hand, is pulled up to Atlas’ contact. Taking a deep breath in, I click the call button and bring the phone to my ear.