Page 76 of Something Like Hail
“I love you!” Noah said,his voice quivering. “Is that so wrong? Why am I beingpunished?”
“You’re not being—” Haroldexhaled and shook his head. Then he opened his arms. “Comehere.”
Noah would have liked to resist, but everyounce of him wanted that hug, so he gave in. He moved forward,confused how the feel of Harold’s body pressing against his couldboth comfort and wound at the same time.
“You’re going to be okay,”Harold said, pulling back to look him in the eye. “You’ll find someawesome guy, and he won’t be as stupid as me, and before you knowit, you’ll be glad that we didn’t end up together. I still want tobe in your life. Invite me to the wedding. Hell, I’ll be your bestman! Just promise me we can be friends.”
Noah didn’t want that. Heshook his head and a few sobs racked his body before he regainedcontrol. Then he nodded, feeling that he was betraying himself.Harold too, because the promise seemed impossible to keep. Alreadyit hurt too much, the idea that he and Harold would never be morethan this. Spending time around him—asfriends—would be a constant reminderand cause endless heartache. What choice did he have? To burnanother bridge, just as he’d done with his parents and then Ryan?Even his messed up ex-boyfriend sounded appealing right now. Forall his faults, at least Ryan had been willing to accept Noah’sfeelings, and had managed to reciprocate them, in his own flawedway.
Thank you for loving me.
Noah clenched his jaw against the memory.“Friends,” he managed to say. “That and nothing more.” He pulledaway, hating how Harold’s hands slid off him and how badly hewanted to put them back where they belonged. At least, where he hadfelt they belonged.
Noah couldn’t take it anymore. He whimpereda goodbye and left the house. By the time he reached the sidewalk,he had already decided to never return there.
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Part Two
Austin, 2016
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Chapter Eleven
Everything changes. People grow together andothers fall apart. Age causes some to slow while youth is bestowedon a new generation. Buildings are torn down and new bricks arelaid in their place, all while the globe keeps spinning, unwindingsome plans and tightening others. That nothing remains the same canbe of comfort to those who are struggling. For the people who arecontent with their lives, change can manifest as sorrow and fear,because how does anyone say goodbye to what or who they lovewithout losing a crucial part of themselves?
Noah pulled up to Studio Maltese in histruck, a nineteen fifty-three Chevrolet 3100. The make and modelhadn’t meant anything to him when he began searching for a vehicle.He only knew that he wanted an old truck, one that matched thecountry-boy image cultivated by— Well, the image that someone hadfirst established for him, and that Noah continued to maintain. Thetruck was a murky green color and rusty enough to give theimpression that he had found it on some abandoned field of hisfather’s farm, done just enough work to get it running again, andhad driven to Austin to start his new life. That’s exactly thestory he sometimes told. His clients loved it. Perhaps a little toomuch. One had asked him to chew tobacco during a trip together,Noah barely able to keep the sweet and spicy substance trapped inone cheek. As habit-forming as such things were purported to be, hehad no trouble quitting.
After parking, Noah let himself in thestudio, unconcerned when Dave poked his head into the hallway. Noahnodded at the security guard, and without saying hello, moved tothe elevator. A second later the doors opened of their own accord.He didn’t need to push any buttons once inside, but this no longerwowed him. Once he arrived at the top floor, he had a harder timebeing dismissive of Marcello’s office since it was designed to makean impression. To establish hierarchy. No need. He and Marcelloalready knew their roles and, over the past year, had firmlysettled into them.
“To what do I owe thepleasure?” Marcello asked, rising from his desk and smiling as ifthis visit was spontaneous, when in truth, they had anappointment.
“My test results,” Noahsaid, holding out the folder.
“Nothing unexpected Ihope,” Marcello said, ignoring the documents and instead gesturingto the chair. “Please, get comfortable.”
“Clean bill of health.”Noah sat and placed the folder on the desk’s surface. “The doctorsaid he’s seen guys fresh out of boot camp in worse shape thanme.”
“To imagine that he getspaid to inspect men,” Marcello replied. “I don’t suppose hementioned which branch of the military?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve always been partialto the Navy myself. Something about the uniform. Who doesn’t likedigging around in a box of Cracker Jacks for the prize?”
Noah wasn’t entirely sure how theconversation had gotten there, or where it was headed, although thegutter seemed most likely. With Marcello, he had learned to presson with whatever he needed to say rather than get sidetracked byhis boss’s whims. “I think the GAC needs an overhaul.” Noah slid aUSB stick across the desk. “This is something I’ve been workingon.”
“An overhaul,” Marcellorepeated. “Are conditions so dire out in the field?”
“Not really, but they couldbe better.” Noah nodded at the stick. “Take a look. This is just arough concept. You would need to hire an actualprogrammer.”
Marcello took the stick andinserted it into his laptop. Noah didn’t move to check the screen,having worked on the file long enough to have it memorized. Rightnow his boss was viewing a mockup of a database. The client’s name,image, and contact information was in the upper left corner. Belowthis and to the right was a dossier describing crucial informationabout the client including birthday, line of work, and knownfetishes. The bulk of the text in the center provided a simplifiedbiography, ending with a bulleted list of tips. Things likeRecovering alcoholic, avoid the topic and don’tdrink, orLikes itrough in bed and pretends to be out of lube. Bring yourown.
“This is more than aconcept,” Marcello said. “You’ve used an actual client. Did hevolunteer?”
“No. He has no idea. Noneof the clients will. These files will only be for us. No moresurprises or embarrassing mistakes, like what I went through. Everyescort would have access to the same information, whether they’veworked here for three days or three years.”
Marcello smiled as if impressed. “How cleverof you. And yet…”