 
## **Contents**

Copyright

Quotes

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Thank You
© 2019 Marion Castella

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

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Cover by Stefanie Fontecha

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"It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue as you wish."

Charles Baudelaire

"Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up."

James Baldwin

CHAPTER ONE

A clash of noise greeted me as I approached my front door. The impulse to turn and walk away tempted me as I wrapped my hand around the cold doorknob. Mom and Dad were arguing, which was their activity of choice over the last month, and the feuds often went on for hours. I could go somewhere else for a few hours--I had done it plenty of times while they were fighting--but I was exhausted after studying since 6AM for my math final. It was the last day of high school.

They fought like dogs over the stupidest squabbles, like shoes discarded in the hall, butter left on the counter, or a bill someone forgot to pay. By the time the two of them were too tired to yell any more, they often forgot what the dilemma was to begin with.

I opened the door, peering down the hall towards the kitchen. All I could make out were snippets of flailing arms, pointed fingers, and the occasional soaring object. Slipping off my sneakers, I quickly tip-toed up the stairs to my room.

"Ten years I've been putting up with this! Ten! How many more times do I have to repeat myself? How can I make myself heard?" cried my mother.

"Let's go with the self-pity! 'Poor Phaedra.' I have enough to deal with battling greedy developers, and then I come home to a wife that needles and cajoles me. When is there any peace?" responded Dad.

"Ohhh, Oh-kay, so your problems are more important than mine now? I bust my ass at that job, and you know it."

My sister Harriet's door was open. She must have been at cheerleading practice.

Sometimes I'd pity myself, thinking, Why can't I have a normal family? Can't they go to counseling again, or attend a retreat on an island in the Puget Sound? If Mom could whack him a few hundred times with a pool noodle, would she feel better?

It tore at my heart the more I thought about it, so I stopped.

I was surrounded by the things that made me feel happy or uplifted in my bedroom. Posters of my favorite musicians spread across the walls: Kendrick Lamar, John Coltrane, Jimi Hendrix, John Legend, and Ice Cube. My computer desk was wedged next to my twin bed, allowing me to lounge while I played video games. There were snack wrappers and discarded soda cans on the desk and around the perimeter of my stuffed trash can. Dad ordered one of those 'snacks from around the world' subscriptions since I was 10, and I still loved getting my box of goodies every month. I also had a nice Persian rug that really tied the room together.

My most prized possession was a Yamaha P155 keyboard. I dropped my backpack into a corner, eager to get my hands on the noise canceling headphones. As soon as I slipped the artificial leather over my head, my world became magnificently silent. A clutter of papers were on the stand from the night before--music I printed from the movie La La Land. I smiled as I flipped through them, the notes of music already dancing in my head. Flipping the piano on, I began to play.

Music was a land I could be lost in for hours. Usually this was only expressed in an abstract sense, like in my change of mood. While I played City of Stars, I was lingering with Emma Stone on a crest overlooking Los Angeles, the sky fading to indigo. We'd laugh and dance together, free as young people should be.

When I needed a rest, I sometimes liked to take my headphones off and eavesdrop on what my parents were arguing over. That impulse was fading lately. I was so tired of being a passenger to their pettiness and grand episodes of histrionics.

Worn out by the upbeat tempo of La La Land, I moved on to some pieces by Hans Zimmer. Alone in the dark, and engrossed in feeling sorry for myself, I hadn't noticed my father opening the door. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see the metallic rim of his glasses wink in the light of my lamp. I took my headphones off, irked at being disturbed. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about his relationship problems.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You should have a peaceful place to come home to. I didn't notice you walk through the door."

I said nothing.

"It's not too late to go to the movie, if you want. We missed the showing, but I'll buy another set of tickets."

"I'm not feeling it."

"I think we should go somewhere, to get away. You want seafood?"

"I'm tired. I just want to stay home."

He pulled over an ottoman to face me. His casual business attire still looked as pressed as it did that morning, though he needed a haircut. The crescents of ebony under his eyes spoke of hardship and exhaustion. "We don't have to go, but I need to talk to you about something important. Something that should have been said a long time ago."

I swallowed.

He went on: "I regret every day what I put you kids through. Your mom, too. Our behavior has been... unacceptable. It hasn't been easy, though. I love your mother, and she loves me, too. Otherwise we wouldn't have put up with all this for so long. You're my only son, you're precious to me, you know that? You always will be, no matter how old you get. I never want to hurt you."

My lips tightened uncomfortably and my eyes moistened against my will. I was angry at him for another bullshit apology, but also because he was igniting something in me I wanted to keep quietly to myself.

Rubbing his face for a moment, staring at the carpet, he said it: "We tried so hard to keep it together, but we agreed now that it's over. Starting tomorrow, we're pursuing the avenues to get a divorce."

I felt like a thread inside of me broke away. "This is it?"

"This is it."

I fell back in my chair, not realizing that I'd been squeezing the arm rests. "What's going to happen? Which of you is going to leave? What about Harriet and me?"

He lifted a large patient hand. "All that is for the future. For now, I need you to know I love you. However this culminates, we're only doing this because it's what's fair to everyone. Your mother and I have become people we don't want to be, and it's time for a change. There's no malice or spite in this decision."

I nodded, hot tears flowing down.

"Will you hug me, son?"

I needed him. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck the same way I did as a small child after stubbing my toe on a rock. Only, I found that he was leaning on me for support, too.

CHAPTER TWO

Even though contact between my parents was minimal after the divorce, they bickered over every tiny matter. I got along with Mom better than Dad, and considering how much my sister maintained her status as a daddy's girl, it seemed easier for each of us to choose a parent to live with. I just turned eighteen, anyway--I had control over where I chose to live.

A part of me would miss the house I grew up in. It was one of those red brick homes north of 6th Avenue where people walked their huskies on lazy Sundays. There was a tire swing in the front, a loft, and a brand new ping pong table in the basement. The apartment we moved to was firmly tolerable. We weren't transitioning to the ghetto, but the apartment was made up of three barren rooms of cheap drywall with white paint slathered on top. Dad encouraged me to come by when the desire struck, but I wasn't sure I'd care enough to make the trip. I had to start classes at the community college, anyway.

Mom and I spent the entire day moving stuff the two-mile distance across Tacoma. Even though that wasn't very far, my muscles ached from hoisting and loading. It's strenuous work lugging around mattresses, tables, and chairs. Mom wasn't exactly a bodybuilder, but I couldn't hold that against her after enduring the divorce. At around four in the afternoon, I was ready to open a pizza and lounge into the night. The last thing I wanted to do was open a bunch of boxes and put my knick knacks away. Mom had coffee brewing, and the aroma was pleasantly uplifting, but I wanted a nap.

"Luke, you keep wandering around the apartment with that mopey expression on your face," said my mother. Her hair was freshly styled into a bob, though her gray roots showed through the black. She wore a loose flannel shirt she always threw on while gardening or doing household chores.

I rolled my eyes. "Mom, I'm putting stuff away. How am I supposed to look?"

She shrugged, unwrapping glasses from brown paper. "It's a nice day out. Why don't you take a break from moving and go enjoy the sun? There's a park nearby."

It was unusual for my mom to suggest I go somewhere, particularly if that somewhere was outside. Spending years bickering with Dad must have been distracting.

"If you want me to leave, I can go," I replied.

Her lips puckered in mild disapproval. "The divorce is hurting you, I can tell, even if you're trying to act tough. I'm sure you also miss your sister. I'm glad you decided to come with me, because I love you, but I realize it's hard to have a family splinter apart."

"I'm really not bothered."

"I'm only telling you like I see it. A little sun would do you good. The summer is almost over, and tomorrow you'll be sitting in classrooms all day. You should peek around the neighborhood and take advantage of the nice weather."

"You know, the sun is a very dangerous thing. It causes cancer and can blind you if you stare at it. Studies say it's safer to stay inside where you can be properly protected."

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" she said with a laugh, swatting me with an old rag. "You think you're cute, don't you? Go on, breathe in a bit of fresh air. Your mother commands it."

Obliging her with a smirk, I left.

I was heavy and cumbersome in my hoodie and jeans as the heat radiated on me. Old trucks and shiny sedans shot past me on the busy road, kicking up dust. Sometimes gangs of kids in the back of a minivan yelled and waved at me, but I remained largely ignored.

A buzzing detonated in my pants. Pulling my phone out, I saw that my dad texted me.

New school, new pad, new life? It was weird how I could hear his voice in my head.

I texted back a simple, Yep

Harriet and I are good, tho we miss you. Don't you forget about us.

I won't.

Don't forget a girlfriend the next time I see u too.

I never told anyone I was gay. At least, I was pretty certain I was gay. Sizing me up, most would assume I was a kid who hung around in his basement watching zombie movies. I often wore black jeans with T-shirts bearing the logos of bands I liked. My afro was long, wild, and unkempt--just the way I liked it. While I wasn't ugly, I didn't put a lot of effort into grooming or style. I did have a weakness for fresh sneakers, but most guys my age did. If I ever told my friends I enjoyed playing classical music on the keyboard I spent a year's savings on, or that I liked eating quiche and watching Project Runway, I'd never hear the end of it.

Reaching the local park, I watched as kids played on slides, monkey bars, and swings. The earthy aroma of bark smelled particularly fragrant as it cooked in the heat of the sun. Moving on, I ventured to the community pool. Payment was required for the main area, but circling the concrete barricade, it was possible to sit on the bleachers and observe the swimmers. I climbed to a pocket of shade, wishing I had a water bottle. Children lifted themselves out along the ledge, and once out, they stampeded toward a crowd of mothers holding out juice boxes. Parents slathered on thick layers of sunblock while they sucked on straws and chattered to each other.

"Sitting by yourself?" asked an old Asian woman with too much red lipstick. I hadn't noticed her when I walked up the stands. She wore a visor wider than a satellite dish and cat eye sunglasses.

Not wanting to be rude, I said, "Just killing some time before school starts."

She nodded. "You should be down there yourself. It's too nice a day for a young man to be up here with the old grannies."

I scratched my sweaty back. "Maybe next time."

She slid over, rubbing elbows with me. "My husband passed away a few years ago, but you're a dead ringer for him when we first met. Ahh... those disco days are long past, but I can remember them like they were yesterday. You're real cute; lean, with nice dark skin."

I blushed, caught off-guard. Staring straight ahead, I nodded.

She continued: "It goes by so fast. Don't waste your youth. Once it's gone, it's gone, and you'll be a fuddy duddy like me hitting on all the hot young things in town."

"I'll be sure to take your advice."

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to meet my grandchildren. They're counting on me to buy them soft serve after their swim. See you around."

"Goodbye."

Once the kids departed, I noticed a group of older teenagers sitting on the grass as they socialized and gulped down Gatorade. My posture shriveled as a swimming team of young men disrobed and dove elegantly into the water. Even when their bodies were obscured by the white peaks of splashes, I found it hard not to notice the finer points of their physiques. They were slim and strong, their shoulders broad from the laps they swam up and down all afternoon. Gazing at them, I realized that I had stumbled upon a secret treasure no one seemed interested in. Around me, only a few bored elementary school kids were scribbling in coloring books and playing on their parents' smartphones.

While I savored the view, I was uncomfortable.

A portly man in polyester shorts prowled the edge of the pool like a jaguar, shouting encouragement. I envied him, considering a scheme towards becoming a swimming coach myself. Okay, not really.

He seemed solely interested in spouting encouraging words to the swimmers, cheering them on:

"Good going, Leon, keep going!"

"Keep your stance straight, Nikolai!"

"Paul, solid endurance!"

The coach blew the whistle after about a half hour of this, and the boys climbed out. Twelve of them stood there in little black speedos, their moistened bodies gleaming in the sunlight. The last to get out was the most beautiful of them: tall, tanned, and possessing jet black hair, he was blessed with the most stunning turquoise eyes I'd seen in my life. At the right angle, I swore I was observing two glimmering lagoons.

He lined up with the other dreamboats and listened to the coach talk. I didn't know what was being discussed, but I felt eerily aware of how out in the open I was now that the entire team stood above ground; their eyes could rove beyond more than someone else's paddling feet. I decided to quickly and quietly make my way down the metal seats and towards the exit. There was a convenience store farther down the road, and I planned on trekking there to get a frozen drink before heading home. As I left, however, I noticed that the boy with the beautiful eyes was watching me. We made eye contact, and he shot me a playful grin. I thought he would do the polite thing by turning his attention back to his coach, but instead he allowed his eyes to linger on me as if I were attractive prey.

His look struck me like lightning.

It wasn't easy, but I ignored him and dashed around the wall as swiftly as possible. Behind the barrier, I leaned against the cold concrete and stared up at the pine branches. Pink rhododendrons were planted nearby, swaying casually in the afternoon breeze.

I wished that I could dip myself in ice water to make the anxiety wash away. As soon as I thought I had shaken him, his form flashed through my mind again: developed abs, a confident smile, strong thighs, and the way his goggles laid lazily against his chest... After locking eyes, I was under his spell.

I forced myself to walk, hoping the activity would divert blood from my groin to other areas of my body. I focused my attention on the grotesque patrons of the park, frisky puppies, cute old couples, and women of all shapes and sizes. I experienced ease only after deeply contemplating the worst case of acne I'd ever seen three nights before at a Mariners game.

Why did the handsome boy smile at me? Was he being friendly? Did he mistake me for someone else? The idea that he identified as queer was out of the question. Even if he were interested in men, I refused to believe he desired a gawky teenager like me. When I thought of gays, and the guys gays fawned over, I never saw myself as part of that equation. I didn't wear rainbow bracelets, dress in fashionable clothes, or work out.

I walked into the convenience store, paid for a slushy, and then continued to fantasize about the mystery swimmer as I went home. Mom was putting things away as I walked through the front door, though her eyes were plastered to Wendy Williams.

"Enjoy the walk?" she asked.

"Yeah," I responded, clearing my throat. "The weather was nice."

She smiled. "See, I knew you would get a lot of good out of appreciating the sunshine."

CHAPTER THREE

Driving through the maze of parking lots at the community college was a nightmare the next morning. Drivers cut me off and sped through straights while the pedestrians walked in the middle of the aisles as casually as sauntering through an English garden. Though I did eventually nab a spot, it was at the back of the furthest lot. I made the long walk in, dodging restless, speeding students. The morning air was pleasant, and there only a few clouds in the sky. In a month or two there would be nothing but gray skies and drizzle, so I reminded myself to cherish the sunshine.

I couldn't help but daydream about the boy from the pool. There was something about his confident stare that wouldn't wipe away from my mind. I was supposed to meet up with my friends before my literature class started, but all I wanted to do was lay in a field and stare at boy-shaped clouds.

Hey man where u at? My friend Terrell texted me.

Behind u, I responded.

He turned, jumping when he realized I had been standing to his back. My other two friends, Hayden and Vi, laughed at him.

We'd all been friends since the first grade, amazingly enough, and could have posed for a diversity stock photo. Okay, we weren't quite wholesome enough for that, because there was a definite grittiness about us. Vi, evidently enough because of his moniker, was Vietnamese. His name was actually Vincent, but nobody called him that. He tried to suggest he didn't care about his wardrobe, but in truth he obsessed about assembling 'streetwear' outfits on his scrawny frame. Hayden was white, fixated on styling his pompadour every two hours. The other black guy in the group was Terrell, the nerdiest out of all of us; he had a thing for 'the original manga in its artistic perfection,' K-Pop, and Korean barbecue. Because of all the Koreans around the area, we had a veritable meat feast at least once a month.

"You asshole," Terrell said with a chuckle, nervously rubbing his chubby chin. He was constantly mindful of that clump steel wool growing on his face.

We all greeted each other by giving dab, which was promptly followed by complaining about our schedules.

"I don't know what you were thinking taking a literature class at 9:30, bro," said Hayden. "I barely manage art at that hour, let alone deal with stuff like reading. I need a double shot as it is."

I shrugged. "You have class soon?"

"Yeah, at 9:45. Accounting. Gag me. I'm only taking it because my old man forced me to."

Terrell lit a cigarette and sucked on the end. Some passing students glared at him while Vi, Hayden, and I eyed him with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. We wouldn't be caught dead smoking at our high school.

"Are you allowed to do that?" Vi asked Terrell.

"I guess I'll find out," he responded with a smirk before tapping some ashes to the wind.

A group of pretty girls in mini skirts passed us as we were standing around trying to look tough. They were all in full makeup for their first day of school and their hair was carefully flat ironed or curled. The eyes of my friends simultaneously glazed over.

The inevitable, "I'd hit that," emerged from Hayden's lips.

"Yeah, who wouldn't," said Terrell.

"You guys think college girls or high school girls are hotter?" asked Vi.

"College for sure," stated Hayden right away.

"I'd agree, at least for now," said Terrell.

I remained silent. Not passing the chance for a consensus, Vi asked, "And you, Luke?"

I cleared my throat. "I guess they're both good. Or, I mean, hot."

I never wished I could talk about people I found attractive, because I found the practice bizarre, but I would have appreciated not having to put up a heterosexual facade.

"Now that you guys mention it," said Vi, "I've gotta meet up with Jocelyn. She's probably just gotten out of her pottery class."

"You're her little purse holder now, huh?" mentioned Terrell.

He returned a smile. "I'd use another name for it, but 'designated temporary holder of the purse' is acceptable."

"Well, don't let her pussy whip you all the time," said Hayden. "She'll knock your balls clear off into her purse."

"Hey, you know she's chill," Vi responded.

"She likes occult stuff; voodoo."

"Nothin' wrong with a little black magic, as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, I gotta go. See ya, losers."

"Bye, Vi," we all said.

"I gotta go, too," I added. "I've got literature class."

"Sure, see ya, Luke." Terrell stubbed out his cigarette.

Despite my general lack of direction in life, I was an honor student in high school. Instead of being required to take the basic English class in college, I earned the right to move on to the more extensive course. I might have taken something less intimidating than Russian Literature, but it was the only course available on the schedule.

The classroom was half full when I walked in, though I arrived early. The professor stood by the door, a middle aged brunette wearing a sunflower dress and a friendly smile. She gave me a neon green syllabus and gestured for me to find a seat. I took a place toward the back, the desks around me vacant. Time passed and more students ambled into the room.

She went to write her name on the board--Dr. Tanya Ninvosky--and then turned to us. "Welcome to Russian Literature, everyone!" She ventured to close the door, but before she was able to, one last student slipped through the crack. I identified who it was immediately, the breath leaping from my lungs.

The boy from the pool.

His V-neck shirt and skinny jeans were just tight enough to show off his muscular curves and bone structure without being comical. He was taller than I had initially realized, and I noticed I wasn't the only one who appreciated his beauty. Half the girls in the class straightened themselves up in attention, hoping he would settle near them. I got butterflies in my stomach when he strode through the aisle to my right. A delicate blonde sat in front of me, and I secretly hoped he might sit next to her. He wasn't looking at me as he traveled, which suggested to me that I probably wasn't on his radar.

But he passed right by the blonde girl. He swiftly threw his backpack under the desk to my right and sat down. A red-hot moment flashed as my nerves flickered in panic. Why in the world would he bypass the most attractive girl in class for me? My heart pounded with excitement, and I swore the whole class could hear the drum of my attraction.

I was rigid as a brick wall. Staring ahead, I attempted to appear as disinterested as possible.

"As I was saying, welcome class!" continued Dr. Ninvosky. "I'm so glad you all chose Russian lit this semester. I assume that you aren't intimidated by long, decades-old foreign novels. How many of you have read a book by a Russian author before?"

A few in the class hesitantly raised their hands.

"Well, if you have, that really puts you ahead of the class! Because these novels are often so long, I'll only be able to go over one piece for the entirety of the semester. How many of you have heard of an author named 'Leo Tolstoy?'"

One person raised their hand.

"Okay," she mentioned cautiously. "There's no problem with that. How many here have heard of War and Peace?"

Numerous hands shot up.

"Great! Yes, Tolstoy wrote that epic novel. It's actually one of the longest books ever written, and considered by many to be one of the most important books in world literature."

Some quiet groans emerged, as if she'd already announced that War and Peace was our reading assignment.

"Although War and Peace is a wonderful book, it isn't what we're going to be studying. Instead, we're going to be reading a shorter novel by Tolstoy, though the page count is still easily in the 800 range. How many of you have heard of Anna Karenina?"

Most of the girls in the class raised their hands. I assumed they had heard of it because of the Keira Knightley film.

"It's Tolstoy's other famous novel, centering around the Russian aristocracy. It's a book about duty, and what happens when carnal desires and passion interrupts what is expected by society. It's a very good book, if I say so myself, and I believe it should be a fun read for you all as well. I'll give you all a week to get it, since I know most of you will probably order it off the Internet. Take these handouts in the meantime; it should be the first thirty pages or so of the book."

She turned to lug a colossal pink stack off of her desk and proceeded to distribute them.

"And don't mark them up!" she hollered. "There might be writing on them already, but those aren't supposed to be there. I'm saving them for the next class, so please show respect!"

I took my copy and briefly flipped through the pages. The first line certainly caught my attention:

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

We went over the syllabus and read a little of the manuscript afterward. You know, the regular first day stuff. I snuck peeks of the pool boy occasionally, trying to read his demeanor. He had an elegance to him in the way he read or flipped through pages, as if he were an earl examining papers on property law. An expression of mild consternation would occasionally rise to his features, which was adorable. I pumped sweat out of my armpits like a fat man in Death Valley, but I could at least pretend I was focused on class. The entire two hour session flew by in a flash. It must have been the adrenaline, but perhaps Tolstoy was just that good.

"Before I call roll and let you all go, I want to give you all one task," she announced over the chatter. "Everyone, listen! I need you all to find one person, or even multiple people, to exchange information with. This is so if one person is missing from class, the other can fill you in on what was missed. So please exchange numbers, E-mails, Facebooks, or whatever it is kids do these days."

The uncomfortable stiffness hardened in my muscles like concrete. The girl sitting in front of me already found someone else to exchange her information with. When I looked to the boy, he was still reading the handout. Considering he seemed as interested in the book as I was put him in a good light for me outside of... desiring him and all.

When he sensed that my eyes were on him, he stopped reading and sent a cool smile. "The story sounds pretty interesting to me already."

"Yeah, me too," I said, trying to keep my voice even and confident.

"Would you like my number?"

"Sure."

I considered telling him he could enter his number into my cell phone, but didn't. He scribbled on a corner of his syllabus and then tore off the paper. His handwriting was sleek, small, and carefully proportioned. It was a gift to receive the paper; a significant artifact.

His name was Santos Rodriguez.

I wrote down my own information on a corner of scratch paper. When I gave it to him he said, "Cool," and tucked the paper into his pocket. "So you won't mind if I text you when I don't understand this Tolstoy stuff?"

The idea of receiving a text from him gave me happy goosebumps. "Sure. I'm no wizard at literature, though, just warning you."

I was dazzled by turquoise when our eyes met. "It looks like you like literature."

"Why do you say that?"

"All that stuff you have written down. Is it poetry?"

Blush advanced on my countenance like a sunset. "It's just for another class. I'm not a poet or anything." That was a total lie.

Ninvosky mercifully began to call names for roll. Students shuffled down the aisles and out the door while Santos and I waited.

"I don't know why I took this class," he stated. "Maybe I got into more than I can handle."

"Why do you say that?"

He passed a hand through his silky hair. "I don't know, even the name of the class sort of scared me. Maybe I wanted to see what it would be like, based on the first day."

"You should give it a shot." I realized that I formed sentences without stumbling or worrying about my composure, which was nice. "It shouldn't be too hard, and we have a long time to read it."

"You're right."

"Perlith!" Dr. Ninvosky shouted. "Perlith!"

"Here!" I answered. Turning to Santos, I said, "Well, see you later. It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, Luke."

A happy glow filled me at hearing him say my name. I would have skipped on my way out, but decided better of it. He only sat next to me in a class, but I felt in a weird way that daydreams do come true.

My main concern on the ride home was picking a piece of lettuce from my mouth. When I drove up to the apartment, I was surprised to see my younger sister pacing around with a distressed look on her face. I took the parking spot right in front of her, and she promptly opened the door to help herself to the passenger seat. Despite her dismay, she looked like a cover girl in her yellow sundress and beaded sandals. There were also ribbons in her hair, all perfectly cinched into bows.

"What's going on?" I asked her. "Need a ride to the salon because you broke a nail?"

"Enough with the jokes. Where in the world have you been?" She brushed a few flowing strands of hair to the side. "Mom and I have been trying to call you for hours. She told me I had to stay here and tell you to drive me to the hospital."

"The hospital? What happened?"

"Why wasn't your phone on?"

"I turned it off during class; I didn't want any interruptions." It occurred to me that for Harriet, turning off her cell phone was like turning off her oxygen supply.

"Well, you should have put it on vibrate or something, because there's a crisis going on. Dad got hit by a car."

"What?"

"Someone hit him pretty hard. Like, an ambulance had to pick him up."

I turned the ignition on my car, tires screeching as I sped out of the apartment complex. "How did it happen? Is he at our regular hospital?"

"Yes, but for crying out loud, don't hit anyone on the way there! Anyway, you know how he cares about the environment and rides his bike to work? Well, some asshole hit him, sped off, and left him on the side of Proctor Street."

I cut through traffic, zooming around buses and sedans. "What kind of monster leaves a helpless man in a gutter to die?"

"Helpless black man," she corrected.

Harriet clung to the assist handle like it was a rope hanging over a cliff. I pulled my foot off the gas.

"Do you know what condition he's in?" I asked.

"Not good, that's all I know. They might be in surgery with him right now."

I bit my lip.

We arrived at the hospital in record time and hurried to the proper waiting room. My mother sat in a quiet corner, concealing her sobs with an issue of Better Homes and Gardens. The sight of her grief made me ill; Mom never let anything break her spirit, at least in front of us kids. Dad was finally out of her hair, yet he still meant so much to her. Harriet sat next to her, and my mother planted her face into my sister's neck as she cried.

"He'll be all right, Mom," said Harriet.

"The bastard!" she wailed. "Why the hell did he go and get himself hit by some horrible driver? They left him there like roadkill! I always knew these Washington drivers were bad, but for crying out loud!"

My sister and I traded concerned looks, though I could see there were tears running down her face. Middle-aged parents and elderly white people eavesdropped, their thoughts masked by indifferent expressions. It was difficult to sway feelings of complete helplessness. Speculating on if my dad would survive based on the scales of fate was bad enough; I had heard too many stories of neglect or malpractice because a patient was a person of color.

"When he wakes up, maybe he can tell us who did it," I suggested, trying my best to be helpful.

"Your father was probably acting as lackadaisical as he usually does." She blew into a handkerchief. "He never pays attention to details; too stuck in his own head."

We waited for another three hours before being allowed to greet Dad. The march down the hallway to his room was sadly sterile, smelling faintly of bleach. Once we got to his room, we had to amble past a small decrepit woman watching television before reaching his sub-division behind a curtain. Harriet and my mother surrounded his bed while I remained more or less in the shadows. His complexion was pallid, and there were three butterfly bandages on his forehead where blood had crusted. A portion of his hair was shaved to accommodate stitches, and large casts surrounded his legs and arm. When he opened his eyes and looked up to Harriet and Mom, his expression took on a dreamy quality. I assumed he was on a lot of pain killers.

"Freddy, you bastard! I'm free of you, and then you go and do this!" My mother's face was practically soaking with tears. He formed a weak smile.

"Dad, are you okay? How are you feeling?" asked Harriet.

"I'm okay," he responded hoarsely. "Not dead yet."

"Don't even joke about that!" my mother exclaimed.

We doted over him for the next hour. Harriet and my mom tried to get as many details as possible out of him about what happened at the scene of the crime, but he remained hazy about specifics. He could only identify the vehicle that hit him--a white luxury SUV. A kind Samaritan stopped to call for help, but this person had not witnessed the crime. The location of the hit was a sleepy residential zone, so it was possible no one saw what happened. While I was hungry for details, I didn't involve myself in interrogating him.

8:45 rolled around, and one of the nurses announced that it was time for Dad to rest. We said our goodbyes, giving gentle hugs as we wished him well. Promises were made to bring coffee the next day--Dad couldn't live without at least one cup in a 24-hour period. I was about to follow Harriet out when he called my name.

I stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Come here. I need you."

I sat next to him and forced a smile.

"How was your first day? Did you dig college?"

The question threw me off. "Oh, yeah. It was fine."

"Good, good. Have subjects you like?"

"Yeah, they were all good." The thought of Russian Literature came to mind.

"Still playing piano?"

"Yes."

He coughed dryly. "Hopefully you figure out what you want to do soon enough, when you transfer somewhere."

I nodded.

"I lied to your mother and sister a bit. I didn't want them to worry over me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm an old man, Luke. It's harder for me to recover from injuries. None of you saw the major bandages because they're under my gown, but I took a heavy hit from a pole. I barely lived. The woman who found me in the road had basic medical training, otherwise I wouldn't be here right now."

I stared at him, the world around me fading into darkness. Why did he lay this information on me?

"The point is, Luke," he started up again, "it made me realize that I lived the wrong way. I had what might be called a 'breakthrough.' I took the wrong job, married the wrong woman, established the wrong life. I should have just done what was right for me from the beginning. I shouldn't have become a boring office guy. As a young man, I loved taking pictures, but I thought it would be too expensive or foolhardy to seriously go into it. My family had enough problems growing up--it seemed like the stupidest idea in the world to waste a college education on photography. I did the responsible thing, what I thought people would nod their heads in approval to.

"I shouldn't have married your mother, either, and that's completely my fault. She would have been a lovely woman for someone else. But I married her, thinking I could just focus on the good times, and I was a fool. It was the biggest mistake of my life."

When he stopped talking I was given an expectant look, as if I were meant to fill the silence with words.

"I see," I said.

"Your mother and I have always known you're different from other boys." The statement made me feel as if he were accusing me of something. "With your style of dress, your way of avoiding 'the popular kids.' You never took up sports and were always in your room. There's something inside of you that's special. Whatever it is, pursue it. Don't do it like I did, Luke. When the day comes that you may be close to death, and I pray it is very far from now, I want you to be proud of yourself and what you've accomplished. You shouldn't experience regrets. Things happen for a reason, and this accident was a wake up call. You never know what can happen."

I swallowed, wondering if his statements were a shadowed allusion to my sexuality. Knowing my father, the well-meaning narcissist, he probably only imagined me as a young and fresh version of himself.

"I'll try, Dad."

He stared into my eyes, moist from catharsis. I took his hand and squeezed it, as if to quietly communicate my assent.

"Hey!" called Harriet. "What are you guys doing in there? They want us to leave."

I pulled my hand away from him and turned to my sister. "Sorry, I'm coming!" As I went to shut the curtain around my father, I said, "I love you, Dad. I hope you get better soon."

"Me, too. I love you."

An overprotective impulse came over me as I walked out, like every step was a mistake I couldn't take back. He was so vulnerable and broken. Dad was suffering in a hospital bed all by himself, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Tears of guilt streamed down my face. I wanted to sneak back in instead of driving Harriet home. Returning the next day was all I could do.

He'll be fine. He's going to be just fine.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was a dark and desolate ride home after I dropped off Harriet. I glared at the streets that had betrayed my father, sadness and bitterness coloring my perception. When I entered the apartment, Mom was placing silverware in a drawer like a possessed chambermaid. The clock on the floor read 10:33.

"Do you want anything, Mom? Water, or a few aspirin?" I asked as I removed my shoes at the door.

Her eyes were bloodshot and her spirit hammered flat. "How sweet of you, Luke," she said, closing the drawer. "I just need sleep. You should head to bed, too--you have school."

I lowered my eyes. "Yes."

She placed a hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. "Once Dad recovers, this will seem like a bad dream. I know it's a lot to take, particularly for you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, he's your father.

My gaze lowered.

"Goodnight, dear. I'll see you in the morning."

"Love you, Mom."

"I love you, too."

She walked down the hall, leaving me in the darkened living area. I wanted to play my keyboard, but I had no idea where it was in the piles of cardboard boxes. I avoided tripping as I stepped around the main room, searching for the phrase 'Luke's Stuff' in scribbled black marker. I gave up after five minutes of impatient searching, making a sandwich for myself composed of the only ingredient we had around, peanut butter.

There were beers and a bottle of vodka inside of the fridge, and it occurred to me that they might help overcome my anxiety enough to pass out. I wasn't much of a drinker, especially since I couldn't buy alcohol, though I did enjoy it when my friends had a supply for a party. I had a nagging awareness that my mother would realize the drinks were missing and give me an earful about it. She would understand, I assumed, given the circumstances. I took a few shots and swallowed an entire beer all within a five minute window.

The only saving grace of the mess in the apartment was that our television was recently mounted on the wall. I shoved some pillows off a recliner and sat to watch it, taking another can of beer with me. The old sitcom I watched seemed stupid and noisy as I advanced from buzzed to mildly drunk. In addition, the room was stuffy, and I felt claustrophobic surrounded by all our possessions; I needed fresh air. I debated with myself for a good ten minutes on whether I should leave the apartment or pass out in the living room. School was in session the next day, and I should have gotten some sleep while I had the lethargy in me.

Because I was drunk, I heard those silly words from my father dance in my head: "You never took up sports and always sat in your room."

No, wait. Not those ones.

"I should have just done what I wanted, what was right for me."

I got up from the leather recliner, double-checking that my keys were in my jeans, and threw the crinkled aluminum in the recycle bin. Grabbing another cold beer, I wrapped it in brown paper before making my way out the door. The air was refreshingly crisp, like biting into a fresh apple.

I walked down side streets, not wanting to make myself an easy target for a roving cop. Even with deteriorating hand coordination, I popped open the next beer with ease. In my inebriated state, I don't care much where exactly I wandered to; being in the moment out in the barren darkness satisfied me enough. There was an elementary school nearby, and also a skate park not far away. I decided against both for fear of running into druggie losers.

Then it came to me: the good old community pool. People neglected the bleachers when people were swimming, let alone in the middle of the night. I could go to my comfortable spot, gaze on the rectangle of blue tranquility, and then get my ass home to sleep. It was perfect.

I sped up my pace and tucked the booze into my jacket as I crossed over to the main road, and eventually, the pool structure. The place was eerily quiet as I tip-toed in. The metal seat was cold, though as I continued to sit, I gradually warmed the spot. The surrounding area was serenely quiet and dark, though there were lights in the pool. I thought about my life and school, notably my missing piano. It was magic to place my fingers on the keys, especially when I had total mastery over a piece of music. There was nothing else that gave me the same charge, and my father's advice to pursue a career in what I liked was an enticing idea. But what career existed in playing the piano? I wasn't even a professional at what I did, only an amateur.

I gulped another swig of my beer and decided to think about something else.

My dad. I always imagined him as this invincible being capable of casting aside the world's problems. When I was a child, he used to come home from work and lift me up in the air, telling me I was Superman as he swooped and swung me around. He always turned the door handle at 5:20 sharp, so at 5:20 I waited in the foyer dressed in my polyester suit of blue and red.

After the divorce and the accident, I didn't feel so confident about life. The good guys didn't always win, and love couldn't conquer all. Dad was stable at the hospital, but the hypothetical visual of him being lowered into a grave stuck to my mind like an unwanted piece of chewed gum. Where did the driver disappear to, and why would they run over my poor father? Did they know him, or was it an accident? Did the police care about the incident, or would our paperwork be shoved into a file and forgotten? Misgivings haunted me.

A splash interrupted my thoughts.

I looked down, the sleek body of a man parting the water. Two characteristics stuck out to me: that his hair was clamped tightly under a silicone cap, and that his shoulders were broad. Tremors tickled my stomach when I thought it might be him. I crept up towards the corner of the railing, hiding myself in the shadows. There were a few lamps scattered around the pool ahead, but none that I thought were close enough to give away my position.

Panic scraped off my mind as it became evident that the swimmer was engrossed in doing laps. I sipped my beer as he chose the breaststroke on one cycle before rotating to the butterfly. I was an optimistic drunk to believe the man was Santos, but I couldn't shake the conviction that it really was him down there.

As he proceeded to the backstroke, I feared he might take notice of me. He parted through the water with the same agility and focus as he had before, however, heedless to nothing besides floating from one side to the other. I learned breaststroke as a child, and I recollected not seeing much besides the sky. He focused on this style for the longest time, in what must have been nearly an hour. I wondered if he stared at the stars as he went, putting himself in a physical trance as he progressed back and forth. Why else would he sneak into the public pool at night?

When he stopped at one end of the pool to pause and take a breath, anxiety crept up my spine. He took his black goggles off, and when I caught the glimmer of his eyes, I was certain it was him. No one had blue eyes like his.

He reached for a blue bottle by the diving boards and drank eagerly. I held my breath, doing my best to imitate a statue. While I feared being caught, I also experienced a rush of excitement at the serendipity of being in the same time and space as him. After hydrating himself, he placed his water bottle back down and floated like a satisfied otter. I continued my attempts to keep still, but with my drunkenness and the burgeoning need to pee, it became increasingly difficult. Without my volition, the half-empty beer can slipped from my fingers. It bounced down the steps, one after another, the frothy liquid spraying out.

CLANG

CLANG

CLANG...

CLANG

Every impact the aluminum made with metal was a dagger against my belly. Santos noticed every time the can hit the bleachers, of course, and turned towards the stands in wide-eyed wonder. I had this maniacal hope that he somehow wouldn't figure out I was there. It was dark, after all, and I sat wedged into a blind spot. Maybe he'd be scared of the noise, reasoning that some deranged homeless person was leering at him.

"Luke," he stated, his voice clear and smooth. His expression was one of quiet disbelief.

I didn't respond at first, but faced that the jig was up. "Hi."

Santos formed a brief grin. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching you swim."

He swam over and lifted himself onto the slab. His abs were strong and defined, and even when he leaned over to pick up his towel, his stomach remained flat. His arms were as sculpted as his stomach, and his thighs were lithe and muscular. I was aroused by the reveal of so much skin, but hoped it wasn't obvious.

"Why don't you come down?" he asked.

"I can't; I don't know how to get in."

He flung his towel over his shoulder, using one end to dry his hair. "Climb the fence. It's not difficult."

"I'm kind of drunk at the moment, if I'm being completely honest with you."

"Oh. That's what you dropped."

I didn't say anything. The gears turned in his mind concerning why I was sitting alone at a public pool drinking from a beer can.

"We can go somewhere else if you want to get another drink," he suggested. "I was about to leave, anyway."

My mind swirled with alcohol, but even then I never would have guessed he would invite me somewhere. I wasn't going to challenge it, but it was surprising.

"If you want, sure."

Fate resolved to bring us together, but anticipation created a twisting anxiety in me. Daydreams of Santos putting his arms around me felt that much closer.

He put his clothes back on, which consisted of acrylic black shorts and a gray pullover. It didn't seem to matter what he was wearing--even shabby clothes revealed angles and features of his body that made me stir with bliss. He climbed the fence with the ease of an Olympian, dropping to the other side with a pleasant thump. A barn owl hooted, taking no heed of us.

"Did you drive here?" Santos asked, directing us up the ramp toward the parking lot.

"No, I walked."

"Oh? So it'd be all right if I drop you off at your house later? You must live close by."

"Yeah, a few blocks. I needed time to myself."

He was silent as we progressed to the parking lot. It felt like an awkward silence, though I chose not to reflect on that. "You were here the other day, weren't you?"

I swallowed. "Yeah. I was..." Think of something! "...waiting for my nephew to finish swimming practice. My aunt texted me by the time I left that she was waiting for me in her car."

"Ah."

We approached the only car in the lot, a beat up old BMW situated under a lonely street lamp. The gray paint was peeling on the boxy exterior and the seats had velour covers attached. He opened the driver side, hopped onto his seat, and then reached over to pull up the lock on my side.

"Old car," I stated as I snapped my seat belt in. "Must be from the 90s."

"More like the late 80s," he responded. "I'm surprised the thing is still running. It's an antique."

He started the ignition and set off through the lot. A tingling feeling returned as we rolled onto the street.

"So where were you planning on taking us tonight?" I asked.

"My uncle and aunt are out of town, on a vacation to Hawaii. I thought we'd raid their fridge."

"How far is their house?"

"Over the Narrows Bridge, in Gig Harbor. Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

It became quiet between us. I got the inclination that I should spark a conversation, but I was having trouble thinking of a topic.

Santos asked, "So have you always lived around Tacoma?"

"Yeah, though my mom and I recently moved to an apartment together from the north side of town."

"I see. Must be convenient to live next to the pool."

I laughed nervously. "I guess."

Again, silence.

Foolishly searching for some way to fill the void, I asked, "Have you decided what you want to major in?"

"I'm going with engineering or something else STEM. Haven't decided."

"I can't make up my mind, either. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You seemed good at the Tolstoy stuff," he stated.

I raised an eyebrow. "On the first day of class?"

"Sure. It seemed like you were interested, anyway."

We eventually rolled into the driveway of what I assumed was his aunt and uncle's house. Even in the dark, it was evident that the home towered over us. Exterior lights revealed a large deck which overlooked a manicured lawn and tasteful, organized flowers. Santos got out of the car and sorted through his keys as he headed for the front door. I gasped when I realized that the house had a million dollar view of the Puget Sound. Little lights twinkled from the Narrows Bridge and lanterns bobbing from distant sailboats.

"I need to do a chore or two while I'm here. I hope you don't mind," he mentioned as he turned the key to the heavy oak door. "I'm supposed to be house sitting and all."

"No problem."

He turned on the lights in the entryway and left for his duties, letting me take in the enormity of the house. To my right was a twisting wood staircase that led the eye up to a cast iron chandelier. The floor appeared to be marble, though I hadn't been around enough marble in my life to truly know. As I stepped towards the living room, I saw giant paintings--real paintings--of native art featuring ravens, bears, salmon, whales, and bears. Centering all this was a gigantic flat screen television. There was also a small fireplace, and through an airy passageway I noticed the kitchen. I flicked the light switch, stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops gleaming before me. Opening the fridge door, I immediately sensed a presence behind me.

"Looking for the alcohol?" he asked.

The proximity of his body was enough to make me want to melt into a puddle.

"I hope you're not judging me," I said.

"You can have all you want. You weren't drinking a lot when I found you, were you?"

"No, just the can I had." Such a liar I was.

He pulled a red bottle from the fridge. "You want a beer or one of the fruity drinks?"

"A beer is fine."

"Okay, suit yourself."

He took one of the 'fruity drinks,' twisting the top off before swigging down a bottle. "I hope you like monster nachos. I'm starving my ass off."

He went to work assembling 'monster nachos' with the speed of a seasoned sous chef. The meal was composed of a generous bed of tortilla chips, olives, jalapeños, a can of drained beans, chopped tomatoes, and a luxurious topping of cheese dip. I figured it had be something he ate all the time, being both easy to assemble and delicious. A good quarter of it didn't make it to the living room because we were gorging ourselves on it.

He turned on a late night show, gobbling away. I was relieved at how natural it was starting to feel around him, even though we hadn't said much.

"How long have your aunt and uncle been gone?" I asked as I popped an olive into my mouth.

"They left today," he answered, staring at the screen as he ate. "Should be in Oahu for the next week."

"Must be nice to have a house all to yourself."

He took a healthy swig of his drink before responding, "You'd be surprised."

I turned to him. "Oh?"

"I'd rather not get into it right now."

I took a sip of my drink, feeling foolish for inadvertently touching a nerve.

"So why were you really at the pool?" he asked.

I decided not to put any effort into lying. "I needed to get away for a while. There are issues going on in my family. I wanted fresh air and knew the pool would be empty."

"Oh, sorry about that. I hope it gets better."

"S'alright. Don't worry about it."

"Just curious," he mentioned after a period of silence. "why did you agree to hang out with me?"

"I don't know. Because you asked me, I guess?"

"You let any guy drive you to an empty house at midnight?"

I swallowed.

"You were watching me the other day. I saw you staring."

I felt like a fish who had spotted a shark in the murk of the ocean.

"Why do you look so shocked? There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "I'm not mad at you."

"I'm just... I'm not used to this. To being with a guy."

I hoped he was referring to what I thought he was talking about. It was because we were both gay, right?

He shot me a satisfied smile, sinking back into the cushions. "You're so cute."

"Do I seem gay?"

"Generally speaking, no. But by the way you looked at me? I'd say so."

"And how did I look at you?"

He leaned close to me. "Like you were really, really hungry, and needed monster nachos."

We cracked a laugh.

An electric feeling passed through my body when he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're not just cute, you know. I'd stare at you, too, if you were in a little swimsuit."

Heat spread to my cheeks and groin. "Is that so?"

His hand slid along my neck and up to my face. We stared into each other's eyes as he brushed his fingers through my dark hair. I sighed, drifting into his hand and letting the tension escape me. I knelt slowly, my heart pounding as I realized that I was about to lean in to my first kiss. The moment our lips touched, a wave of pleasure overcame me. He was gentle when he pressed against my mouth, exploring the texture of my lips. For the entire time our lips met, I felt that a spectacular fireworks show was launching around us.

I began to understand why he might have been so forward--why wouldn't he take this feeling for himself if he could have it? Why did anyone care about anything besides the passion we were sharing?

I was dizzy when he pulled away, like stepping out of a twister. I hadn't drunk too many beers, and unless Santos spiked my drink, I must have had a lust-spawned ethereal moment.

"Did you like it?" he asked, his voice delicate.

There was no proper answer besides, "Yes."

I had wondered if television and books were exaggerating when they described what it felt like to fall in love. The answer, I'm confident in reporting, is no. Even though I had only known Santos briefly, I was absolutely crazy about him. I was self aware about the fact that this attraction was based primarily on his beauty, but I was convinced that it had to go deeper than just that. Was it a vibe, or something essential in his soul that magnetized us together? As soon as I'd had a taste of him, all I wanted to do was hoard him away from the world.

What scared me most was the idea that he didn't feel the same way about me.

"I can tell you're beautiful under those clothes," he said.

I wanted to laugh it off. People never complimented me on my looks, especially in the way he stated it. I didn't know whether to affirm him, thank him, or brush it off.

"It's the truth," he said with a smile. "You don't have to act bashful."

I motioned to kiss him once more, and before I realized what was happening, he pulled me back on the couch. I found myself on top of him, and yet somehow, he was the one in control. I held myself steady with one hand on the cushion, lowering myself to his mouth. The aroma of him, chlorine and all, was like breathing in my affection for him. I kissed deeply, and in a newfound confidence, dove inside his mouth for more. Our tongues and lips wrapped around each other in a heated dance of passion, exploring as they tasted. With my other hand, I touched his face and satiny hair, occasionally dropping to his tanned neck.

I felt like a wax candle slowly melting; I was the flame, beaming with a soft glow.

He wrapped his long arms around me, teasing my back with his touches. At first his hands swirled around the flat plane of my back, not venturing into questionable territory. The touches were sweet and comforting, a harmony to the heat of our tumbling mouths. But then his fingers slipped under the thickness of my hoodie and T-shirt, feeling at the hot skin underneath. I moaned into his mouth, wanting to lose myself in those caresses. He groaned in response to my needy babble, as if we were communicating our desires.

Santos grew more wild as he lashed about, and his hands traveled closer to places I hadn't decided I wanted him discovering. While a part of me enjoyed him, and wanted nothing more than to go all the way, there was a nagging feeling that I wasn't ready for this. We'd only met. I had only just experienced my first kiss. I needed more time for the next step.

When his palm slipped down to the space separating my spine from my ass, I bucked and let out a little howl.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a whiplash, his face flush.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm..." I took a moment to breath. "It just shocked me."

I collected myself, tapping in to my bravery. "Santos, this is moving too fast for me. I'm not sure I'm that kind of guy."

His features relaxed, though he took on a more formal tone. "I see. I'm sorry if I was too rowdy. I would never force myself on you... unless you were into that."

"No, it's fine," I responded, pulling away from him. "I know it's easy to get caught up in the moment."

The heat left the room, as if my words opened a freezer door. We sat decidedly on opposite ends of the couch.

"Let's watch some TV then. Relax a little," he said.

"Okay," I responded, unsure of myself.

The mood took an awkward turn, but that wasn't what concerned me. The last two days were a whirlwind, from seeing Santos for the first time to ending up at the insane mansion on the water to swatting away lascivious hands. I wondered why fortune blew him my way, and where this was all going. Who was he to me? What exactly were his motives? Was I going to end up as a one night stand? He was out of my league, so it dawned on me that I might not be more than a fun distraction to him. Or, perhaps a disappointing distraction.

I sighed, drinking the rest of my beer.

So what if he's using me? I thought, stewing in my convictions. He's perfectly nice and respects my boundaries. I'm going to keep my expectations low about this. I'm not stupid. He hasn't exactly been wining and dining me to get to this point. I don't know anything about him, and the conversation hasn't been riveting. This encounter was a crap shoot from the beginning, but it feels like I won't be seeing him again after tonight. He's too randy and I'm too... virginal.

"So, you have any hobbies, Luke?" He stared at the same late-night commercials that had been airing on repeat for the past hour, sipping at the last of his bottle.

"Oh... Yeah," I responded peeking out of my neurotic shell. "I like music."

"Music? What do you mean?"

Something about his interest gave me hope. "I like listening to it, but I also play piano."

"Ah. Parents forced you into it?"

"I had some lessons as a kid, but I decided to take it up after watching one of my friends at a talent show. I play mostly for myself."

"Well, that's cool. I'm a music fan, though I don't play anything. My parents tried to force-feed violin down my throat at eight, but I wasn't having it. They gave up on me after six months."

"Violin seems like a difficult instrument, especially for an eight-year-old."

"Tell me about it." He rolled his eyes.

We kissed again, with me slowly instigating. I wanted to soothe him, but maybe that was a convenient excuse in my mind to seek more physical affection. The kissing was delicate and careful, much more so than even the first time our lips joined together. While I feared that some of the passion might have been lost, I didn't sense mixed feelings or strife from him. He seemed remorseful and earnest after jumping my boundary, which in turn led me to trust him, which ultimately made the makeout session enjoyable instead of clumsy or inelegant. We went on like that, smelling, tasting and touching each other until we hastily realized that dawn would be approaching in an hour. I was relieved to find that I felt secure, even safe, around him.

He drove me home, looking a lot like a handsome zombie as he yawned through the ride. We parted, returning to our different worlds.

CHAPTER FIVE

I awoke to the beeping of my alarm clock in a fog. My head throbbed and my stomach felt as if it had a liter of battery acid inside. I lurched over, the sheets twisting around me as I reached for the snooze button. I slammed the top of the clock, rubbed my eyes, and then tried not to talk myself into playing hooky on my second day of college. I had classes I wasn't looking forward to, unfortunately, and there was a large gap of time between them.

The beaming light that filtered through the shades burned my eyes, and I held my head as if I were cradling an infant. I anguished over why I drank so much the previous night, handing my future self a shitty hangover. But how could I forget?

Santos...

I put particular care into my appearance that morning, something I typically neglected. I was so busy shaving and applying hair product that I was nearly late for my first class. The impression I made on the professor wasn't positive. I laid my head down on the desk as the history professor introduced himself, only weakly confirming my presence as he called roll. His swarthy eyebrows glared at me when the class ended. I made a personal note to try and not act like a jackass during the next lecture.

After checking in via text, I met up with my friends. A cigarette, as ever, was hanging from Terrell's mouth. Hayden looked like a fledgling bank robber with his black hoodie and large sunglasses, and Vi had on one of his carefully compiled outfits disguised as casual wear. As I neared them in the quad, their chatter seemed closer to hushed excitement. I walked faster, curious at what they were talking about.

"Luke, my man!" Hayden smiled, waving with the hand that wasn't holding an energy drink. "How you doing?"

"I'm okay, thanks." I never mentioned my father's accident to any of them, and I likely wouldn't pursue the issue. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about it, and I was sure they didn't want their jovial moods spoiled by bad news.

"We're going out tomorrow," said Terrell.

"Where?" I asked.

"To the club!"

I tried not to make it obvious that the news was akin to hearing I was scheduled for a teeth cleaning. "What?"

"Jocelyn hooked us up," said Terrell. "Her friends wanna get dolled up this weekend, and Jocelyn wants to play matchmaker. We've been set up with each of them."

"What, why?" The spell Santos cast on me must have been potent, because I couldn't imagine putting myself in the ridiculous scenario of grinding on some poor girl they conned into going.

"What do you mean?" asked Hayden. "We might get laid this weekend."

"Yeah, what's the deal?" asked Terrell.

"I don't know. I woke up feeling crappy, so it's not good for me to be around people. If there's alcohol, it's going to make it worse."

They didn't appear amused. By their body language, I might as well have asked them to forfeit their inventories of weed.

"Come on, Luke. Don't do this to us," said Terrell as he flicked his cigarette butt onto the concrete. "You're getting cold feet. Don't be such a shut-in."

"Yeah, we're supposed to do stuff like this together. No flaking like a little bitch," added Hayden.

If I hadn't woken up hung over and dead tired, I could have come up with a better excuse. "Fine, I'll go."

"Practically had to threaten you," said Hayden with a cocky grin.

"Yeah, no kidding," Terrell added. "You used to be more down to hanging out. Are you feeling okay? You don't look so good."

"I'm a little under the weather, to be honest. I think I caught some kind of bug during the move. I should get going to Spanish." I wouldn't actually have the class for another hour, but I wasn't interested in being roped into something else I didn't want to attend.

"Adios, amigo," said Terrell before we fist bumped.

I usually liked hanging out with my friends. We'd go to old arcades, walk around the mall, eat at a restaurant, or watch a superhero movie together. After reaching college, however, they were all on the same trajectory of hanging out at more mature venues to find girls. We were all on the same metaphorical train, but I found myself wanting to depart at a different stop.

I didn't know where I was heading as I walked through campus, but I marched on nonetheless. The paths were largely empty until I reached a grouping of main buildings. I think I must have arrived during a transition period, because I found myself surrounded by a large stream of students. I decided to enter one of the buildings for the hell of it, searching for a diversion. Upon smelling the stale air of microwaved frozen entrees, I realized I was inside the cafeteria. Sitting at one of the empty tables didn't seem interesting enough, and there were stairs I could ascend, so I left.

The smells were more neutral as I traveled up the floors of stairs. I could have been heading towards a teachers' lounge, or some kind of off-limits zone, I had no idea. Reaching the top floor, the only entity that greeted me was the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lighting. Not a soul lingered in the hall, and the empty walls gave a bizarre mood to the place, as if I were on space ship. Even as I peeked through the windows, the rooms were either pitch black or devoid of life.

I'd stumbled upon an alternate universe in that strange, barren place. I looked into another of the windows, and much like a space passenger gazing into the abyss, I came upon a grand piano lit by a single skylight. It was black, gleaming, and normally unobtainable by the likes of a mere mortal like me. I found myself leaning on the door, my fingers tentatively brushing against the cold metal handle before pressing down. I stumbled inside quickly and shut the door behind me.

The keyboard I dabbled with at home had its practical use, but it couldn't compare to the raw sound of a grand piano; the degree of reactiveness, tone, and range of dynamics all outpaced what I owned at home. I placed my backpack on the ground, sat on the polished bench, and plopped a single finger on one of the ivory keys. A strong, pleasant sound reverberated up and down my spine at the power of the note.

I played a few notes from a song I'd been toying with before the move, enjoying myself. I made a few mistakes as I bumbled along in remembrance of the melody, and I decided to move on to other songs I memorized. I got pretty into it, feeling like a DJ of sorts as I sequenced through different choruses of popular music. I came to another song of my own, something I had been working on over the last few months, feeling more confident about it as I played. It had a slower pace, but required delicate handwork to get right. As I progressed without tripping over my fingers, two long hands touched my shoulders. I had an intuition on who they belonged to, though I didn't let myself believe it. When I thought to turn and confirm the identity of the mystery person, I was prevented with a whisper.

"No, don't stop," a minty voice said. Santos. "It's so nice--keep playing."

I couldn't speak coherently if I wanted to, so I was glad for the commandment. My heart raced as my hands started up again, gliding along the keys. He massaged my shoulders as I played, using a soft touch over the fabric of my jacket. My finger tips became more sensitive, and in a strange way, I was able to play with more finesse as he touched me. Logic, practice, or skill seemed to have nothing to do with the music I produced--what cascaded out of me was a direct line to something deeper. I felt like a stream rushing over a deep riverbed.

And then, I stopped. The song ended.

His hot breath hovered around the left side of my neck, and in the next moment, soft lips pressed against skin. His hands fell down the sides of my arms, caressing me. There were dark shadows under his eyes, his hair was disheveled, and his complexion was pale. He was beautiful.

"We shouldn't," I stumbled out.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "What's the worst that could happen?"

We gravitated towards one another before joining for a kiss. Our lips slid together with a featherlight touch, as if to savor a small taste before diving in. I traced my tongue around the curves of his lips, pausing at the delicate skin at the corners. He let out a happy breath as his tongue darted into my mouth. Our heads tilting, we gently sucked tongue. Kissing him warmed my body like the sun at dawn. When we parted, I couldn't stop staring into his eyes.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

"We keep running into each other, don't we? I was walking down the hall from a meeting with a professor when I heard the music," he said, taking a seat next to me on the bench. "My friend Jonah and I looked through the window, and I recognized you right away."

I turned to the door and saw in the rectangular window the profile of a disinterested boy. I realized he saw us being intimate and cringed.

"You recognized me from the back?" I asked.

"Sure. You've gotta be one of the only people I know with hair like that."

I couldn't help but touch my head in a subconscious manner. "I should get a haircut. It's too long."

"No, I like it. Most guys are too cowardly to grow their hair long like that."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. I would have never guessed you played the piano so gracefully."

"Oh, really?" I responded with a smirk.

"Yeah. Are you in a band or something? You're really good."

"No, I play for fun."

"Never come up with your own songs?"

"Well, that was one of my songs."

He paused, the statement sinking in. "That music just now was made up by you?"

"Yeah, I've been working on it for a while now."

A stark awareness took over his eyes as they widened. "Do you post on YouTube? Do you ever sing? Have you tried to get an agent?"

I never thought anyone cared about what I did in my spare time. I couldn't decipher whether it was strange or flattering that he took such an interest in me. "No, I haven't done any of that. I'm sure my singing voice is terrible."

He shook his head. "I bet not. I bet you have a beautiful singing voice."

There was a shy silence between us, the intimacy of it more sweet than I could say.

"Well, look," he stated. "Now that we're here, I guess I can ask you: would you like to go out with me Friday night? I know a good place to chill if you like music."

I tried not to smile like a happy idiot, but I was having a hard time managing it. "Sure, sounds great."

"Awesome. I'd like to talk more with you, but I'm already late for a class, and Jonah is still waiting for me out there."

"Sure, sure. No worries."

"I'll pick you up at your house? Seven thirty?"

"Sounds good."

"Great." He leaned in for a peck on the cheek. "I'll see you later, then."

"See ya."

He walked away and closed the door behind him. I let out a great sigh, falling over on the piano in joyful exasperation. So many emotions were leaping about in my body: thrill, appreciation, ecstasy, hope... I wondered where he would take me, how I should dress, and what the future would hold. Based on the night before, I thought I might never even see him again. Now I had renewed hope that there was something there between us.

I checked my phone and realized I was running late for a class. Like a new friend, I hoped to see the grand piano again in the future. While I walked to the Spanish classroom, it occurred to me that Santos asked me out on a date for the same time as the 'club night.' Seven thirty was a late dinner for me. It was also late enough to overlap with whatever dumb activities Hayden and Terrell wanted to do. There was no use in telling any of them I was busy; my friends wouldn't believe it. But I also didn't want to postpone the date with Santos.

During class, I brainstormed furiously on my notebook with options on what to do about this. As much as I scribbled and scratched things out, by the end of the class I still didn't have a way of adequately appeasing both parties. As I headed to my car, I received a buzzing in my pocket:

Thinking about you and our date tomorrow. I hope you like it spicy.

My heart lifted with joy when I responded: Ready if you are.

Even if I had to give some cheesy excuse, I didn't care if I had to wing an obvious cop out over the slutty club night. I'd either be disappointing Santos or my friends, and while I'd rather let down neither of them, one category had to take the fall.

I left class wanting to fall asleep on the ride home. When I opened the front door to the apartment, I was surprised to see my sister sitting on the couch, popcorn on her lap and remote control in hand. I noticed that a lot more of our stuff was put away, while the rest was organized neatly against the wall. I had been looking forward to falling into bed after classes, but seeing her there gave me a sinking suspicion that I wouldn't be getting any sleep. I needed a ninety minute power nap before I went to the hospital.

"Hey, Luke," she said.

"Hey," I responded, placing my bag down. "What's going on? Decided to spend some time here with me and Mom?"

Setting the popcorn down, she shut off the television. "We need to go. It's getting late."

"Did you want to visit Dad with me?"

"No, it's something more important. We're going to the scene of the crime. I don't think those cops have been doing their jobs. I want to gather evidence."

If my sister could boss me around like her little servant, I hesitated to think about what it must be like to date her. I drove her to Proctor Street like she asked me to, parking on a side street. Vehicles passed by every once in a while, but it was relatively calm on the residential street. Stepping out of my car, she reminded me of a modern Nancy Drew character, fitted with a magnifying glass, flashlight, tweezers, and vinyl gloves. She otherwise looked professional in her fitted khakis, knit blouse, and cranberry pea coat. I didn't know what she thought she would find there, and I preferred to be a passive party in this plan.

The 'investigation' began when she whipped out her smartphone and took pictures of the scene of the crime. I didn't realize how many angles it was possible to take a single photo from, because she stood on retaining walls, crouched on the sidewalks, and blocked traffic to capture shots of the location of the incident. Sometimes she barked out orders to me, and I complied with whatever she wanted, whether it was to move a tree branch out of the way or analyze a photo with her for clarity. When she told me to get on my hands and knees to collect evidence in the gutter, however, I responded with a blank stare. I was supposed to be sleeping at that hour, not dealing with this absurdity.

"Don't you think this is ridiculous?" I asked. "Shouldn't the authorities be taking care of this instead of a teenage girl?"

"I agree! When I asked them what they were doing about the investigation, they had no answers. They told me to buzz off; that they were busy. They haven't done squat for our dad. Who knows if anyone has visited the scene of the crime. They'd probably rather be at the donut shop or handing out speeding tickets."

"If they're not doing anything, I'm with you on trying to find out what happened. But I mean, a man was hurt. They skip over fender benders, not this."

"Oh, brother. You don't realize how naïve you are."

I crossed my arms, keeping my mouth shut. Harriet had a tendency to jump to conclusions about things, but her eccentric streaks were usually harmless.

"By the way, I'm doing all the work while you stand there staring at me like a bored cow," she said as she unclasped a plastic baggie.

"Sorry," I responded as I crawled towards her on the pavement. "What am I supposed to do, anyway?"

"Like I said, look around the area with me and pay attention for anything suspicious." She held up a few transparent bags with a smattering of objects inside, mostly trash. Among them were dry leaves with what appeared to be my father's blood smeared across them. I swallowed, trying not to lose my lunch.

Harriet handed me a baggie, and before I knew it I was making just as much of a fool out of myself. Drivers leered at me as they passed, probably speculating on whether I was homeless, crazy, or both. It occurred to me that the person guilty of hitting my father might have passed at that time, but I put that unpleasant thought aside. I hoped that if the perpetrator did see us, they wouldn't be tempted to commit a second hit. I kept my eye out for a white SUV, though none passed by.

I didn't dig up much. Most of it was similar to the objects Harriet collected. There was one thing a few meters from the location of the crime that stuck out to me: a cigarette butt with dark red lipstick stamped around the filter. It could have been anyone's, really, though it did appear to be moderately fresh. Plopping it into my baggie, I continued down the street until I considered myself too far gone from where I parked.

"So what did you find?" Harriet asked as we circled back to the car. I wished I had brought gloves because my hands were downright disgusting.

"Not much. Just leaves and garbage. You?"

"Same."

"Hey, at least we tried. Maybe we can track down people who were in the area when it happened."

"How do we do that?"

"I'm not sure; it was just a thought. There's houses around here, so we could knock on doors and write down statements."

She let out a sigh, gazing down at the plastic baggies miserably. "Luke, what if we never find out who did this? What if no one finds out what happened?"

I was too exhausted to come up with the right words to respond. It was possible that we might never discover who hit him. Mysterious hit and runs happened all the time to innocent people, but the crime was relatively recent and there was time for Dad to make recollections on what exactly happened. The situation was by no means hopeless. Yet.

"This is so wrong!" she exclaimed. "I feel like I'm the only one who cares about what happened last night. I won't be able to sleep until I know who did it."

"I'm sure Dad will start remembering things when he recovers."

"Yeah, well, who knows about that. I can't believe you're so relaxed about the whole thing. Don't you care?"

"Of course I care. But what do you want me to say?"

"I don't think you're worried enough."

The sun made its slow descent towards the horizon. I was hungry and I wanted to go home, and Harriet admitted that she was growing weary. There wasn't much of a conversation between us on the ride back, though Harriet did mention that she wanted to stay with Mom and I until this whole mess was straightened out. I didn't have a problem with that, but it would mean squeezing three people in a cramped two bedroom apartment. If Harriet wanted to sleep on the couch for the indefinite future, that was up to her.

Nearly the entire parking lot was full when we reached the complex. We walked across what felt like a football field to get to the front door, tired and dirty. Thankfully, the uplifting smell of fresh casserole greeted our noses as we entered. Mom stood in the kitchen, munching on a baby carrot while she watched the evening news.

"Hey, kids," she said. "Where have you two been? I was about to serve dinner for a party of one tonight."

Despite her comment, it looked as if she fully intended to dine with us that evening. The broccoli casserole framed the center, surrounded by plates meant for each of us.

"We were investigating," stated Harriet before seating herself at the cramped dining table.

"Oh yeah? Investigating what?" she asked, setting down a bowl of salad on the outer border of the table.

"Dad's hit and run."

She lifted her eyebrows, a hint of pain in her features.

"The cops here are incompetent, negligent, or both," Harriet said before ladling herself some casserole.

"I visited him today," Mom mentioned.

"How was he?" I asked before forking a piece of broccoli into my mouth.

Her line of sight fell to an empty plate as her eyes moistened. "He's... He's doing all right. Your dad's tired right now. It takes time to regain your strength after a blow like that."

Harriet and I stared at her.

"He's not getting better?" I asked. "How did he look? What did the doctor say?"

"Your dad slept the entire time I was there. I didn't stop by for long--about an hour--but he was peaceful as he rested there. I probably dropped in during a lull. You kids should see him when you have time."

"I'll be there first thing tomorrow," I said.

We chewed quietly, forks scratching the plates.

CHAPTER SIX

I was too worn down by the day to play piano, though dinner had invigorated me in a way that made sleep unattractive. It was Friday night, anyhow--if my friends and I weren't going out, we were typically participating in some kind of multiplayer game together. We'd been playing Conan Exiles for the past few weeks, which basically comprised of killing barbarians, collecting resources, and building a fort. I popped open a soda and took a healthy slurp as I let my mind wander to things of little consequence. As soon as I logged in and slipped my headphones over my ears, I found myself in the middle of their conversation:

"I feel like it's a macho bullshit Northwest thing," stated Terrell through the VoIP.

"I always use an umbrella when it's raining out. If someone wants to get rained on, that's their business," said Vi as his in-game character collected wood. I kept in his general vicinity, searching for resources.

Hayden chimed in: "Well, the idea is you buy that overpriced crap at REI to make yourself look like you fit in with a stupid Seattle outdoorsy circle jerk."

Terrell laughed. "I bet you the rumor was some plot cooked up by Columbia to get people to buy their brand. Gotta play on those insecurities, man."

"I wanna know what Subaru did to get that sweet, sweet buyer loyalty," mentioned Vi.

"People here love dogs," said Hayden.

"Yes, they do. Anyway. Hi, Luke," said Vi.

"Hey guys," I responded.

An oncoming attack by invading barbarians caused a temporary lull in the conversation. We hacked and speared at the enemies until they disappeared.

"What do you think, do you keep an umbrella on you during winter?" asked Hayden.

"I'm too forgetful," I admitted. "I use one maybe once or twice a year."

"Okay, but he's not trying to make a statement like those other idiots," added Terrell. "What I wish people cared about was getting an NBA team back. I'm tired of rooting for the Blazers and I don't want to go to a soccer game. The city has enough money--why don't we have a team?"

"Fuck the Thunder," added Hayden.

"Blazers aren't going to the playoffs, anyway," said Vi. "All they've got is Lillard and CJ."

"What they need is a solid center."

"Weren't the Kings supposed to move here?" I asked.

"Seattle has the stupid arena they want to build, that's for sure," said Hayden. "A basketball team is probably just a matter of time. All these rich software engineers have money to blow on tickets. There's a billionaire out there who wants that cash."

My phone buzzed. I pulled it up, delighted to see that my dad pinged me on Words with Friends. I thought to ring him, just to get an update, but it occurred to me he was too weak to talk. Why else would he send a game invite instead of calling?

His first play was FORCE.

I smirked, typing up a message: If you try the Star Wars vocab again ur gonna get ur ass beat.

His response: Do. Or do not. There is no try.

I shook my head, making my next play: DINO.

I got another notification as soon as I set the phone down. I doubted that Dad was coming into his Jedi mind powers, but it was possible.

Text from Santos: How are you tonight?

My breath escaped me. I told myself to play it cool, and be as casual as possible about my responses. I hoped my excitement wouldn't betray me.

Not so bad, you? I typed back.

He responded, Bored. Listening to Tacocat on one of the guest beds. You?

I quickly utilized my Google-fu to find out exactly what Tacocat was. Discovering it was a local band, I muted the game's music and started listening to them on Spotify.

"Hey, Luke, you asleep over there?" asked Hayden. "You've been resurrected."

"Oh, sorry," I stumbled, struggling to type a response to Santos at the same time.

A notice flashed at the top of my phone: Daddio made a play! DROID.

I groaned before pressing submit: Not much. Just hanging out with friends.

Why did everyone decide they wanted my attention at the same time? On the tier between my dad, my friends, and Santos, my friends lost.

"Hey, I'm gonna take a break," I said.

"You just got here," said Terrell.

"Sorry. Gotta do a number two."

"Aight."

Unfortunately, Dad was also number two. I made a play to keep the game moving, but my heart was decidedly out of it.

DINO was the best I could do.

There was a period where nothing happened. I poked around on the Internet for a minute or two before another response from Santos cycled in.

Do you like any local bands?

Panic set in. I had what I considered a diverse range of taste, especially compared to my friends, but a lot of the music I listened to was old. Like, dawn of hip hop old. Like, classical old. Like, cavemen banging rocks old.

I used Google again, trying to find something that might fit into what he would consider 'cool.' I felt a little shame in resorting to using the Internet, but it was replaced by relief that he was asking me this stuff while I had a search engine at my disposal. I hesitated to think about what an idiot I'd make of myself over dinner if he asked me about music.

I like Fleet Foxes, I answered, hoping I didn't come off as a pleb.

Oh yeah, I thought Crack-Up was just okay. I've been listening to them going back to their first album.

As I was coming up with a response, he continued: I have their LPs. We could have a listen after dinner tomorrow.

A happy warmth filled me. You have a setup?

In my room, yeah. Do you think you'd like to come over?

Even though he was making a request, the question suggested something sinister. It was no secret that 'listening to records' was code for 'pre-foreplay,' but it didn't bother me. It was actually a bit touching that he sought my approval.

Sounds like fun to me.

I wondered to myself, An LP is a record, right? He collects records?

More Googling.

I realized Dad hadn't made a move in a while. It was 9:13, so I acknowledged that he could be tired, but he had been sleeping all day. A familial worry filled me; I wanted to call, but I also didn't want to disturb him if he was asleep.

I listened to scatterings of my friends' chatter as I mulled it over:

"...For the Bucks. You know, An-tet... An-tenmpt-tentana-kounmpoo," staggered Terrell.

"No, it's... Ahn-tenmpt-ten-koun-mpou," said Hayden.

"Yah-nahs... Ahn-tempt-tehn-kouhnmpou!"

"Antetokounmpo!" Vi insisted with a rapid roll of the tongue.

"I can't spell his name, how can I be expected to pronounce it?" said Terrell. "Anyway, you see the dunk over Tim Hardaway? Dude is 6'6"!"

"Tea bag hall of fame for sure," stated Hayden.

I decided on another mode of communication as I typed out a message to Dad: Your powers are weak, old man.

Thankfully, he responded: If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

He made a play: TROOPER

I sent another Star Wars quote with my play of RICE: I suggest a new strategy, Artoo: let the Wookiee win.

His message was more positive: Use the Force, Luke.

More time passed with no response from either of them. I decided to start playing with my friends again, assuming that any interruption would be brief. There were a few more texts from Santos that were of little concern, mostly having to do with our date the next day. My dad didn't respond at all. I didn't know why I carried worry for him, but I couldn't shake it. I had to see him the next morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mom and Harriet had been gone for hours by the time I woke up, and I had two objectives for the day: entertain my father, and keep my cool during the date with Santos that night.

I stopped by one of those corporate coffee chains to pick up a newspaper, scone, and latte for Dad. I wasn't sure if he was well enough to drink coffee, but considering how much he appreciated a good cup of joe, I figured there was a good chance he'd at least welcome the effort. Maybe the peppy baristas helped lighten me up, because I felt optimism as I traveled down 19th Street to the hospital. I looked forward to finishing our game of Words with Friends, and was impatient to hear his voice again.

As I walked into his hospital room, I realized that his neighbor had vacated. The space was dim and the only noise was a passively beeping machine. An odd stench persisted in the room; I was reminded of sterilized body odor.

I pulled the curtains around his living space and saw him laid there like a fresh cadaver, his body stiff and still. I set his gifts on the bedside table and opened the windows, as if fresh air and sunlight was the enigmatic key to rejuvenating him. The hospital breakfast had been left untouched, though there were fresh flowers on the bedside table. Additional tubes had been attached to his body that wound around to a panel above his head. I was only confident he had a heartbeat because the digital monitor displayed it in large red numbers. Even so, I pressed my ear to his chest to know for certain he was still a part of this world.

I sat down at his side and took his tepid hand in mine. How could his fortunes turn so low when he was stable a few days before? My only comfort was that Harriet wasn't with me--she would flip her lid at seeing his condition.

I left the room, marching down to the nurses' station. Five middle aged women in colorfully patterned scrubs were seated there, all busily attending to clerical tasks.

"Excuse me?" I asked none of them in particular. "Can I speak to someone about a patient?"

A portly woman rolled around in her chair to face me. She looked on point in her Winnie the Pooh scrubs. "Can I help you, young man?"

"Yeah, my dad. He's in room 305 and was in a car accident. I want to know why he's comatose."

She nodded, leafing through a few papers. As she read, her expression turned dour. "I don't know how to explain this, but your dad's current condition is a mystery to us."

A throbbing targeted my temples. "How can you guys not know why my dad is getting sicker?"

Another nurse faced me, one older and with finely plucked eyebrows. "We've been doing everything we can to figure out what's going on with your father. The doctor knows he's been declining, and we have stabilized him. His condition has been taken very seriously, and we're going through every medical test possible to get to the bottom of this."

I looked down to the floor, angry I hadn't known sooner about this. I was on the edge of tears at the idea of something happening to my dad. "You don't have any idea what's wrong, after all of the things you've done here?"

"The doctor doesn't want to hypothesize because we don't know exactly what's wrong. It could make his condition much worse if he were to mis-diagnose him." She forced a smile. "Don't worry, son. He's not a young man anymore, and what he went through was fairly traumatic. We're watching out for him; your father will be all right."

I swallowed back what felt like a tidal wave of sobs. "He's going to be all right?"

"Of course. In fact, he's probably not in the room right now because he's scheduled for another test soon."

"Is it all right if I stay with him?"

"Yes, it's fine. We don't want you to worry. In all likelihood, he'll be on his way to recovery soon."

I left the station, slowly making my way back to Dad's hospital room. He was still there, and I couldn't help but press my fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. Though I liked the nurses, and decided to trust them when they said they were going to watch out for my dad, I was left with sinking doubt. I didn't know any of these people in the hospital. It wasn't like I could kidnap Dad and take him to another medical facility because I objected to the service he was receiving.

I held his hand for the next half hour in a blank, lugubrious state. An athletic man in scrubs walked in with a high tech stretcher, mentioning that he was taking Dad in for more tests. I watched him wheel my father away, sitting in that empty room by myself. Over the course of the next five hours, four different nurses collected him for various assessments.

I talked to Dad a few times, mostly to say I loved him and that I wanted him to get better. I liked to think that he could hear me as his eyes remained closed in the bed, but I received no sign that he understood me. Hours passed, and one of my aunts eventually showed up. She assured me that she would keep an eye on him, and that I could go about my day. Leaving him felt like a dirty capitulation, like I was abandoning him on the battlefields of life and death. I kissed his forehead and held his limp body, staring at his weary face for a time before departing.

I carried an emptiness as I walked out of the building, as if passersby could look straight through me. When I got to the car, I realized I hadn't told any of my friends I wanted to extricate myself from their plans. It was believable enough to wake up at 3:30 in the afternoon with an unpleasant bacterial disease, right? I phoned Terrell, my heart beating faster as the dial tone pulsed. The voice mail activated, and putting together my paltry acting talent, I gave it a go:

"Terrell, hey... I feel like shit right now, man. I got a weird bug from this burrito place. I was barfing all night, disgusting. I can't make it tonight. I'm gonna sleep it off and tell you about it all later. Have fun at the club with everyone. Peace."

I took a deep breath after hanging up, turning the ignition on my car. Mission accomplished. If he or any of my other friends tried to call me, I was going to ignore them. I didn't turn the phone off, though--if Santos called, I wanted to know about it.

The drive home was short. I ate lunch as soon as I walked into the apartment, though it wasn't enjoyable; doubts about my father's state haunted me as I chewed. I took a boiling hot shower to wash away some of the remorse, and groomed myself with the intricate care of a Hollywood stylist. The shower and obsession over which articles of clothing to wear helped, because my worrying shifted from my father to Santos. I was consumed with optimistic emotions concerning him, and I didn't want my temporary sadness to ruin something that had potential to last. Like a mantra, I told myself that Dad would be all right.

I had some time on my plate after dressing, so I decided to fill it by playing my piano. I tried not to check the clock too often, focusing instead on losing myself in my little hobby. With my thick headphones plugged in, it was easy to tune out the rest of the world and become lost in my own.

After about an hour, I heard the reverberation of what I thought was the doorbell ringing. Checking my wall clock, I recognized that it was too early for Santos, but early enough for Harriet to come around. My mom was home, in any case, so I decided to ignore it. It was only when I heard a familiar voice about two minute later that sheer panic sunk into my bones:

"... Yeah, Mrs. Perlith... Err, Ms. Bates. He told us he was sick."

"Call me Phaedra, honey."

"Sorry. It's just, we're worried about him."

I leapt from my keyboard, covered myself in my green duvet, and did my best to appear pathetic.

"What?" she answered. "He seemed fine to me."

"Oh," came Terrell's voice. He was too meekly concerned about my condition, the asshole. "Well, we came by because we have some stuff to cheer him up. See, we brought sparkling water and chicken noodle soup."

I braced myself as the clunking of their feet traveled down the hall. Three knocks arrived, like the raven tapping, rapping at my chamber door. I pulled the covers around my face and braced myself, trying to will my throat into a scratchy state.

"Hello?" I called out faintly.

"Can we come in?" Vi's mellow voice answered.

"I'm not well."

There was a polite pause before my door lurched open. All three of them, Hayden, Terrell and Vi, crept up to me like peasants unearthing Frankenstein's monster. I stared at them, my eyes framed by the circular puff of the blanket.

"So you're sick, huh?" Hayden asked. He tugged on my duvet, and in one motion revealed the pressed clothes I had carefully chosen for the night ahead.

All their eyes lit up like paper lanterns when they saw how I was adorned. I'm sure they all got a good whiff of my nice cologne, as well.

"What the hell is this?" Terrell pondered aloud with a healthy laugh. "You always dress this nice when you got shit peeing out of your asshole?"

Before I could defend myself, Hayden advanced with, "Dude, I knew it. You wanted to bitch out because you're too afraid to approach women."

"C'mon," Terrell beckoned, tugging on my arm. "Let's go. The charade is over. You're coming whether you like it or not."

It was five o'clock, I observed. Only two and a half hours for the man I adored to show up. "Look, I can come, but I can't stay long."

"We're not going to the club yet," said Vi. "Jocelyn and her friends are waiting for us at my house. We're having a barbecue."

"C'mon, man," Terrell continued. "It's one night. The girls want to meet you."

"It won't be as bad as you're making it into, you big baby," added Vi.

"I can go to the barbecue, but I can't go to the club," I responded. "The reason I bailed was because I'm supposed to surprise my dad at a birthday party." Dear God, now I was lying about my father. I honestly couldn't think of any other good reason for why I was both dressed well and had somewhere else of more importance to go to.

"Why didn't you say that to begin with?" prodded Hayden. "We wouldn't be hassling you like this if you had spit that out."

"Yeah, I know," I responded. "I should have said something. But I have to be back here in two hours, all right?"

As we walked out, waving goodbye to my mom, I prayed that the evening would go the way I planned. Knowing my friends, things often spiraled off course. They had a habit of getting... rowdy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Vi's white unibomber van was parked right outside. I sat on a cracked leather seat, trying not to think about mystery body fluids in or around my vicinity. The drive to Vi's place, near the nefarious town of Lakewood, wasn't very far. To say his house had seen better days was an understatement: the grey paint peeled from the exterior, ivy climbed to the dilapidated roof, and the aluminum window frames bowed in. A broken lawn mower laid sideways on the threadbare lawn and there was a clutter of dried leaves spread across the driveway.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, however, I took in the aroma of marinated meat sauteing over hot coals. His parents used all their recreational time at Emerald Queen Casino, so despite the accommodations, his house was often the place we'd hang out at on the weekends.

A nauseating nicotine smell greeted me like an unwanted relative as soon as I entered the house. One time us guys were throwing around a plush football in the house, and Terrell knocked down a framed picture. His parents smoked so much that the nicotine penetrated into the pores of the drywall; what once was shell white had turned urine yellow. I didn't want to think about what it had done to Vi's lungs.

Hip hop music played in the living room on a stereo that had been purchased at St. Vincent DePaul fifteen years ago. Jocelyn sat on a raggedy couch along with three other girls, seeming coolly satisfied as she sipped from a red plastic cup. She possessed a punk attractiveness, with her jet black hair, body piercings, slender eyes, and Betty Page fashion sense. The two girls closest to her had a vampy air to them, their faces painted with vibrant makeup while the young woman on the end was decidedly plain.

"Hey, baby," said Jocelyn to Vi as he delivered a peck on her cheek. "So you guys managed to drag Luke's ass from his death bed."

I couldn't help but smirk. "Hey, Joce."

"So you ready to party? We got the ribs and hot dogs going right now. You want a beer or something?"

"Nah, I'm good." The dread already settled in; I had no desire to drink while I was there, but avoiding the bottle was always an impossibility at these things. Once I got going, well...

"C'mon, just one beer," said Hayden, tossing a bottle over to me. I couldn't avoid catching it, a cheap trick he often used to goad people into joining in. I side-eyed him as he came over to pop the top open.

I checked my watch. 3:17PM. The time couldn't pass quickly enough.

"Hi," I heard a soft voice say below me. I looked down, meeting eyes with the most wholesome of the girls. Her hair was short and sleek, she wore stud morganite earrings, and I decided that her sense of style was comfortably casual with slacks and a low v-neck blouse. "I'm Robin. What's your name?"

"Luke. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She was cute, in a kindergarten teacher sort of way. She wore minimal makeup, and the freckles scattered across her brown complexion were downright adorable. What she was doing with Jocelyn's crowd, I hadn't the slightest clue.

"So how do you know Jocelyn?" I asked, corralling an ottoman to sit down on.

"Oh, we've known each other for a really long time. We grew up on the same street. What about you? Have you known Vi for long?"

"Only since high school, along with these other idiots."

She had a cat-like smile I found charming.

I asked, "So you're excited to go to the club?"

"I don't know. I've never been to one before. Jocelyn managed to snag me a fake ID, but I'm still nervous about getting in." She pulled the card from her pocket, handing it over. The woman photographed had a thousand yard stare, was older than Robin by about fifteen years, and possessed cherry red hair.

"Nice," I said, giving it back. "How much it cost you? Fifty bucks?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I have my own, courtesy of Jocelyn. You know her, with her 'connections' from her older brothers and the tattoo shop they work at."

"Right. I guess I kind of drifted from her in the last few years. The fact I'm here at all is a fluke."

"Oh, really?"

"We happened to be talking online because it was her birthday, and she invited me. I'm a little intimidated."

I felt guilty knowing that I'd be leaving her to fend for herself. I imagined her sitting alone in a large hall, painfully isolated as she watched her friends grind on one another. I probably wasn't much of an improvement, but it was better than being alone in a strange place.

"It's not my scene, either. I hate to mention this, but I'm going to be leaving early. I have somewhere else to be tonight."

"Really? Why?" Her tone carried an uncomfortable eagerness.

"Hey!" Terrell interjected. "If you're gonna bail on us, you better be willing to pay the price for it."

"Oh, God," said Jocelyn. "Not another one of these pissing matches you guys like to engage in."

"If he's not gonna get trashed with us when he has to pay five bucks a drink, he's gonna do it now. Hell, all of us should get a little drunk before we show up. Better here than there."

Terrell retreated to the kitchen and then returned with a load of bottles in his arms. Some of the containers held hard alcohol, but there was also fruit juice and soft drinks. A moment later, he returned with a stack of plastic shot glasses.

"Shall we all take a shot?" he asked. "For Luke's father--happy birthday to him. And happy belated to Jocelyn."

"I've never done a shot before," Robin confessed, watching the liquid swish around in a bottle of tequila as she handled it. "It's your dad's birthday? Is that why you're leaving?"

"Yeah," I responded, watching passively as Terrell poured me a shot of gin. "Have you ingested hard alcohol before, by itself?"

"Um, no. Is it really bad tasting?"

"Well... the best thing is to get it down your throat as quickly as possible. There's also chasers here, to help get the bitterness out of your mouth."

She nodded, cautiously pouring the tequila into her cup as if she were officiating a Japanese tea ceremony.

Terrell gave another toast, and we all went along with tossing our respective poison down our throats. Robin struggled to keep a straight face, her features squishing into disgust. I tried not to laugh as she scrambled to grab the closest sugary beverage to wash down the alcohol.

"I don't understand why people do this," she stated, fanning her tongue.

"To get fucked up," Hayden blurted with a burp.

The party really started rolling after that.

Jocelyn served the heaping stacks of meat, the girls got the side dishes plated, and us guys did, well, nothing productive at all. Vi got the PlayStation fired up, and before long, the friendly expletives were flying in the air as we battled in a shooting game.

"Cover me, asshole! What are you doing, sniffing your finger?"

"Shut up, fag! Jesus, you need me to follow you around like your babysitter?"

"Guys, what are you doing? I'm being hit, you morons!"

All this banter was in good fun, though it may be hard to believe. Without the shit talking, it was just a bunch of guys sitting in a room staring at a screen.

The 'pissing matches' commenced after the video games, and the alcohol flowed like the liquid adaptation of a fraternity paddle. The girls watched as we called each other out to do asinine tasks around the house, or to be 'punished' with another shot of alcohol. I was actually having fun after a certain point. My belly full of pork, I was laughing and kidding around with my friends and getting a little too into the childish games we were playing. I was even disappointed I would have to leave later that night.

And that was the problem with being with my friends.

One shot for this, another for that... Before I knew it, I was way ahead of myself. Five o'clock rolled around, and I completely lost track on how much I'd drunk the entire night. I'd been having so much fun screwing around with my dumb friends I nearly forgot about the date itself.

"I know this is black blasphemy," slurred Terrell as I checked my watch, "but 1738 is way overrated for how expensive it is. It just doesn't taste that good."

"Oh, crap!" I bellowed a little too loudly. I was sitting on a pillow on the floor, sticky game controller in my other hand.

"Time for your anal cleanse?" Hayden barked, laughing at his own shitty joke.

"My da-da--" I struggled to recollect which word was appropriate. Dad or date, dad or date? "--My da-dad. I'm gonna be late!" I bolted up, and had Vi not been there to catch me as I tripped on my own legs, I would have tumbled right back down.

"All right, calm down, Walter junior!" said Terrell. "We'll get you there. Well, one of us will. The one who isn't so drunk. Who's the least drunk here? It's definitely not me."

Everyone in the room stared.

"C'mon, who here didn't drink so much? Was it you, Penny? I know it wasn't Jocelyn, the big lush."

"I can drive him," volunteered Robin. She still had the neon drink in her hand from two hours before.

"Sure, okay. Just be sure and come back. We'll need a ride later for the club in Seattle. I'll put his address in your GPS."

I needed help to reach her beige sedan out front. Vi even asked me if I was going to be okay, and if I needed to lay down for a moment. I looked at him, the faint aroma of his barbecued breath turning my stomach in circles. I couldn't contain myself as the vomit crept up my esophagus. If I didn't have the reflexes in me then, I would have vomited all over Vi's shirt and Robin's rear door. Instead, I spewed across the yellowed lawn in a thick explosion. Vi held me steady as I let it all plummet out; he was the best girlfriend a guy could have.

"Oh man, Luke. Look at you," he said, keeping his distance as he held me up.

I grunted a response.

Navigating to the back of Robin's car with Vi's help, I laid across the leather seat. She bore this distressed look in her eyes, as if she didn't trust me not to ruin her upholstery. I was so mad at myself. Mad that I smelled like garbage, cigarette smoke, and booze... and mad I let myself down. I had screwed up the night enough to potentially scare Santos away.

"Are you okay back there?" Robin asked.

I watched the treetops as we slowly rolled by, trying not to let the repetitive motion of it cause me to become ill again.

"I'm okay," I answered. "I'm sorry. I made a total ass out of myself. I'm glad I didn't puke on your car."

She gave an airy laugh. "Don't worry about it. You're not the first person on Earth to get drunk."

"You weren't stupid enough to keep throwing the shots back."

"They were all goading you on. You really couldn't help it, could you?"

"Yes, I could." I turned over on my side. "This has happened before, and I told myself not to do it again. I like drinking and having fun, but I can have self control. I should have had it today."

"Right. How are you going to face your dad? Just tell him you're feeling sick?"

"Don't remind me." As if on cue, my pocket vibrated. I pulled my phone out and checked my texts:

Hey, just left. Sorry I'm late. Punish me later.

I smiled, checking the time. 5:26PM. I was cutting it close.

"Luke?" she probed.

"Oh. I don't know. I'll come up with some story. He probably won't take it too hard."

"I see. Your dad is a pretty nice guy?"

"Yeah. Hey, let me give you some money for driving me home." I sat up and reached for my wallet out of my back pocket. I was surprised my body bounced back from the effect of the alcohol so quickly. Throwing up all over Vi's front yard seemed to have been the best thing that happened all afternoon. Pulling out a five, I tried to hand it to her.

"Oh no, you don't need to do that. Don't worry about it."

"Come on, let me make it up to you. I feel bad about you having to do this."

She spotted me in her rear view mirror, her eyes flirtatious. Turning around, she grabbed the money. "All right, but you have to agree to give me your number."

My stomach bunched up. "Sure."

We chatted a bit more during the remainder of the ride, mostly colloquial kind of talk. Her pitch rose in excitement as we discovered things we had in common; the more we talked, the more I felt like the black scum you find growing near a water leak. When we stopped in front of the complex, she looked at me as if she wouldn't have minded gazing into my eyes for the rest of the night.

"Well, thank you," I said as I opened the door.

"No problem. Talk to you later?"

"Sure. Don't let those guys spew all over your car. There's always the hardware store for a tarp if you don't want to take a chance."

She laughed. "Okay. Thanks for the tip."

I got out, we waved, and then she drove away. The street lights flickered on by the time she reached the stop sign at the end of the drive. I took a deep breath, rubbing my hand through my loosely coiled hair. As I made my way for the front door, mentally calculating what I would need to do to scrub the stench of debauchery off of me, two happy beeps sounded in the air. I turned, and like a dream, Santos' beat up old car apparated before me.

CHAPTER NINE

"Hey, stranger," he called through the window. "Couldn't wait to see me?"

He had a way of making me want to hide behind my mother's apron strings in delight.

"You showed up right in time," I announced, holding steady my skidding nerves. I reached for the door handle and slid in. "A friend just dropped me off. I was getting worried, because--"

"Luke, can I interrupt you?"

"I--oh, uh, yeah, I guess so."

"You're looking so handsome today. Do you mind if I give you a little kiss?"

The aside was simple, disarming, and a little suspect. I hoped my blush would be taken as consent, because I had nothing witty to say in return.

His lips brushed against the hot skin of my cheek before laying down a simple peck. He smiled with more confidence than he probably deserved, lingering next to my face as I held my breath. I forgot my inhibitions as he flirted with his eyes, and breathed in deeply the scent of freshly bathed man. Every moment he idled, however, I grew paranoid he would become disgusted with what I smelled like.

"Touch me," he murmured, reaching under my jacket to grip at my side.

"Are we--should we--" I stammered.

"Please, a little bit." His head nestled towards my neck, laying down little kisses. As he wrapped my back in caresses, my muscles melted in submission, and I found myself touching him. He melted my resolve like jelly. I wrapped my arms around him, kissing his cheek and along his soft neck. I avoided meeting mouths with him, for obvious reasons, but he sought out my lips as if they were a spigot in the middle of a desert.

"Luke, don't try and stop me," he said with a laugh. "I'm going to get a nice taste of you."

"You really don't want to." As I said it, in such close quarters, a puff of my breath reached his nose. His torso retreated from me immediately, his face scrunching up like a wad of paper.

"Holy cow, what is that?"

My body shrunk in shame. "Things got out of hand with my friends. I planned to clean up before you came by, but I ran out of time. I'm sorry."

"You were drinking?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head, cracking another wide smile as he put the car in gear. "You're a funny guy, you know that?"

Relieved he wasn't seething with anger, I responded, "Why's that?"

"I was in a similar situation myself earlier. I guess I didn't need to worry about being late. I suppose we have more in common than I thought."

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

He waved me off before we rolled away. "You don't want to know. Stupid drama. My parents drive me up the wall."

I wanted to ask more, but felt it wasn't my place. "Parents can be like that. I'm worried about my dad right now. Some jerk hit him while he was riding his bike."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. I'm sure he'll be fine. I'm probably worrying too much over him."

"It sucks when that kind of thing happens. Was he hit today?"

"No, a few days ago. A maniac in an SUV did a hit-and-run on Proctor. Drove away and left him."

Things became quiet after I said that. He turned on the radio to an indie rock station, stating his condolences about what happened. I figured I was being a wet blanket, so I let the topic drop.

We headed for the downtown area, charming in its own way, but somewhat of a work in progress. Tacoma was largely a manufacturing and military town that was trying to reinvent itself from its gritty roots. Because so many people were moving to Washington, more demand for things like colleges and hip restaurants manifested, not to mention comfortable housing. When I was a child, the downtown was mostly abandoned warehouses populated by odious individuals. I visited there every once in a while, but considered it an area for a different demographic. I was too young and cheap to ever go to the restaurants, and I wasn't employed at some banking job, so I didn't have a reason to go there except to hang around at one of the parks.

My phone vibrated a few times while we found parking, but I paid it no mind. I wasn't going to let anything come between the time I had with Santos.

"This place we're going to is owned by a few friends of the family," said Santos as we got out and headed towards a red brick building. "They'll likely hook us up with some freebies while we're there."

"Nice," I responded, trying not to squee with delight at being invited to such an exclusive place. We passed a homeless guy clutching a cheap bottle of vodka on the way in, but vagrancy was part of living in western Washington.

White tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, and softly-glowing candles greeted us at the waiting area. A studio piano, some drums, and a cello were stationed towards the back of the dining area, presumably waiting for players to come along. A man with a sleek black uniform directed us to one of the circular tables near the band. Santos ordered us two beers, and the waiter never asked us for ID.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even ask you if you wanted to drink," said Santos, fingering a chunk of hair nervously.

"It's fine. Only one, though."

I surveyed the options on the menu. Many of the items involved seafood or highly valued cuts of meat; even the appetizers featured phrases like 'artisanal' and 'sous vide' in the descriptions. I wondered if Santos was going to pick up the bill or if we'd be splitting it.

My phone buzzed once again. I paused to check it while Santos was occupied deciding on something.

Hi, this is Robin. Just saying hi.

I texted back, Hi. Thanks for the ride.

"So what did you choose?" asked Santos.

I put the phone down next to my silverware and picked up the menu. "Let's see... French onion soup with the Cobb salad."

"Nice. I love French onion. I'm getting the filet mignon."

The waiter arrived to deliver our beers and take our orders. Santos took a healthy swig from his glass.

Trying to break the ice, I asked, "So, how long have you been going to the community college?"

"Long enough. It's been a year now, though I initially took a year off to... find myself, I guess."

"Find yourself?"

He rubbed a hand through his hair. "I didn't get into the schools my parents wanted me to apply to, namely Ivy League universities, so I decided to spend a year in Europe. Most of my time was in Italy and Greece, and I'm wishing I had stayed there."

"Can you speak any of the languages?"

He reflected on it, looking towards the ceiling. "Ciao bella? Kalimera? Whatever I did learn, I forgot about as soon as I left. I'd love to go back, though."

I laughed. "Nice. I'd love to travel across the pond. How was it?"

"Wonderful. Florence is a beautiful city, and many of the Greek islands were gorgeous. There was good food, fun sites, friendly people... I'd go back in a heartbeat."

"Maybe after you graduate college."

He took another drink, lifting his eyebrows. "Who knows. We'll see if I can please Mommy and Daddy this time."

I sipped from my own beer, feeling I had jabbed a fresh wound. A jazz pianist took the stage and delicately lead in to the A section of a song that reminded me of the Charlie Brown soundtrack. We turned to watch him for a moment, the melody inviting a calm to the room.

"Do you like this?" Santos asked with some hope.

"Yeah, it's great. I'm glad you brought me here."

"I love listening to live music. Chilling to records is good, but nothing compares to hearing it in person."

I smiled. "If you'd like, I can play you the piano in person any time. Free of charge."

"You'd serenade me, huh? I must be pretty special to you."

"Perhaps." I hoped I wasn't turning red in the face again.

"I think you're special, too."

We basked in the moment, our eyes meeting in the low glow of the restaurant.

"So, you've been playing piano a long time?

"Yeah."

"But you don't want to major in music."

He was challenging me in a way I found sweetly insinuating. It felt that we were family already.

"Becoming a musician isn't a career choice," I responded. "It's just a hobby. I don't want to beg from people on the streets or join some cover band to play casinos on the weekend. Dig me?"

"Fair enough," he said with an expression that held a secret. "My parents always wished I'd been a prodigy at something, whether it was sports, music, or academics. You'd be their wet dream."

"I hate to disappoint your parents, but the world doesn't care about any given piano player in the world."

He shrugged. "They're very competitive people."

"What about you?" I asked. "What are you doing at TCC? Shouldn't you be at some fancy cram school?"

"I'm being punished," he stated simply, sipping more of his beer.

"Okay, then. See any good movies lately?" I asked, wanting to dodge the subject of reality.

"Not really."

"TV shows?"

"I don't have time."

"You love music that much, huh?"

He let out a chuckle. "Okay, you've got me. I've got a weak spot for musicians."

I smiled. "Dated many?"

"To be honest, not really."

"Why's that?"

"A lot of the guys I was with... Well, they focused a lot more on lifting weights than practicing scales."

"I must be a big change for you."

"For a lot of reasons, yes."

"So who's your favorite artist? Let's say, from the last decade."

"My favorite artist..." he mused, leaning back in his chair as he laced his hands together. "That's way too hard. There's so many different musicians out there with different things to offer."

"You have a wide variety of music you listen to?"

"Yeah. I mean, I love Daft Punk for what they did with the sounds and styles of the 70s and 80s, but I also love Kendrick Lamar just as much for his storytelling and amazing beats. I thought DAMN. was a masterpiece just as much as Random Access Memories was."

"That's cool," I said. "I like people who have variety in their taste. I think Daft Punk is great, but Kendrick is the one who's going to be remembered thirty years from now."

"Oh, really? Why do you say that?"

"He's just... Kendrick Lamar. I know it's a corny phrase to use, but he's the voice of this generation. We're all going through so many social issues that are also very personal, and he expresses a lot of that."

"So you think he's the Bob Dylan of today?"

"Something like that. Obviously, they're not exactly the same."

As I reached for a fresh piece of bread, he said, "I wonder if parents back in the 60s hated Dylan. I was watching the Grammys back when Kendrick did his bit for To Pimp a Butterfly, and my dad walked in, and he had the biggest sneer on his face. He was like, 'What is this rap shit?' But then a week later I had Dylan playing in the car when some of my friends came to visit home, and they looked like they were holding in farts; they really didn't like him."

"People become used to the type of music they usually listen to. It's why top 40 is dominated by stuff that isn't actually that good--it's played over and over until people start deciding they like it. If someone isn't accustomed to hearing rap or folk, they're going to think it's strange or hard to listen to."

"Miss me with that top 40 crap."

"Some top 40 is okay."

"As guilty pleasures, but that's a different topic." He smoothed a piece of hair away, smirking. "Back to Dylan--what makes him different as a lyricist is the way he uses mysterious allusions and symbols. Kendrick says stuff that you can piece together if you analyze it enough, but some of the stuff by Dylan I shake my head over. It's like he's writing his songs nebulously on purpose for the sake of the listener's interpretation. There's something a little beautiful about it."

"I think he likes to keep up a certain image of the prophetic wanderer that's reinforced by the way he writes his lyrics, but sure. I think it's a lot easier to guard your secrets if you write lyrics that could have a million interpretations."

"Ok. Maybe it's possible, Mr. Know-It-All. But if you know so much, tell me why there has never been a decent cover of Tangled Up in Blue."

"Isn't Dylan the most covered artist of all time?" I couldn't recall which song he was talking about, but resolved to look it up the second I had some privacy.

"But there's been no good cover of that song the way that All Along the Watchtower was reinvented in this amazing thing that Hendrix did. Tangled Up in Blue had so much potential, too. It has this power to it that could be supercharged by someone else."

I shrugged, sipping more beer. "Maybe someday it'll happen."

"It could, but I doubt it. A lot of Dylan's best work is over 60 years old. I don't think anyone besides a music nerd would be interested."

"You never know."

"You know who I think should almost never be covered, though," he mentioned with the same voracity as he had since I first brought up the topic of music. I got the sense that he was like a shaken soda can that had been kept under pressure for years. "Joni Mitchell."

"Joni Mitchell... It would be hard to replicate her. Though, I think that one cover of Woodstock was really good."

His face settled into a strange relief, as if he were afraid I wouldn't know who she was. "I'm as queer as a three dollar bill, but I love how beautiful she is in the way she sings and carries herself."

"She gives me a Sissy Spacek circa Carrie vibe. Or maybe Stephen King, if he were a chick."

Not sure how to respond, he laughed at the comparison. "It's more about who she is, not exactly what she looks like. She's so... graceful. I love her. It's impossible not to empathize with her, especially compared with other artists. I think it's the way she sings and pairs her words with the melodies that's beautiful. You feel like you're sitting across from her at a beach bonfire when she sings All I Want. I don't know why she didn't gain the same kind of cult status that other people did from that era."

"I couldn't say."

"Sexism? I think it's some kind of misogyny."

"You're probably not wrong."

As the waiter placed the dishes in front of us, a familiar queasiness took over. The food was buttery and smelled of umami, and the strong odors stirred up unfinished business in my gut. I excused myself, wading through the crowded tables as I headed for the bathroom.

I was in the stall longer than I would have liked. Without going into details, it was a bad idea to eat so much barbecue with alcohol. My body stabilized after I expelled the toxins from my stomach, but I was still nauseated in a bone-dry way. Regardless, I swished water in my mouth, washed my hands, and quickly headed back into the dining area. I parted through the crowd of people eating their dinners, dodging busy waiters, and saw that Santos was staring down at something.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that he had my phone in his hands.

"What are you doing?" I asked with more aggression than I'd intended.

His gaze met mine, his eyes dark and pensive. "You... Your phone kept buzzing. I thought there was an emergency."

I sat down. "Even if there's an emergency, I don't appreciate you snooping. I was only in the bathroom."

The phone returned to the table in a deliberate motion. I noticed he hadn't touched his dinner, his filet mignon bleeding on the plate. "I apologize. It's just, you seem to know someone called 'Robin' well enough."

"What are you suggesting?"

"The guy your friends keep saying you 'hooked up with.' How can you sit there saying you think there might be something more between us when you're off getting drunk and banging someone right before going on a date with me?"

My body became heavy with the weight of his words. "Robin is a girl I met at a party. I got drunk, and I regret that, but it wasn't exactly my fault."

"What I read was clear," he stated, laying back in his chair.

My blood quickened as it rushed through my veins. "Nothing happened between us; I just met her. Besides, I'm gay."

"Look, I don't know how to break it to you... I don't think anything more is going to work out between us, so I'm just going to end it now. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

My heart pounded with the urgency of a jackhammer. I felt a desperation to defend myself, bring forth evidence, or call a witness to my defense, but his cool expression explained that no matter what I did, he'd made up his mind. I stood up, pocketed the phone, and pulled out my wallet. "This twenty-dollar bill should be enough to cover the soup. Feel free to take it home, or whatever. I don't care. I won't sit here and be told I'm a liar, even if I do like you."

Santos stared ahead blankly, appearing like a cold mannequin.

My self respect was partially restored, but as I walked out of the restaurant, I accepted that I'd lost Santos. As I reflected on what had just occurred, I couldn't shake how bizarre the whole affair had been. He didn't come off to me as a busybody before the phone incident; he had always been so cool and laissez-fair about our interactions. We'd been laughing and connecting on a deeper level only ten minutes before! Was he telling the truth when he said that my phone was buzzing, or was he secretly a freak who would scour my things the second my back was turned? Why did he jump to conclusions so quickly? The fact that he practically assaulted me in the car was also an issue, however minor.

As I was walking the streets of the downtown area, I pulled my cell out. Swiping through the lock screen, I noticed that my picture app was open; he'd been nosing through an album of my family vacation to Kenya last year! I felt violated in a surgical way, wondering what else he had been digging through.

I scrolled through ten or fifteen texts I hadn't read before the date with Santos. There were plenty of drunken messages from my friends, sure, but I noticed my mother had also been trying to call me. There was only one text from her:

Where are you? Contact me right now.

I dialed her, pressing the phone to my ear. The dial rang four times before she answered.

"Hello?" Her voice was raw.

"Hello, Mom? What's going on?"

She didn't respond. I heard her sniffle.

"Mom?"

She took in a long, ragged breath. "Luke... Your father is dead."

CHAPTER TEN

My last meal I had before my father died was an uneaten bowl of French onion soup.

The last song I listened to was I Got You Babe, on Robin's radio in her sedan.

The last movie my father and I watched together was Deadpool 2. He mentioned uneasiness over the casual violence.

His last text: Keep your head up.

He was gone now.

The doctors stated that Dad descended into respiratory arrest which resulted in his eventual death. Whether through homicide or manslaughter, Harriet and I were convinced someone was guilty of one of the two. The coroner couldn't confirm foul play, and as far as the hospital was concerned, it was a blameless turn of events. In that week, melancholy followed us like a dreary cloud everywhere we went.

We sat together at the funeral reception, looking like nicely dressed ghouls. Neither of us had slept much in the days leading up to that dark afternoon, though we felt tired at most times. I brought her a croissant sandwich with a side of brie from the buffet, but she didn't touch it. I suspected that she hadn't been eating much at all since Dad died; her clothes billowed about her.

"One bite?" I asked, perking my voice up.

Her eyes rotated towards me. "How can you eat at a time like this? Half our relatives are treating this thing like it's a family reunion. Look at them."

Harriet and I had walled ourselves off to a small table tucked in the corner of the reception hall, which gave us an easy view of reception hall. Harriet scowled when any of our family appeared more than mournful over their hors d'oeuvres, which happened more than I wished. They weren't the ones losing the only father they had.

Our mother took the role of hostess, wandering around to the dozens of tables to talk and console the mourners who showed up. The place didn't have an old, stuffy feel to it like some funerals did, though a portion of me wished the place was painted black. We hadn't been to church besides Christmas and Easter, but Mom still had a certain affection for the bright, modern building when we had reason to be there.

My friends showed up to the service, which I was thankful for. They piled up their plates high with mediocre buffet food, probably feeling they deserved it for their patience. For the time they were there, all of them had a hard time communicating to me in my time of mourning; the most I'd gotten that afternoon was a stoic nod at the entrance to the funeral parlor.

There was one person I was surprised to see in attendance. As much as I would like to say it was Santos, Robin had tagged along with my gaggle of friends. She occasionally turned to make eye contact with me, and while I waved politely at her, I wished she hadn't made an appearance. I kept my focus on Harriet for a while, eating my own croissant sandwich.

"Luke," Terrell stated, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Taken off guard, I looked up. Terrell, Hayden, Vi, Jocelyn, and Robin were standing there, sad looks on their faces.

"Hello. It's nice to see you all," I said.

"Awful what happened to your dad," said Vi.

"Yeah, we're all sorry to hear about it," added Jocelyn.

I nodded, not sure what the proper response was.

"If you ever need someone to talk to, we're all ears," said Hayden.

"It's a huge blow to lose your dad. You don't need to hold back," said Terrell.

"Thanks a lot, guys. I will definitely reach out if I need you," I responded.

"Just don't bottle it all in if you need to talk," said Vi.

"I won't. I promise."

I wouldn't call them. I watched The Avengers with them and shared basketball memes; I loved my friends, but they weren't the type of people you called at two in the morning to lament about your dead father.

Terrell stuck his hands in his pockets, briefly pacing in place. "Well, we're gonna head out. Hope you're handling everything okay. We'll see you around school, or did you decide to drop out?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "I haven't decided yet. I called my teachers and told them what was up, but I may decide I don't have it in me to return this quarter."

"Whatever you decide, don't feel bad about it," said Hayden. "Hope to see you later."

"Bye, guys,"

While my friends filtered out, one person remained standing there. Robin approached me tentatively, sitting down in a vacant chair. She reached for my hand, which jolted some alarm, and said, "I'm so sorry about your father, Luke. I've only known you for a short time, but I'd like to be there for you if I can."

I looked to Harriet, but she was already rolling her eyes and clasping her purse shut.

"Goodbye, brother." She crossed in front of Robin to kiss me on the cheek.

"Where are you going?" I asked, as if she'd abandoned me on enemy lines.

"I think... I need to get away right now. I'll see you back at the apartment."

"Sure. See you later."

She gave a polite smile to Robin before heading out.

"Your sister seems like a nice girl," said Robin, pulling her hand away.

"Yeah, she's all right."

"She is younger than you, right?"

"Yes."

"I've always wanted a younger sister. My siblings are all boys, and well... It can be hard to relate to them sometimes."

"You seem to relate to me well enough," I said.

"You do... come off as someone I can relate to, yes. I hope I'm not reading that wrong?"

"No, not at all."

I was lonely, and sick to death of being sad. I hadn't cried during the service, the eulogies and dirges too abstract to hurt. When I touched the white velvet of my father's casket, gazing down at his lifeless visage, the tears came down like torrential rain. I needed someone like Robin. She was a shameless opportunist, but I was desperate for sunshine. As we talked about my family, the weather, and fast food, some warmth returned to my life.

The hall remained full for the entire time we talked, though a few people did come and go as the afternoon wore on. I could sense Robin was building momentum toward something as we talked--which I assumed would be a clumsy attempt to ask me out. It might not happen because of the context of the meeting, though I didn't consider it out of the restraints of possibility. It was more likely that she was establishing lines of communication to then set up a date on a less dour day. I was glad Harriet wasn't there to judge us for it.

"I think sundaes without nuts are incomplete," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Only peanuts, though. Almonds, walnuts, and all others should be nowhere near anything ice cream related," I responded. My tie was astray and my suit jacket was hanging over the back of the chair.

"Do you like gelato?"

"What's gelato?"

"Oh my God! We have to get gelato sometime. I know the best place. There's a coffee and chocolate flavor that's to die for, and the fruit flavors are also very good. It's located in Seattle, though I know that's kind of far. It would be a fun outing, I guess, to cheer you up."

Bingo.

My phone rang, and I darted to answer it. "Hello?"

"Luke, your little date is over." It was Harriet.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm at Dad's place. Someone broke in."

"What do you mean someone broke in?"

"Just hurry! Don't leave me alone here any longer."

I broke the chat with Robin immediately, promising to make plans to visit the gelato shop. She had a pleading look in her eyes as I left, as if I were departing forever.

When I arrived at the house, there were already half a dozen squad cars parked outside. There was a short drive leading up to the house, with native shrubs and solid pine trees surrounding it, and every stretch of concrete was taken up by a police vehicle. There was plenty of room for extra cars on the street, though I noticed a squad wheel rolled onto a white rhododendron bush. The sky was a ceiling of hazy gray as I walked up to the front door.

Harriet was talking to an older policeman as I neared, her eyes dark. When she realized I was on the approach, her features lit right up.

"Harriet, what happened?" I called.

As we came close to one another, the instinct to embrace was immediate.

She tilted her head up as I held her. "I spotted him--the burglar."

"He didn't hurt you?"

"No, though he broke a vase and a few other things to distract me while he ran."

"Do you know who it was?"

"I... I don't know. I tried to figure it out from sizing him up, but it was impossible. He wore a black suit, a balaclava, and a motorcycle helmet. I remember him seeming slim. It all happened so fast."

"It's all right. You called Mom?"

"She hasn't picked up yet. Too busy at the funeral."

I nodded.

"He was in Dad's office. He didn't take anything valuable. I saw him rummaging through papers."

"The guy knew we were at the funeral."

"I think so." She sucked in her bottom lip, a tear coming to her eye. "I'm scared, Luke. He saw me. He knows who I am."

I held her tighter. "We'll figure this thing out, Harriet. We'll figure out who did this to Dad."

The police half-heartedly took a report and dusted the office. An investigator also paraded about, bumbling through my father's office with a pad of paper in hand. Despite all the pomp and flair, I never saw him write anything down. Harriet and I didn't stay long afterward--only to look through Dad's things before heading out. Even after asking Mom about it, she had no clue what the missing paperwork might have been. Our dad worked for the local government, but he wasn't anyone particularly important. Something to do with urban planning and permits.

I was Harriet's escort over the next week. She went through the room (and the rest of the house) with a microscope, gloves, plastic baggies, and tweezers. I stood in a quiet corner a baseball bat at all times, waiting for what may or may not be lurking. I tried to convince after a few days that the danger was likely gone, and that I could join in with her, but she wouldn't have it.

The most she found was a sleek black hair that appeared neither long nor short. Not surprising us in the least, the police never offered any updates. The trail became cold, though we should have been hot on the tail of a perpetrator. There was only so much Harriet could ask at our Dad's old job, though she remained insistent.

"Let the police handle it," one of Dad's old bosses told us in a dreary hallway. "I sympathize, but it's not your place to interrogate my team. They have work to do, too."

But the authorities weren't interviewing people. They weren't collecting evidence. They weren't looking at motives. After making formalities following the break-in, we were essentially forgotten. Our powerlessness was infuriating. No matter how much we showed we cared about achieving justice, or at least finding out who did it, people were nonchalant about our efforts. We could only speculate why no one took us seriously, which usually boiled down to the fact we were a black family. Harriet loved going on fervid tirades about this topic in a cathartic fashion, but hearing about it depressed me. I played piano whenever the emptiness of depression wasn't lingering inside me, which wasn't often. My existence felt bleak and hopeless, like the color of my life was vacuumed away.

There were no leads of what we squeezed out of the few county employees interviewed. Dad's work laptop was one of the stolen objects, so we also couldn't investigate that.

Then, out of the blue, we received a strange letter in the apartment mail box. It wasn't specifically addressed to anyone, and Harriet might have thrown it out if not for a whim. When she showed me the letter as I walked through the door, she waved it dramatically, like a dictator at a podium.

"Luke, look at this!"

What she handed me were cluttered newspaper clippings glued on standard printer paper. They spelled out:

FREDERICK PERLITH WAS MURDERED.

HE HAD ENEMIES IN PUBLIC LIFE.

"Yeah, no shit," I muttered to myself.

"Who do you think sent it?" she asked, taking it back. "It's eerie, isn't it? I thought people stopped doing this kind of stuff in the 70s."

I checked the envelope; the postage stamp was from Seattle. "Who lives in the city?" I asked.

Harriet shrugged. "Should we give it to the pigs--or, I mean, the cops?"

"They'd just end up 'losing' it," I said.

"Better to keep it with us," she said, rolling out a freezer bag. "We're building up a case, so we need to keep all the evidence safe."

At the end of any given day, I'd often go to my messy room, turn off the light, and lay in bed. I felt powerless, angry, and small. I'd often try to remember happier times to cheer myself up, like when Dad took us to Disneyland, or maybe the times we celebrated Christmas together. Every time I did this, I would end up crying. My father meant the world to me, but to the jackal who ran him over, Dad was probably nothing more than a diversion or a means to an end. I'd try to think of other times I was happy--on outings with friends, perhaps, but my mind would drift to thoughts of Santos.

I'd think about the time he placed his hands on me while I was playing piano, or when we met eyes for the first time at the pool. I'd felt a happiness inside that had never been replicated before. While alone in my room, I'd often scroll through the same text conversations we'd had, reminiscing about how excited I had been whenever I received a response.

On the Friday after the funeral, Robin texted me this:

How are you doing?

I'm okay, I responded.

Would you be down for the world's greatest gelato? My treat.

Actually, I'm still not feeling so great. I'll let you know when I change my mind.

Sure. Hope you're better soon.

Thanks.

I scanned the text conversation between Santos and I, staring. We hadn't said anything to each other since my dad's death. For me, it was mostly shell shock, but I guess for him... one bad date was enough to scare him away. I wanted so much to reach out to him and say whatever it took to win him back. I missed him, I wondered how he was doing, and I wanted to be near him again. I was willing to return to school for those simple reasons, but breaking the ice in person seemed awkward and too direct. How to address him, though? It'd been two weeks since we'd last seen each other, and while we were civil, there was bad blood between us. With a heavy heart, I decided to explain myself.

Hi Santos. I want to apologize for my behavior at the restaurant. It wasn't right for me to be rude to you. I would have said something to you sooner, but my father recently passed away. I wasn't really in the state of mind to communicate much with anyone. You were right when you said someone was urgently trying to contact me--it was my mom giving me the bad news. I hope you can see it in your heart to forgive me. I would like to see you again.

Taking a deep, nerve-wracking breath, I hit send.

In the following hours, I tried vainly to get my mind on anything other than Santos and whatever message he might send back. As the hours cruised on (and I binge Glow on Netflix), I began to hopelessly think it was better he didn't respond. He was taking a long time, so I assumed the likelihood he had something positive to say was pretty low. Until, around 8:45PM, I got this:

My condolences about your dad. I'm really sorry to hear it.

And then... nothing. I didn't type something back immediately because neediness is a repulsive quality, but I also expected that he would have more to say. Finally, I responded,

Thank you.

It felt forward of me to push the conversation any more than that, considering everything I'd brought up in the original message. I remained silent, despite myself. I couldn't very well force the guy into having a conversation about giving a relationship a second chance. He knew what I said. If he wanted to ignore those points, that was his choice.

I gave up on him after waiting for twenty minutes. While my eyeballs were faced towards the television, I didn't regard a single thing going on with the show in front of me. I decided to turn it off and go to sleep.

As I laid in the darkness pitying myself, another notification came to my phone.

I accept your apology, but I don't think we're the best match for a few different reasons. You're a beautiful musician, and I enjoyed the conversation, but there are too many obstacles. I wish you luck with someone else.

I held an aggressive desire to know what those reasons were, and what obstacles I needed to overcome. I told myself it was better to drop it, but I couldn't stop myself.

Tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it. We have something special, we just got off on the wrong foot.

I wish I could. Goodbye.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Cold cream ran down my fingers. I would have thrown the ice cream cone away in one of the trash bins, but I didn't have the heart to disappoint Robin. I usually loved chocolate or ice cream, but now sweets turned my stomach sour.

What am I doing here?

We walked down Pike Street, milling through a cattle call of tourists, white collar workers, teenagers, and gutter punks.

I must be at my lowest depths.

I thought that Robin would help me get a better outlook on things, but instead all I wanted to do was go home and lock myself in my bedroom. The day was overcast, as it had been for the past two three weeks, and I swore that I could smell the advent of rain.

She deserves better than me--like someone who can return her feelings. If she'd go for a guy who nearly vomited in the back of her car, her standards couldn't be too high.

"Oh, we can stop to get coffee after, if you want," she beamed, all smiles. "I really want to stop at the Lululemon. Do you mind helping me shop for a pair of yoga pants? I've been needing new ones for a while."

"Uh, sure," I said, forcing myself to lick the raspberry gelato before it liquefied.

She wrapped her arm around mine in an agile, smooth motion. I couldn't say I was repulsed by her maneuver for intimacy. I needed human affection, but I lacked any kind of motivation to acknowledge her touch. I was still mopey after the text conversation with Santos, and the finality of my father's death made me feel like I was rowing towards a black hole. It didn't seem to make a difference if I was joined by a companion on my descent into the dark.

We walked into the clothing store, and I found a convenient excuse to throw my ice cream away. I followed her around as she inspected the racks, more invested in my own pathos than in seeming amiable. She was doing her best to keep things peppy between us with upbeat and energetic remarks, which I could appreciate. But then, she also seemed more interested in shopping than discerning whether I was having a good time with her or not. After an hour of inspecting every article of clothing in the store, she found a few things she wanted to try on.

"Come in the changing room with me. I need someone to help pick these out," she said with the smile of someone concealing a secret treat.

I didn't realize she was that kind of girl! I thought as I cleared my throat. "Can't you show me once you come out?"

"That takes too much time and effort. Besides, wouldn't you like to watch?"

"I don't want to get us in trouble."

"We won't get caught. C'mon!"

She darted for the only changing room that wasn't locked, tugging me in before slamming the door shut.

"Um, I don't know about this," I said, standing awkwardly in the corner.

"Shh! Relax--I do this with my girlfriends all the time. You don't need to get all bent out of shape. Here, let me help..."

She shimmied her tight jeans off, turning to show off a neon pink thong and... well... an ass I failed to fully appreciate before.

"Like what you see?" she whispered, seeming for the world like a professional stripper.

I was tripping over my words too much to give a proper response, which seemed to satisfy her. It's not like I was actually aroused by the sight of her firm behind--on the contrary, this event helped solidify my gayness in my mind--but I hadn't taken her to be the type to strip down for someone she was barely acquainted with. I assumed we would wander around Seattle chatting about Game of Thrones or something!

I attempted to be encouraging when she tried on the yoga pants, but she caught on right away that my interest in this idea was waning. She arched her back and pranced around the enclosed space, reminding me of an antelope in heat. The best I could do was throw in a few, "That looks nice."

I think she possessed this idea that seeing skin would help cheer me up, but I also suspected she enjoyed showing off her curves. She did have a pretty nice body, even if it wasn't obvious to me when she was clothed. I appreciated her in a way someone might admire a painting.

What if it were Santos locking us in a little room? I laughed at the fantasy. We'd be making sweet love by now.

I made myself a little aroused thinking about it, so I stopped.

"So, which one did you think was the best?" she asked, perhaps trying to suppress some irritation with me.

Summoning myself back to planet Earth, I answered, "The black ones."

"Which ones? Three of them were black!"

"Uh... They were long?"

Three knocks pounded on the door. "Do you need any help in there?" called a high pitched voice.

Robin's wide eyes darted to mine. "No, I'm okay!"

"I'm sorry," continued the salesgirl, "but is there someone else in there? It's company policy that only one person can be in a changing room at a time."

My escape out of this nonsense finally arrived. I opened the door and walked out, issuing a brief apology as I left. I wanted to walk back to my car and go home, but that would also entail sitting with Robin for an hour in traffic. I'd only gone out with her because I figured... Well, I was in a bad place, and she was more than eager to spend time with me.

I shouldn't have accepted her offer when she asked me on the date, but I was so lonely and miserable. I needed something in the world to reassure me that there were scraps of happiness left in this heartless, bleak existence. I'd been drinking and holing myself up in my room the week before the outing, and was acutely aware of how dangerous my behavior was progressing. Going out with Robin when I had no attraction to her seemed like a minor sin compared to what life dealt me in the last month.

I made it to the exit, though instead of heading out, I decided to sit on one of the small ottomans. Robin wasn't far behind, looking like she'd swallowed a lemon.

"Decided not to get anything?" I asked.

"No," she answered curtly.

We went outside together, but as we paced down the street, I got the sense that she wanted to ditch this date as much as I did.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Sorry for what?"

"This wasn't a good idea. I'm still not over everything that's going on in my life."

She paused to look at a travel agency display window. "No, it's my fault. I was being stupid. I guess I assumed that's what guys like, you know? People tell me that all men are the same. I figured it would help distract you from your problems."

I found her charity endearing, however misguided it was.

"You're a pretty person, but I thought we'd be doing something a lot tamer on a first date. I wanted to get to know you."

"It was a bit much, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

She turned to me, a small smile forming on her lips. "You know, I was right to like you. My intuition has been wrong before, but I have a good feeling about you. You're not like the other guys I've gone out with. It seems like you really care about people."

It was hard to come up with a response to that, considering everything.

"Look, do you still want to hang out today?" she asked. "I'll forget about everything that happened if you will."

"Sure, you have a deal."

The date made a complete turnaround after that. Robin was talking to me like a normal human being instead of trying to appeal to my 'masculine ways,' which was a relief. We walked into a coffee shop she had been raving about that featured unique junkyard scrap on the walls and industrial lighting. The baristas all had colorful tattoos on their arms, ear gauges, and pierced faces. This style seemed to be a pre-requisite to serve coffee or donuts at the 'hip' places in the Northwest. I tried to be fun by ordering a flavored latte instead of coffee, and we decided to sit outside to people watch. The topic of relationships came up while we were sitting there sipping on our drinks. I guess the matter was close to our hearts.

"So who was your last boyfriend?" I asked.

"Oh, someone at my last job. But it wasn't a big deal. We were only together for a few months," she said. Our dynamic was more casual, which was a relief.

"I see."

"What about you?"

"I've never dated before. My friends talked me into asking this girl out once, but my heart wasn't in it. I'm a bit of a late bloomer."

I would be embarrassed to admit this to someone else. There weren't any stakes when it came to keeping her in my life, since I barely knew her, and she seemed like someone I could confide in over my idiot friends. Maybe because she was a girl, I also got this vibe that she'd be supportive.

"Oh," was the immediate response, as if I'd been lying to her about it the whole time.

I sipped my drink.

Would Santos freak out over that? He seemed most interested in what I had to offer physically, but that was only at the beginning. He asked me on that second date because he wanted to know more about me, and it was intoxicating to realize I was a new and enigmatic part of his life. The attraction was strong enough to feel like being in a dream, but I sensed he had a depth to him. It's like he was in a higher league than me, but he didn't know it or didn't care.

Who am I kidding... He's been molded since birth to be a privileged over-achiever. He's only still in this town because he didn't over-achieve quite enough for his parents. As soon as his transfer goes through to Stanford or Berkeley, I'd never see him again, anyway.

"... Luke?" she probed.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked you how your week has been going. You know, considering what's been going on. Was that insensitive for me to ask? Say so, and I'll shutup."

"Oh! No, of course not. I mean... I've been okay. As okay as I can be, I guess."

She nodded. "I know we've just met, but if you need to talk about something, for any reason, I'm all ears. Like, from person to person. You've been through a lot."

I hesitated, because there was something I wanted to talk about, but I wasn't sure if it was possible or even... wise.

"Well, you see it's my sister. She's been having these boy problems..." I began, my breath coming slowly as I said the words. Tremors traveled down my torso, and I felt I should have stopped myself, but I continued on. "She always has boy problems, but now things are a lot worse. She likes this guy--like, she's been talking about him nonstop since she met him."

"Oh, really?" she responded, bemused as she sucked on her straw.

"Yeah. He's, like, rich and handsome, and all that jazz. She's been moping over him since they broke up last week. She keeps talking about wanting to reach out to him again. Like, she's trying to come up with things she can say to win him back, because they broke up over a misunderstanding."

"What exactly were the circumstances of their breakup? How long were they together?"

"Um... a few weeks."

"That's not very long."

"No, but she kept going on about what a connection the two of them had. That, he thought she was cheating on him because he accidentally snooped through her phone."

"How does someone 'accidentally' snoop through a phone?"

"She left it out somewhere, and got a bunch of calls from someone. He thought there was an emergency."

"Oh. Hmm. I don't know, Luke, it sounds like it wasn't meant to be. I mean, is she younger than you?"

"Yes."

"Teenagers can be flighty and immature. Especially since they don't have a lot of experience in the world. Perhaps your sister and this guy will come around, but I mean, it probably won't go anywhere. People don't often stay together when they're young."

I looked down at my fidgeting fingers. "Yeah, you're probably right."

She put a hand on my shoulder. "Isn't breaking up part of learning how to be an adult?"

"I suppose so. She should try and get over him."

There was a brief pause between us as we watched people pass by.

"Luke?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Umm... How do I put this... I don't want to be invasive, and I totally believe you if you told me you weren't, but are you talking about something that happened to you?"

I blushed immediately, heat coming to my cheeks. "Uh, maybe."

She gave a heavy nod, staring out to the street. "Luke, are you gay?"

I didn't think she'd figure it out. Maybe I was deluded by my own misery, or I didn't figure she could read between the lines. I didn't want to come out, because I had enough on my plate, but I wasn't going to lie to her face. "Do you promise not to tell anyone? Please?"

"Of course!" she said, giving me a broad smile.

I let out a breath of relief. "You're not mad?"

"Well, I'd prefer it if you weren't gay, but it's okay! We were only hanging out for the first time, after all. Am I the first person you've told?"

"Honestly, yes."

She let out a long coo. "That's so cute!"

Leaning in, she gave me a brief hug. I wasn't accustomed to this kind of affection, but welcomed it as I returned the embrace.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "That's so much to deal with! Wow! No wonder you didn't seem interested in my ass! Haha! Okay, so who is this guy you're talking about? How hot is he?"

I gave a modest smile, averting my eyes in shyness. "Um... He's from a different high school than I went to, so you might know him. Santos Rodriguez?"

"Never heard of him. But he sounds sexy already."

"He's a swimmer, and goes to the same community college as me. I met him while he was training at the public pool. I don't know how, but he figured out right away I was interested in him. I feel awful I lost him because he's into the fact I play piano, and he's got an interesting personality I haven't totally gotten to know yet. He took me to this jazz club, and it was so cool! We hadn't even known each other that long, but I already felt like he cared deeply about me. It was stupid how things ended up between us. I can't stop thinking about him."

"Wow... I don't know, the way you put it now, I can't help but feel bad. He seems like a real winner. I wouldn't want to let him go, either."

I nodded, looking down at the ground again. "Are you sure you're not upset about hearing I'm gay? I'm not trying to put you on the spot, but it seemed like you were into me."

For a second, I caught her true expression before she could cover it up with a facade. "I mean, I won't deny it, but I can't exactly dwell on it, can I? It's okay, I'll get over it."

"You sure?"

"I'd like it if we could be friends, if it can't be something more. Is that okay with you?"

"I was hoping you would say that. I'd be really happy if you were."

We decided to ditch the 'date' to watch sappy romance movies at my apartment. We bought popcorn with extra butter, along with two giant champagne bottles to make mimosas.

It was pleasant how well we got along without any pernicious sexual tension to get in the way. It occurred to me that if I hadn't met Santos first, I would have been less motivated to tell Robin I was gay. Given I was grieving the death of my father, I might have continued dating her to help overcome my shitty feelings. I liked to assume I would hypothetically break up with her before transferring to some university, but I had my doubts. Maybe it takes someone like Santos to make being yourself seem worth it.

No one was around when we got home, which suited me fine. Mom had been picking up extra shifts lately to keep busy while my sister... Actually, I had no clue where she retreated to half the time. She often disappeared for erratic reasons, thought she wasn't around much at all since Dad's death. I worried about her. She could seem strong willed when she wanted to, and she was a capable person, but her obsession with finding out what happened to Dad changed her in despondent ways.

I forgot how much of a mess my room had become over the past week or two. My bed remained unmade, dirty clothes were strewn about, my desk was a dumping ground of discarded papers, and there were food wrappings all over the floor. I apologized profusely, making quick work to collect the mess. She was more than willing to help, which inspired a degree of shame in me considering I usually took pride in my structured neatness. I decided after that episode that my mourning period of sloppy, jumbled disarray was over.

We dumped the champagne and orange juice in a big decanter, downing our first glass before getting Sleepless in Seattle started. We got comfortable on my bed with a stack of blankets, pretending we were luxurious members of a sultan's harem. Snacking on popcorn and gummy bears, we made wise cracks at the television every now and then. When the first film ended, and I was too lazy to get up to change the DVD, I began babbling like a wayward lush.

"Robin, why can't things work out like in the movies?" I asked, flopping onto a pile of pillows and blankets that had spilled to the floor.

"You mean, live happily every after?"

"Yeah. Or something like it," I said, looking up at her. "Like, how many guys have you liked that ended in a dead end?"

She hiccuped. "I'm not super experienced or anything, but all things considered, I try to put myself out there. I have a lot of male friends, I'll say that."

I let out a belly laugh, though I felt bad about it.

"I know, I know," she said, sipping at the last remnants in champagne glass. "Add 'fag hag' to my list of titles. I can handle it."

"You're barely a fag hag for having one gay friend."

"It's happened more than once. Ugh, where are all the good men! Am I cursed?"

"You're like, what, twenty? Isn't that young? It's supposed to take time, right?"

"Whatever, I don't care. Luke, here's a secret--I've never had sex with anyone, either. Call me lame, but I refuse to have sex with a person unless I love them. I have not loved a single man, or a boy, at all. I don't know how much longer I can hold out, not even because I want sex, but because I'm missing out on something everyone else has already experienced. I hate being boring."

The time that Santos and I were drinking on the leather couch flashed in my brain, followed by when he grabbed me in the car and kissed me. I couldn't call the emotions I felt during those episodes to be love. Did I love Santos? The feelings I possessed for him were very physical, as if my lust was bleeding over into a more sacred territory of my heart.

When do you figure out if you love someone, anyway?

"It's a tough thing to consider," I responded. "I mean, you can't force true love. It could be years before you find someone you fall for. I'm not sure if it would be a bigger mistake for you to jump in to sex because you're feeling left out. It's not a good reason to do it, right? Not that I know for sure. I'm as much of an amateur as you."

"Will you make a pact with me?" she asked.

"A pact?"

"Yeah. We won't have sex until we love someone. Like, really love someone. We won't give in. Unless, like, you're not into that idea. I need someone to keep me accountable."

I hadn't decided if I was specifically against casual sex. When I reflected on it, the time Santos had wanted to move on to sex made me more uncomfortable than turned on. It was probably an indication that I should wait, considering how I otherwise felt about him. What was the point in doing sex stuff if I wasn't ready?

"Let's pinky swear on it," I said, flashing mine up.

She laughed, hooking mine with her own finger. We shook briefly, settling the matter. I got up, cracking open a copy of Say Anything before inserting the Blue-ray into the player.

"I thought all guys wanted sex all the time," she said. "Like, you're all poon-obsessed zombies. I shouldn't say that, though; you're a guy. A nice guy. I think I'm drunk right now."

"No, it's not just girls," I responded with an affectionate smile. "I want to love who I'm with, too. No slutting around." I didn't know how much will power I possessed to follow through with that sentiment, but at least I was making some kind of statement.

"Okay," she mumbled, lost for a moment as the alcohol sloshed in her stomach. She became transfixed on the hazy imagery of John Cusack holding up a stereo. "Tell me more about the perfect guy for you. Like, if you designed the perfect man for yourself, what would he be like?"

Santos was the first person who popped into my mind, I'm ashamed to say. Why was I talking about my idea of the ideal man with someone who showed me her butt earlier that day?

"Well... he'd have to be tall, to start with," I said.

"Hell yeah, I'm with you."

"And... he'd need to have dark hair."

"Tall, dark, and handsome--got it."

I smiled. "Besides that, someone who likes music, too. Someone I can talk to about things. We'd get in long conversations that would go on all night long. Long enough to watch the stars fade away and the sun rise."

The last comment was something I desired the most from Santos but hadn't received yet. There was potential there between us--what started out as an awkward evening on a couch had progressed at the next date towards a true connection. Given more time, I could see us bonding over more than just songs and musicians we liked. That was all lost now.

"Someone to completely trust, yes. You know what, if I found someone that amazing, I don't think I could stop myself from trying to get him," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Barring stalking charges or something, I'd try as hard as I could to win an amazing guy over. When I was in high school, there was this one guy I was deeply in love with for years, back to elementary school. We spent a lot of time together on the track and field team, joking around and talking. I was getting to the point of needing to say something to win him over, because I was running out of time before graduation. Besides that, he was between girlfriends.

"But then something happened. It somehow came up that one of my better friends was also harboring a secret crush on him, and that she even carried around his picture in her wallet. And then my other friends admitted that they also wanted him! I felt like such a basic bitch when I realized that everyone had a thing for him. I decided it was a waste of time to ever say anything to him. He had so many options, I couldn't imagine why he would choose boring old me, and I also felt I would step on the toes of my friends.

"I'll never know what would have happened because I never said anything. He still asks about me every once in a while over Facebook, to be friendly, and we're friends. He found someone else, and they're getting married next year. I mean, maybe nothing would have come of asking him out, but I stopped myself before I even got the chance to try. It's unacceptable for my life, for my happiness. I might be with him right now instead of single, but instead I was a coward. I can't let that happen again, and I never will."

I was struck silent.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I decided to serenade Santos.

After stuffing my keyboard into my trunk at around seven in the morning, I drove off with bleary eyes to the community college. My grand plan was to keep an eye out for where he parked and then follow him home when he left in the afternoon. In order to know the direction he would be heading, and thus give me enough time to track him, I would have to observe from which entrance he came through. There was a chance I would have to spend a few days figuring out the logistics of this because he used a back entrance or decided to stop at a friend's house, but I held fast to the hope that he'd go back and forth from home to school.

The morning air was stubbornly chilly as I sat in my car and sipped from a plastic cup. I chose what I thought of as a good hiding spot--right next to bramble and bushy trees, concealed on the other side by a poor student who had to show up before the crack of dawn. Many of the people who passed through the school entrances were half asleep and covered in multiple layers of clothes. I had my doubts that Santos would show up with the earliest of the morning arrivals, though I remained concerned about missing him.

After an hour and a half of waiting, I spotted him. Arriving from the west, he drove his gray BMW into a nearby lot. He looked jagged, morose, and pale, like he had been yanked through the gates of hell. With nothing better to do, I parked closer to his location and trailed him from a careful distance. It wasn't hard to keep a low profile up, considering what a zombie he was.

His first class wasn't a class, really. He went into the gym, and after careful snooping, I witnessed him enter the pool area. He must have blow-dried his hair every day, because I never noticed wet hair in class. His swimming practice also explained why he always appeared so fresh to me compared to how he seemed that morning. I eventually left the gym, not wanting to arouse anyone's suspicions, and played on my phone at a bench.

When I saw him again about an hour later, he strode about with more gaiety and stride than when he showed up earlier. I followed, keeping an alibi prepared in case he turned around and saw me following him to Russian Literature. He never did realize I was behind him until we arrived at the classroom entrance. When he motioned to close the door, and realized that I took up space behind him that was usually vacant, his aquamarine eyes widened at seeing me.

"I see you're back to class now," he stated.

"Yes," I responded with a calm restraint.

"I'm glad you're feeling well enough now."

Before I said any more, he walked off to take a seat, but not at his usual location. He'd chosen a place towards the front, sandwiched between two other students. I swallowed, accepting it, and then marched down to my regular place at the back.

My feelings of distress deflated once the lecture picked up steam. Dr. Ninvosky spent most of the time fielding questions on the reading or explaining some of the deeper themes of the book. I forgot my copy of the text, feeling anxiety and guilt that I couldn't comment on any of the queries she tossed out. Between Harriet, Santos, the funeral, and my other classes, Anna Karenina had taken a backseat in my life.

"... Luke, can you answer me?"

I nearly jumped. "What's that?"

A playful smirk appeared on her face, as if we were both in on why she had chosen me from the other students. I braced for what horror might await me.

"I asked what your opinion is on Anna at this point," she stated. "What do you surmise her good points are, along with the bad ones? What would you have done if you were in her situation?"

She hadn't thrown any pity hints in the question, leaving me lost. I couldn't find the words to respond, so I didn't.

She waved her hand. "You know what, you get a pass today. But next time, you better be able to answer me, buddy. Would anyone else like to take up this question?"

The girl seated ahead of me raised her hand. "Anna is doing the best she can for her situation. She's a good wife and mother, and tells Dolly she should try and keep her family together. Anna isn't a bad person who sleeps around, like Dolly's husband. I mean, Anna cheats on her husband, but it's not exactly the same. Anna seemed sad to me when she finally hooked up with Vronsky, even though she's in love with him.

"She felt like she couldn't live anymore if she couldn't have romance, but she also had obligations to be a good mother and wife. She wants to have both, but I guess there's no way for her to have them with the way her life is way back in Russia. I feel bad for her. She tries to do the right thing, but she's human. She can't be expected to be an angel, or completely honorable at all times. She has needs as a human being that she can't cast aside no matter how much she might want to. She even rejected Vronsky a few times because she didn't want to do anything wrong."

"Yes, very good!" Ninvosky responded. "Very perceptive of you, Nicole. I'll have to give you extra participation points for that."

The class continued on in this fashion for the rest of the lesson. Santos sat silently through the two hours, staring down at his notebook in consternation.

After Russian Literature, Santos traveled across campus to one of the pebbled buildings constructed back in the sixties. His black hair differentiated him amongst the disgruntled students who queued outside one of the classrooms. I assumed that the subject must have been a major bore or a pain in the ass, because none of the kids appeared fancy free about filing inside.

When the class ended, I noticed him head towards the general direction of the parking lot. The moment he stepped foot on the black tar and pulled his keys out of his pocket, I raced towards my own vehicle.

The trick was to leave at the same time as him while also keeping enough distance so as not to be spotted. I attempted to keep three or four cars between us whenever possible, especially as we both entered open road. This seemed to be less possible as the commute neared his home, so I put as much distance between us as possible. I kept my hoodie and sunglasses on, since I figured there would be times he'd gaze in his rear view mirror. His house was farther from the central area than I thought it would be, my surroundings taking on more twists and turns as I headed north. Every hill had a grand house, and each was grandiose in its own particular way. A portion of the beach homes were in a rich Italian style, while others took a more modern approach with sharp angles and boxy exteriors. BMWs and Audis were the routine vehicles seen parked in the driveways, while the more exotic owners had Porches and Teslas.

When I was about to hit the general crest of a hillside, I noticed that Santos' red brake lights glowed. I slammed my own brakes, peering at him as he punched a code for a heavy iron gate that guarded his home. The entire breadth of his property was guarded by tall Italian cypresses and thick, manicured boxwoods. The setting was peculiar, as if he were entering the residence of a Mafia family.

Questions flooded my mind. If his family was so wealthy, why did he drive an antique? What kind of business were his parents in? Why would he use a public pool when he probably had three of them at his house?

He rolled up his driveway after the gates slowly parted. I took a deep breath, a new rush of adrenaline hitting me as I realized my task. If I crept too quickly through the gates, I would be caught, but if I didn't go fast enough, I wouldn't be able to get my keyboard in. Before knowing all of this, I was comfortable with the idea of parking a block away from his home and carrying the keyboard to his backyard... but I had also been under the assumption that Santos lived in a normal neighborhood!

Feeling I had no choice but to proceed, I accelerated up the drive a few moments after he rolled out of sight. The gates nearly clipped the back of my bumper as I passed through, and when I got inside the barrier, I saw a towering mansion and expansive grounds. His house reminded me of a French chateau, with carved symmetrical details on the facade, long decorative chimneys, and the occasional pinnacle. The lawn that surrounded it had to stretch on for a few acres, circled by tasteful pine trees. Santos parked at the loop that circled around a fountain adjacent to the entrance. He didn't notice me when he exited his car, though I would have been easy to spot. His head down, he headed straight up the steps to the polished double doors.

I parked down towards a shady area near the gate, got out, and then trotted towards the side of the house. My confidence concerning which window belonged to his bedroom tapered as I walked along the expanse of property. The investigation wasn't helped by the stretches of thorny rose bushes surrounding the entirety of the house. All the windows had the same boring, elegant facade to them: white curtains inside, white blinds, and fluted wood framing on the exterior. Some of the windows were larger or smaller than average, leading me to believe that the irregular ones weren't for bedrooms. I hoped that Santos would give me a clue on where his bedroom was by opening a window or looking through the window pane. The worst scenario I could conceive was if he'd decided to stick around in the living room and watch television or something.

But then it happened: Santos' voice, however faint, floated from above. A shadow graced across the curtains here and there, as if he were pacing. As I approached closer, I pinpointed his location on the second floor. I couldn't tell what he was conversing about, not that I cared much.

I sprinted back down to my vehicle and pulled out my keyboard along with the sheet music, double checking that the batteries were still working properly. I also brought a bouquet of flowers, though I wasn't sure it was the right move to bring them along. In the heat of the moment, I figured I might as well take them with me. If I was going to make a big fool of myself in front for the boy I loved, I'd go all the way with a handful of roses.

I lugged all the stuff back up the hill, trying my best not to drop anything. I set everything down right in front of what I remembered as his window, flipped through my music a few times, and then gave myself a moment to breath. I didn't hear Santos' voice any more, and I hoped that meant he wasn't busy instead of gone. I thought about texting him, but since I was right there, I figured I should throw a small rock against his window. I did so, waited a moment, and then threw another one.

The glare of the glass concealed his face, but after squinting my eyes, it became apparent that he was standing near his paned windows. I made a motion with my hands, suggesting that he open them, and he sent me a quizzical expression as he swung the windows out. Santos had changed his clothes, I noticed, wearing sweatpants and a white V-neck. He seemed relaxed, though he had dark patches under his eyes.

"What is this?" he asked.

I tried to find it in me to pull my nerves together. "Hi... You might not want to see me right now, and I understand that. Even if you still decide you don't care for me any more, I wanted you to know how I felt about you. I wrote this for you. I hope you like it."

I stared down at the keys, aligning my fingers. I forbid myself from looking at him as I performed, for fear of choking or making a huge technical mistake that may cascade into disaster.

I pressed down, commencing this fool's errand.

I lead in with a fast-paced interpretation of Bob Dylan's Tangled in Blue. I was like an Irish folk dancer in a frenzy, completely mad, but also in rehearsed order. I came into my courage as the lyrical portion approached, hoping that my vocal chords wouldn't falter:

Early one mornin' the sun was shinin'

I was layin' in bed

Wondrin' if he'd changed at all

If his hair was still red

His folks they said our lives together

Sure was gonna be rough

They never did like

Mama's homemade dress

Papa's bank book wasn't big enough

Instead of diving into the next stanza, I lead out from the frenzy of Dylan's song and headed towards a melody that resembled a journey down a gentle forest stream (my own invention), but similar enough to Tangled to fit together like an interpretive jigsaw puzzle:

A shock of black hair drew my eye

And eyes more tranquil than the sound,

More sapphire-blue than the sky

I saw his shadow one day, but I may be wrong.

I got lost walkin' around through the trees,

Beer in a crumpled paper bag.

It was his heart that set me at ease,

Tangled up in blue.

...And back to Dylan:

She was married when we first met

Soon to be divorced

I helped her out of a jam I guess

But I used a little too much force

We drove that car as far as we could

Abandoned it out west

Split up on a dark sad night

Both agreeing it was best

My fingers thanked me as I returned to a relaxed pace:

I'm reaching reality,

But I stubbed my toe

I'm losing trace, lost my footing,

I'd dropped the beer long before.

Is there a sign or billboard around here?

A song is all I've got to my name.

If only I could see his face again.

But he's occupied and away from me,

Tangled up in blue.

I let myself glance up once while I played, though I knew I shouldn't have. To my surprise, his hand drifted to his mouth, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyebrows were upturned in shock. Pleasant shock.

Oh my God, he likes it! I thought.

I let out a breath of relief as I played into the final half of it, my fingers dancing along in happiness as I closed the melody. I abstained from glancing up again until a pocket of time passed after the final note. When I did gaze up, I saw that he was staring at me with a bright, happy expression on his face.

He made big, sloppy claps for me. I wanted to collapse on the grass.

Obliging him, I made a shallow bow. "You liked it?"

"That was insane. It was... I can't believe it."

"So that's... good?"

"Of course. It was great."

"Oh, good."

We stared for a good, long moment, stupid smiles on our faces.

"Luke, no one has done anything like that for me in my life. It's the most beautiful gift anyone has given me."

I didn't expect the reaction, and I think it showed.

"I got you these flowers," I offered, picking them up off the keyboard.

"They're gorgeous. Wait, I'll come down!"

He raced back into the house before I had a chance to respond.

Santos' slippers crunched against the dry leaves as he approached. I turned to him, holding the flowers at my side as a joyfulness filled me. His smile was different from what I was accustomed to--it had a sweetness and a vulnerability to it. A natural gravitation pulled us together as we embraced. I let out a shy breath, encompassed in his warmth.

"That was really ballsy of you," he whispered into my ear.

"I felt I had to do something. I care about you."

He gave me a gentle peck before leading us across the lawn. "I'm just glad you're here. I tried my best to scare you away, but I guess it didn't work."

"I was having a hard time dealing with my dad, but I still thought about you a lot."

As we traveled up the stairs to the front door, it seemed we were entering the vacation residence of a Shah. The dusty pink marble was dazzling, along with the cast iron chandelier hanging overhead. Once inside, the foyer was no less grand. Two spiral staircases wound down from the second floor to polished redwood. The walls were painted a refreshing shell-white, antique furniture tastefully arranged in harmonious feng shui. Even the air smelled expensive.

We went to the large kitchen, where he offered me two beers. I decided to sneak a surprise kiss on the mouth, but he resisted me. Confused, I realized with the slip of my tongue that hard liquor was mixed with his saliva. I tried to conceal my reaction, but it was obvious to both of us that some of the light-heartedness of the afternoon slipped away in that moment. I also noticed an ash tray with a few stubbed-out cigarettes, though I didn't believe they belonged to him.

"Were you surprised to see me at school?" I asked, trying to direct attention away from the discovery.

"What do you mean?" He eyed me sharply as he took a drink from his bottle.

"Like... today. I had been gone for two weeks."

"Oh. Yes. I thought you might have deferred this quarter. I'm glad you returned."

"You can still sit with me in the lit class if you want. I won't hold a grudge."

He settled into a smirk. "We'll have to see what happens on Wednesday."

We both drank, amused.

"So where are your parents?" I asked.

"Working. My dad is in Olympia right now; he won't be back until the weekend. My mom's a big boss lady, so she's usually not home until late."

"I see. You must be home alone a lot."

"Yeah. Since I was a small kid. You, uh... would you like to come upstairs? I'll give you the grand tour of my room."

My stomach bubbled in excitement and trepidation. "Yeah, sure." The conversation with Robin about staying celibate circled in my mind, and I felt small defenses materialize.

I followed him up the steps, taking in more of the extravagance of the house. There was a long scarlet carpet running down the extent of the hall, framed by the occasional half-moon table with a priceless vase placed on top. The ceiling reached up for at least fifteen feet, and elegant lamps swung from above us for as long as we walked. We reached his room, which was almost spartan in its design. There were no posters on the walls or any decorations, though various medals hung above his double bed. What dominated the entire room was a twenty-by-ten foot cabinet stacked full of records.

I was mystified by the display as I approached, as if I were in the presence of a god. Santos collected indie vinyls, like The Decemberists, Rilo Kiley, Bon Iver, and Arcade Fire, though there were many, many artists I didn't recognize. Classical titles and jazz artists took up a large chunk, along with classic rock albums and 'oldies.' I'd never seen a collection so large, and was impressed by the diversity of the titles.

"You like Pink Floyd?" I asked, pulling The Wall out.

"Especially when I'm baked."

I smiled at him. "Can you put it on? I've never actually listened to music on a record player before."

"Sure, no problem."

I watched him as he set the large black vinyl on the turntable, seeming from my ignorant eyes like a wizard as he aligned the needle and pressed the correct buttons. We sat on the bed after the music started, finishing our beers before laying down together. Our faces were turned to each other, which I found cozy... and stimulating. He placed a palm on my cheek, caressing me as we stared into each other's eyes.

Laying there next to each other became more erotic and intimate than anything physical we had done. The effect of the alcohol on my empty stomach spread through my body like a setting sun, and the mesmerizing style of the music helped to make the world seem lazy and relaxed. We shared soft caresses while we listened to the music for a good hour or two, though I could have stayed there with him for the rest of my life.

His hands reached delicately for my waist, as if he weren't sure I might break in his arms. I smiled gently, granting quiet assent, and we joined for butterfly kisses. He sighed in my arms, letting out that breath as if the worries of the world were pouring out.

"You're beautiful," he said.

It was the kind of compliment I wasn't accustomed to receiving. "Thank you."

"No, I mean it," he said, then laid down kisses on my neck.

I was in ecstasy before any articles of clothing were removed, before we clung to each other like the answer to life's question, and before he pleasured the most sensitive part of myself.

I was in love, and I knew then that he was, too.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A worry gnawed at the back of my mind after our lovemaking. He didn't just taste of alcohol--his mouth was drenched in it. Before I'd started my song, he'd only been home for twenty minutes. Why would he feel the need to drink so much so fast?

"Have you been okay lately?" I asked.

He took on an annoyed befuddlement that made me ashamed to ask. "Is something wrong?"

Why did I ask a question like that?

"No... I think," I responded. "There's something about you that's been sending me these signals." Was that delicate enough?

He sat up. "You mean you can tell I'm an alcoholic."

It felt like the music came to a crashing halt. "I didn't assume you were... And if you are, well... I'd like to at least help you. If you want it."

I knew it was odd to say that considering I was one step down on the ladder considering my own alcohol consumption. But I drank when I was down, or during social occasions--I wasn't downing a handle every night!

He gazed up at the ceiling, laughing to himself. "Look, I didn't mean to make this weird between us. I feel like I've been found out."

I knelt on an elbow, gazing down at the comforter. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot. It doesn't change how I feel about you."

He placed a hand on my cheek before kissing me.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" I asked.

He gave me this affecting look, as if that was the last thing in the world he expected me to say.

"The only thing that can help me is getting out of here," he responded. "Somewhere far away, so I never have to speak to my parents again."

"Well, you'll be transferring out soon, right?"

"Next year. Not soon enough."

"Well... What have they done to you? Let's talk about it."

He obliged, nestling close to my body. I wrapped my arms around him, but his body was stiff and impersonal.

"This was all a mistake," he whispered.

"What was a mistake?"

He hesitated for a moment. "I shouldn't have brought you into my problems. If you left, I wouldn't blame you."

"There are so many great qualities about you. You think I'm going to kick you to the curb because you drink?" I was about to exclaim about how I loved him, but caught myself.

"Why would you want to be with someone who likes to get smashed all the time?"

"But it's something you want to change, isn't it?"

He stared at my collar bone as he contemplated this. "I don't drink for no reason. My home life isn't the greatest. I drink because I have a lot to deal with."

"Are you being abused? Do you need to escape from someone? You can stay at my place if that's the case. I'm sure my mom would understand if you're going through a hard time."

"No, no... It's nothing like that," he stated, almost as if he were horrified at the idea. "I'm not being beaten or anything. I just need to get away, you know? I need to start living my own life. I'm tired of living under the shadow of my parents. It feels like every stupid decision they make with their lives is something they have to take out on me."

"Like what? Tell me."

"They get into a crazy amount of debt. This house, trips around the world, random crap they pick up... Then they blame me for everything, as if shelling out for insurance on my shitty car is breaking the bank for them. They've never let me forget that I'm too stupid to get into an Ivy League. Any time I so much as leave a fork in the kitchen sink, they yell their heads off about it. They'd give me hell about my drinking, but they're drinking so many martinis themselves that they barely notice my habit. I'd slip the bird to them and walk off, but they've had a six figure college savings account in my name since before I was born. It would be the stupidest thing in the world for me to leave that because we don't get along."

My grip around him tightened. "If they're making you miserable enough to drink yourself to sleep every night, it is worth it to leave. They've already paid for most of your community college--why don't you call it even? You could go to a state school nearby and get a job. It sucks to pay off student debt, but it's better than feeling like crap all the time."

The inheritance my father left me came to mind--not that I was going to make mention of it. We could survive on that while we were getting our lives on track.

What was I thinking? I wasn't going steady with him.

"It's something I need to ponder," he said. "You're probably right about the whole thing. I'm holding myself back." He broke my grasp and walked off the bed. "I'm sorry, let's not talk about this anymore."

The vinyl continued to spin as the music stopped.

I experienced a combination of curiosity and awe as we passed numerous paintings and tasteful alcoves. We traveled up a flight of stairs into a sanctuary of white marble and porcelain. The bathroom had to be larger than my bedroom at home, and more costly than I wanted to think about. In addition to the luxurious vanity space, there was a jacuzzi that could sit four, a double-headed shower, and what appeared to be a steam room.

"Don't be shy," he said from inside. I realized I stopped at the doorway, though I hadn't intended to. Nervousness jolted my body as I followed, my feet cooled by the tiles. I noticed him grab a purple bath bomb from a cabinet before turning the silver handle to the jacuzzi tap.

"What's all this?" I asked.

He suddenly looked shy about the whole affair, his complexion lighting up. "It might have been a stupid idea. If it's too much, tell me. I thought you might like to let me pamper you."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I thought we might relax in the water a bit."

His ass was firm and round, the dimples on each side like a pleasant surprise as he dipped to test the water.

"Come in with me," he said with a smile.

I couldn't help but be a little embarrassed that I was aroused, and was thankful that a clear barrier of bubbles were there to shield me. The water was too hot for comfort, but I didn't want to look like a wuss, so I forced myself to acquiesce through the pain. We looked at each other from opposite ends of the large tub and shared a moment of calm. His long legs brushed against me in the water as his fingertips traced along the top of my foot, and I saw a smirk form on his lips.

"You aren't trying to tickle me, are you?" I asked.

"No, just teasing you a bit."

He went on making light touches, watching my face for reactions. I tried to play it cool in front of him, keeping my expression neutral. He took one of my feet in his hands, gently caressing them. The tame touches soothed me, as if he had an angel's conviction on how to deliver pleasure. My spine became less rigid as my body slipped further down into the water. As soon as he realized that I was putty in his hands, he applied more pressure to my muscles through his thumbs, pressing down on my sensitive points.

"That feels amazing," I said, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

"I do what I can."

"You must have experience."

"Yes... with others."

Every other guy in the world moved in on him like an animal in heat, especially since he was so adept at physical pleasure. I wondered what I brought to the table when he so clearly had his pick of men, but then I thought of the look on his face when he heard me sing... It was one of the sweetest feelings I'd had in my life. I wanted to keep giving that gift to him, hopefully for a very long time.

"How many men have you been with?" I asked.

"Too many," he responded, keeping his line of sight down.

"How many is too many?"

He looked to me, then back to my foot. "The real answer? Over thirty. Easily."

How is that even possible? I thought. Isn't he only twenty-one? I'm in love with a boy who's... hypersexual?

I tried my best to hide my reaction, though I knew he recognized the bewildered sympathy in my eyes.

"How did you meet them?"

"Everywhere, though mostly through the Internet. There are a lot of men out there who pursued me, though."

"I can believe that." I suppose a lot of men would love to get their hands on someone like him. Beautiful and willing. "If I can ask, when did you lose your virginity?"

He hesitated again. "Young. Thirteen."

"Thirteen?"

I felt like an asshole when he remained silent; he focused instead on massaging my foot.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to judge you," I continued.

"No, it's okay. Anyone would react the same way. I was too young."

I wanted to ask more, but decided it probably wasn't the time or the place to delve into why the thirteen-year-old version of him thought it was a good idea to join the adult world. I had extinguished the mood, but was that such a bad thing? I wanted to be intimate with him again, but there was so much more that needed to get out of the way of that first. There were probably dozens of conversations we should have had before spending time in a hot tub together.

"Have you been in love before?" I asked.

"In love? How would you define that?"

I shrugged. "In a committed relationship with someone, after you confide in them about it."

"In that case, no."

He and Robin aren't so different after all. Maybe he sees sex as a kind of enhanced form of masturbation. I can't relate to that, but I know for some sex is just a release. Is that a bad thing, or something that goes person-by-person? Can I say that he's damaged because he's slept with so many men in such a short amount of time?

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you been in love?"

With you, though that doesn't fall under my definition, either. "No." I could admit to Robin how inexperienced I was, but not him. At least, not yet.

"It takes a long time for most people to find love," he mentioned. "I don't think my parents ever found it. Do you like the massage?"

"Oh... Yeah, it's great."

He pressed on my feet for another moment or so, then reached over to turn on the jets. They were nice, but they couldn't compare to the way his hands made me feel. He brushed along my legs and thighs as he positioned himself closer to me, touching my cock for a brief moment. Our eyes locked, and an electric magnetism pulled our mouths together as we joined to kiss. I moaned as he touched my chest, completely relaxed in his arms. He let out a hot breath against my neck as he caressed me, his hands running up and down my back.

"I've been with so many men because I've been searching," he whispered into my ear. "It's never felt like this with other people. There's a depth to you, and I never get negative vibes. But you're not a goody two shoes, or... I don't know. There's just something I like about you. You feel right."

I swallowed. "Then why did you hesitate with me? Why were you so quick to throw me away?"

"I'll tell you, but not yet. Give me time."

"I want to trust you, but sometimes..." I shook my head, deciding against treading those waters. "I couldn't get you out of my mind when I thought it was over between us. You're going through a hard time in your life, right? From everything I've picked up about you, that seems to be the case."

He shook his head, almost in disbelief before kissing me again. "It's never been worse."

I brushed his face, and we kissed on the mouth again. It went on longer than I expected, our tongues touching and twisting around one another. He still tasted like vodka, but I didn't care. I was falling in to the intimacy, feeling like I was floating on a cloud. Not that I wanted to have sex. I stopped and pulled away from him before things could go too far. I didn't care if we were getting blue balls--he could try harder if he wanted to seduce me, but I still just wanted to talk.

"Forget about all that heavy stuff," I said. "I barely know about the fun things about you. Tell me, what's your favorite color?"

"My favorite color?" He slid next to me, laying a little kiss at my hairline. "Blue, I suppose."

"The color of the ocean."

"Among other things. You?"

I smiled. "I like green. It's cool, and relaxing."

"Okay, let me have a go. Favorite food?"

"Mexican, without a doubt. I could eat chimichangas every day. Would that be more like Tex-Mex? I don't know. Either way, I'll eat it."

"I like sushi, and other Japanese stuff. I know with a name like 'Rodriguez' I should say Mexican, but we didn't have a lot of home-cooked food." He cleared his throat. "Do you like sports?"

"I watch basketball sometimes, but I don't take it too seriously."

"I'm into swimming, obviously, but I like baseball. I had an uncle who almost made it to the pro leagues, but he had an injury and didn't make it. I always wanted to be a baseball player, but I got into it too late. I wasn't good enough to go anywhere, so my parents told me to quit."

"You've always done swimming?"

"My parents forced me, since I was about five. They wanted me to be an Olympian, so there's never been a time I haven't. I guess like everything else, that fell through."

I held him, a deep pity occupying me. It was hard for him to even have a conversation about lighthearted things without contemplating what a disappointment he was. He must have been living under a crushing lack of self esteem.

"It seems like you still like swimming," I said.

"I do. It's still a means to an end, I guess, but it does help me clear my mind sometimes. It's nice to float and clear my thoughts about things. I get some of the best clarity about my life when I'm lying on my back, staring at the stars. It's almost like meditation, you know? Do you know anything about meditation?"

"Not that I can say."

"Usually you do something repetitive to clear your mind of clutter. Like, some people repeat a word in their mind, or they visualize what it's like for air to come in and out of the body. When I focus completely on my form as I'm going through the water, the other things in my life kind of fall away. I feel clean."

I tried not to stare as I looked at his beautiful face. "Maybe I should try sometime. I have things I need to forget about, too."

He looked up at me, his brown eyes seeming more large and vulnerable. "Like your father passing?"

It felt like a jawbreaker was caught in my throat when he said it. "Yeah." I dared not say anything more; I would have cried.

"You had a good relationship with him?"

"Yeah, it was good. He and my mom were going through some stuff before he passed away, but he was always a good dad. I could never remember a time when he wasn't trying to be nice or helpful to us. He was an average kind of guy--he went to the office and came home every day. Was never rude or crazy or anything. He didn't deserve what happened to him. I don't understand how someone could be so callous as to leave him there on the side of the road." I stopped again, my emotions catching up with me.

"People are shitty," he said. "If they're not, it's the exception."

I couldn't help but smile. "You think so?"

"Well, it's generally true."

"I think most people are okay."

He slunk into the water. "Maybe I hang around the wrong people."

Maybe that part of your life is about to be over. At least, I hope it's about to be over.

Four or five hard, aggressive knocks came to the door. Both of us jumped, splashing water onto the marble.

"Santos! Santos, are you in there?" Came a high-pitched voice.

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, it's me."

"What are you doing home? And why are you up here in this bathroom? Open the door."

He gave me a long look, as if bracing himself. "But I'm in the bath."

"So what? You're supposed to be at your swim meet right now. You're the one who should be explaining to me what's going on right now."

The long doorknob turned ominously, and we had all of three seconds to prepare for his mother to walk in. She was a trim Chinese woman in her mid forties, her sleek hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dressed in slacks, a fashionable silk blouse, and large white pearls, she certainly appeared like someone who would live in a beach-side mansion. She had the face of a thousand distresses, as if she were wearing a mask of concrete. Her mouth fell open when she realized what she saw. "What is this?"

"Can I have a little peace around here?" he hollered, collecting bubbles around himself. The water from the tap sounded like the surge of Victoria Falls.

She swayed right over in her three inch boots. "No, no you can't! You're on probation. I want him out, and if you're not giving a crap about swimming, I want you in your bedroom studying. Christ on a cracker! I give you a little trust, and this is what you give me in return--your regular level of treachery. You're not even allowed to be in here. Get out! Go! Along with this nappy headed nobody you picked up. I don't want to see his face, or any other fag you find from the streets around here. This is my house, and don't you forget that fact for a second."

We stared at her in blind shock. Presumably to give us privacy, she spun around and slammed the door behind her. "Three minutes!"

Another surprise for the day, he began yelling at her through the door in Mandarin. The language had this curvy, windy way about it as it flowed from his mouth. Despite the context, I found it irresistibly sexy. They feuded with each other for a few minutes before she walked off in a huff.

He punched the water before standing up. "I'm sorry about how she was speaking about you. We shouldn't be here, like in the house... It's not a good place. I should have taken you somewhere"

"It's all right," I responded warily. I took the towel he handed me, centering myself after the shock.

Does she say these kinds of things about every guy he brings home? Perhaps she has a reason to give him so much attitude.

"I guess this is it for us today," I said.

"It doesn't have to be. Don't listen to her--we can leave and go somewhere. She's going to yell my head off the rest of the day if I stay here now. Let's get dressed and go somewhere."

I perked up at the idea of spending the evening with him. "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. Let's focus on getting out of here first. I don't want to face her again today."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

My car was cluttered, which briefly deflated the pathos of our retreat from the mansion. I spent a good ten minutes fisting wrappers and papers into a plastic bag before Santos could hop into the passenger seat. The aroma inside wasn't exactly a spring meadow, but he didn't seem to mind the modest musk. He instead seemed more focused on quietly sulking over what just happened, and I wanted to cheer him up some way, but it was hard to avoid making some kind of misstep. It was a nice day to gaze out the window, at least.

I wished I knew what the magic words were to cheer him up. I would have offered to let him move in with me again, but I felt the offer would probably just annoy him.

I decided to put on some Beatles songs to cheer us up, starting with some of the more lighthearted titles. Listening to music together seemed to lighten the mood, judging by his change in facial expression. Okay, maybe I was trying to stay positive, because all he had to say was, "Haven't listened to the White Album in a while."

In the middle of I Want to Hold Your Hand, I snaked my way over to his seat, wrapping my palm around his cold one. His eyes flashed to me, and a smile came to his lips.

"What are you going to do about your parents?" I asked.

He gripped me tighter. "I don't know. Sometimes these things blow over. They're not even around most of the time, so it's bearable. Thanks for putting up with me--I know it's awkward to be in the middle of us. I would do anything to not have to be associated with them."

"You want to grab a burger or something? It's getting pretty late, and I haven't eaten yet. My treat."

"Sure."

"I don't mind dodging your parents, by the way."

"At least you don't have to go out of your way to impress them, right?" He forced a smile.

"Speaking of impressed, I had no idea that you spoke Chinese. That was, like, some rapid-fire arguing you were doing with your mom."

"Oh, that," he said with a little laugh. "Since I was a baby, she refused to speak to me in anything but Mandarin. Didn't want me to lose the language like a lot of kids do."

"That actually seems a bit wise, regardless of her other qualities."

"She's nothing if not ambitious."

I wasn't usually one to smoke, but I could have used a cigarette to take the edge off. I didn't think I'd immediately be in an existential crisis about Santos after finally winning him over.

He's been with over thirty men, I thought. Why would he feel the need to pursue that many, that fast? It's not normal, right? What in the world am I doing with him? Am I some idiot who puts too many emotions into a single person, or is this really love? I can't help but feel like I've stepped into some other world with him, like the dark side of the moon. I feel I'm wandering a forest without a compass.

A jackrabbit hopped out onto the country road. I gasped, slamming the horn as I swerved. My tires screeched as we spun donuts on the highway, white smoke rising from below us. The bunny hopped into a patch of bramble as we stabilized, but I was left shaken after nearly flipping the car over into a ditch. Further fraying my nerves, a truck sped around the corner just as I steadied us back into the correct lane. When I gazed down, I realized that I was gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn my knuckles purple.

"Luke?" he asked, placing his hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"It's fine," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. It wasn't yet twilight, but I decided to turn the headlights on for safety.

He let out deep breath. "Jesus Christ, that was close. You know, in situations like this I usually blow off steam by fucking."

I couldn't help but turn to him and laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed."

He smirked. "It's not the right thing to do, I know. I've been thinking for a while now that I need to get my habit under control. I'm thankful you're not into slutting around like everyone else. You're my positive influence in life. I hope that doesn't... put too much weight on your shoulders. I feel like I wasted your time, with trying to win me over."

"No, of course not," I said, keeping my eyes resolutely on the road.

"I did tell you one of my dark secrets. Maybe I was testing you, or... I don't know."

"You have more of them?"

His eyes glided over to me, then back out the window. "Be a pal, Luke, don't make me talk."

It isn't a venereal disease, is it? I couldn't help but wonder.

"We all have secrets," I found myself saying.

"Yes. Have anything up on offer? It might help me feel a bit better about myself."

I mused on it. I wasn't a church boy or anything, but I couldn't think of anything to compare with some of the things he bore. "Okay... I've masturbated to furry porn before."

He burst out laughing, though he tried to hide his amusement by covering his mouth.

"I know, I know--laugh it up."

"What kind of furry porn? I need details."

"It was a horse and a bear or something. I don't know, it happened last year. I don't like to think about it."

"That's dirty. You know you like those furry sex pots. It's so forbidden."

I let out a laugh, despite myself. "Please. I think I was just curious."

"If I show up to your house wearing a Mickey Mouse outfit, will you lose your mind?"

"Stop, please!" I laughed. "It was one time!"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop torturing you."

We looked at each other again, only this time we felt a touch more of camaraderie between us. I didn't want to think about the future, his problems, or what the hell was going on. I decided I wasn't going to think about it--I was going to focus on having a good time with him, and if he needed to confide in me, I was there for him. I'd won him over... wasn't that enough for now?

A mall seemed like the perfect location for absent-minded wandering, especially since it didn't involve driving. We had cheeseburgers at one of those 50s-style diners, splitting a chocolate milkshake. We were cute in a picturesque kind of way, especially when we both knelt to sip at the same time. I guess if being gay were acceptable seventy years in the past, we'd make solid models for a nice Rockwell painting.

We wandered the halls of the mall after that, checking out the Halloween decorations hanging from the ceilings. Entering one of those costume stores that only stick around for a month or two, we had a festive time trying on masks and costumes. Halloween was a relieving topic of distraction, since a lot of it had nothing to do with reality or real life problems. We got really into it while we were there, making poor imitations and generally wasting time while the employees watching us through the ceiling mirrors. Just when the tension seemed to completely eradicate from the air, I met eyes with my sister in one of the aisles. Santos and I were joking around with a 'sexy' Donald Trump costume, which made the situation all the more clumsy.

"You're fired! Time to round up some immigrants! Grab them by the pussy!" Santos stated with a jab, squeezing his lips as if he were constipated.

"Luke!" she called, cantering up to us with a shopping basket in hand.

Her eyes blazed up like Christmas lights when she got her eye-full of Santos, especially after he removed the blond wig. How could anyone not notice Santos? It was easy to forget how handsome he was, and to the average person he resembled a model.

"Hey, sis," I said.

"How are you? Who is this?" Her mouth was wide and happy, like a child being offered a hot fudge sundae.

I wanted to sigh with annoyance, but remained courteous. "This is Santos. We met a few weeks ago. Santos, this is my sister Harriet." I figured that gave some details about who he was without admitting we were together.

"I see," she said, sashaying towards him. "Halloween shopping, huh? Have any fun plans coming up?"

We looked to each other briefly.

"Not really," I said. "We were thinking about it, though."

"He doesn't look like your usual friends," she said, her distaste obvious. "You guys should hang with me and my friends for Halloween. We're gonna have a house party and then go walk around the neighborhood."

"With high schoolers?" I asked.

She shrugged. "You guys aren't that much older than me. C'mon--it'll be fun."

"We were thinking of something more adult," Santos said. "Like that party they have on Capitol Hill. What's it called? Halloweenie?"

As soon as the last word graced her ears, she gave us both this long, intense stare. "Wait. Halloweenie... That's a gay party. Like..." She stared at us again, this time letting her eyes linger back and forth. "Luke! Are you gay?!"

I couldn't help but blush. "Um... Maybe?"

"What do you mean maybe?" She glomped on me, jumping up and down. "Oh my God, I can't believe it! My brother is a homo! No, wait, I can believe it, because you've been single since forever. Oh my God! Your boyfriend is so freakin' hot!"

Santos covered his laughter with his hand, watching us.

"Yeah, that's right, I saw you trying to creep on my man," I said, poking her with tickles.

"Please!" she exclaimed loudly. "I'd have to be a nun to not want to..." She looked at him with a darker shade of bashful. "I mean, uh, I can't help if he's cute. I hope this doesn't make things weird, Santos."

"No, it's okay," he responded. "I mean, you wouldn't be the first to drool over me."

"Oooh! Snap!" I said, then cowered as she showered play punches on me.

Once she calmed down, we decided to walk together through the mall. She had a sprightly nervousness around him, though she enjoyed asking him questions as we sauntered past clothing stores and jewelry shops.

"So how did you two meet?" was her first venture into our brief history together.

"Uh, funnily enough, I met him at the local pool," I said.

"That's an odd place to meet someone," she mused. "Were you guys swimming, and decide that it was true love over butterfly strokes?"

"Something like that," Santos answered. "I'm on the swim team at the community college, so I'm often there."

"Oh, gotcha," she said, the wheels turning in her brain. "So are you two, like, official? Or, like... I don't know. I didn't see you at the funeral, Santos."

He cleared his throat and dug his hands into his pockets. "We were, um... We hadn't known each other long enough to feel that was appropriate."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. Not everyone has the decency to go to a funeral strictly for mourning. But you guys are boyfriends now? This is a thing?"

We met eyes again, wondering how to answer such a question. I didn't want to make any claims about the status of our relationship. I'd put enough of my emotions out there in a twenty-four hour period.

"We're... together, yes," he said.

I couldn't help but beam a huge smile when he said it.

"Cool," she said. "You know, Mom wanted to have a family dinner thing, with all of us, since Dad passed away. Like, with a bunch of fancy food and everything. How about that, Santos? Would you like to come to a dinner with family?"

I couldn't believe that Harriet was butting into my life like this, but I had to give her props for trying. I secretly didn't mind at all the idea of Santos becoming a more important part of my life--and quickly. It seemed like he needed positive people around him to alleviate what he was going through at home.

"I guess that's okay?" he said. "I mean, I wouldn't say no. Your mom wouldn't mind?"

"Mom has been wanting my brother to get a steady whatever since he was fifteen. She'd love to meet you."

I wanted to slap her, though I kept my expression steady.

"This is all so fast," he said with a little laugh.

"Oh, sorry!" she said. "If I said something wrong, shut me up. I'm just so excited to see that Luke found someone. You guys are adorable together. I knew when I saw you both that something was odd, and I guess not because you don't look weird like his normal friends. You guys seemed to be having such a good time together. Like, I could see that you both were making a lot of eye contact and were standing close to one another. It was sweet."

This time, Santos was blushing. "Well, I'd be honored to come. I guess I've never actually been to a family dinner with a boyfriend before. I haven't dated guys as nice as your brother."

I felt like I was bathing in a river of rainbows when he said that. Maybe it was a nice thing that we had run into Harriet.

"So it's a date?" she asked.

"Sure, why not."

Things were finally going in a positive direction. The investigation on my dad's murder was still fresh in my mind, and I was worried about things surrounding Santos, but those problems took a backseat that afternoon.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"So you like smoking pole, huh?" Terrell asked over the phone.

My stomach jolted. It had only been a few days since I'd won Santos over--how could he already know? Besides, I'd seen him at school the day before, and he hadn't said anything about it.

"Uh, to be honest, I'm low on practice," I responded, laying down on my bed. I was already dressed for the dinner Mom was preparing. I smelled too strongly of cologne, but considering how jittery I was about the whole thing, I considered it an acceptable misstep. The last thing I needed was the wafting aroma of my BO. My hair was looking sexier than it usually did, however, so that was a plus.

"Is that so? Jocelyn told me you had some man now. A cheesecake."

"You mean a 'beefcake?'"

"Uh, yeah, that." He paused to suck on a cigarette. I could predict his mannerisms by this point, even if I couldn't see him.

"We haven't done anything crazy yet. Not that it matters." I regretted saying that as soon as the words were out of my mouth. "How did Jocelyn find out?"

"She said Robin was crying on the phone to her about how all the good guys out there are queer. I take personal offense to that. Women just can't see my potential."

"Uh huh."

"She basically told all her girlfriends about it, as far as I know. You broke her heart."

"I'm sure the gossip is exaggerating about that. I went on one date with her, and she seemed fine afterwards. I needed to get out after everything that happened."

"I don't know, man. Bitches be crazy."

"She seemed frustrated. I don't think she's had a boyfriend in a long time."

"I guess a lack of dick could drive anyone crazy. You feelin' crazy, bro?"

I laughed. "I'm okay, man."

"Well... Congratulations on your gayness? I just wanted to call and find out what was up. Why didn't you tell us? We could have hooked you up with some Chippendales dancers. Actually, on second thought, no... No, we wouldn't have done that for you. But if that's who you are, I wanna let you know that it doesn't change anything."

I couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks. It means a lot for me that you said that."

"I don't think it's a big deal anymore, right? You didn't have to keep it to yourself that long. This isn't 1985."

"I know. I guess... I figured it was something I didn't want to talk about if I didn't have something to write home about, you know? Maybe I was being a big coward."

"Nah, man. I get where you're coming from. But if you need to talk to someone about your life, let me know. You know I'm here for you, right?"

I felt bad about putting him into some kind of nefarious category of my life. He was my friend, too, only I hadn't exactly been thinking of him in that way lately. I'd felt more comfortable confiding in someone I barely knew over him or some of my other friends. Robin was a good person, but why had I chosen her above everyone else? I didn't know if it was because I felt I was entering a new stage of my life, or if I had my doubts about Terrell. Either way, it wasn't fair.

"I know. Next time I need someone to talk to, I'll give you a call."

"Cool. If you're thinking about confessing your love for me, though, I don't do anal."

I laughed. "Okay, thanks for letting me know ahead of time."

"No problem. Talk to you later?"

"Sure. Peace."

"Peace."

I hung up, letting out another big breath of air as I soaked in the idea that everyone in the universe knew I was gay. I didn't like dealing with this kind of stuff. Especially after my parents' divorce, it seemed like I was enduring one dramatic problem after another. I missed being able to rely on doing the same thing day after day. Before all this I went to school, did some keyboard, and played video games with my friends. After that, I passed out at around one or two in the morning and started the whole thing over again. When were things going back to something like that?

"Luke! Come here and look at your cake!" called my mother from across the apartment. "Everything is almost ready!"

There's a cake? And I need to see what it looks like?

I got up, a pleasant wave of aromas hitting my nose as soon as I opened the door. Mom took the time to make my favorite foods, something she only usually did on my birthday. The smells of baked maple ham, macaroni and cheese, and garlicky green beans all mingled in the air to form a comforting tangle.

The cake was alarming. There were tubes of colored frosting still sitting out on the counter, drooling florescent pink and yellow across the granite. I tried not to wince as I took in the monstrosity: a giant rainbow stretched over a white sheet cake, framed by upside-down triangles, yellow equality signs, and what looked like a poor drawing of Freddie Mercury. In the center was a message in cursive that read: Happy coming out! We love you very much!

"What the heck is this?" I asked.

"Isn't it great?" asked my sister, hopping over. Her hair was marred with frosting, and by her demeanor, I suspected that she sampled more than a little bit of it. "We made it for you, loser."

"We wanted to express how proud of you we are!" announced my mom, leaning in for a hug. She kissed me on the head, pulling in my limp body closer to her. "It's your favorite--carrot cake."

"I'm really appreciative, and I love you both, but Santos can't see this cake," I said.

"You're being silly," Mom said with a wave of her hand. "I bet you he'd love it."

"Maybe we should... put it in the fridge for now." I took the liberty of doing just that before either of them could stop me.

"Please," said Harriet, rolling her eyes. "What's the matter, afraid we're going to embarrass you in front of your super sexy boyfriend?"

"Ooh, I can't wait to meet him!" gushed my mom, nearly leaping for joy. "He sounds dreamy! I'm so excited for your brother."

Kill me now and get it over with, God.

The ringing doorbell was like a fresh electroshock to my spine.

"Ooh, it's him!" my mother gushed. "Hurry, Luke--don't leave him waiting."

I couldn't help but roll me eyes as I headed for the front door. You'd think it was my mom who was hoping to date him.

As I opened the door, I noticed that Santos appeared more handsome than he usually did, dressed in slacks and a tasteful knit pullover. He had a box of chocolates in his hands and some sparkling cider.

Well, it's not alcohol, I thought. Maybe he's trying to clean up his image.

"Hey! Great to see you," I said, letting him in.

"Hi! I hope I brought the right thing. Is this what you're supposed to do when you're invited to dinners? I wasn't supposed to make something, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" my mother announced, marching down the hall in her floured apron. "It's very nice to meet you, Santos!"

Without warning, she enveloped him in a motherly bear hug. He seemed shocked at the show of affection, but also amused at the same time.

"Sorry!" I mouthed to him.

She continued, "Oh, look! He brought some things! What a gentleman."

"They're for you," he said a little awkwardly, handing them over.

"How very nice. I'll set them out right now."

He made eye contact with me, and I felt for all the world like we were a duo banding together through this family dinner thing.

"Your mom is nice," he said.

"She's been waiting for this day for a while now," I murmured.

"Oh, is that so?"

She came back in, bearing a tray of tiny sausages wrapped in puff pastry. "Please, have some! We're just putting the finishing touches on dinner."

"Oh... well... thanks." He took two of them, almost politely, and tossed them into his mouth.

I would have taken a handful, because they also happened to be one of my favorite foods, but decided to stay conservative in front of Santos. I mean, it would be a miracle if he decided to remain a couple after an evening with my mother and sister. I might as well not give him another reason to change his mind about me.

"Make yourselves at home. It'll only be another fifteen minutes or so," she added, heading back to the kitchen.

We wandered over to the living room and noticed that Harriet was watching something on the couch. She was dressed much more seductively than usual, wearing a lace blouse and short skirt. Her legs were freshly shaved and oiled, as well, making me want to gag. They were laid out like she imagined herself in a perfume ad.

She does know he's gay, right? You can't un-gay someone with spray tan and a shopping trip to Forever 21.

"Hello there," said Santos, taking a seat opposite her. "Something good on TV?"

"Nah," she said, appearing disinterested. "Just the news."

We sat together to pass the time. The focus was centered on Olympia, or more directly, on what lawmakers were up to there.

"Is your dad working there right now?" asked Harriet.

Not seeming pleased with the question, Santos answered, "Most likely, yes."

"How did you know his dad is a state senator?" I asked.

Her brown eyes enlarged. "Uh... I kinda found out about it."

I would have dug into her a bit more about being a snoop, but decided against it considering Santos was sitting with us.

"Harriet is the investigator in this family," Mom said in a good-natured tone from the kitchen. "You know, she was always the one digging through my closet to find out what I'd gotten her for Christmas or her birthday. It didn't matter where I'd hide the dang presents, she'd always find them. She found one of my massagers once, though she didn't know any better. You'll have to excuse her--she's always been like this."

"MOM!" she screeched.

Santos nodded, though he seemed perturbed about the whole thing.

"I heard that you're a swimmer!" said Mom, trying to change the subject.

"Yes, I am," he said. "It's not that interesting."

"It's very good for the entire body, they say. I should try to take it up myself; I've got some love handles I'd like to get rid of."

"It's not a bad idea," he said.

"My brother used to be a football player, but now he looks like the Michelin Man." She shook her head. "Don't let that happen to you, honey, it'd be a tragedy."

The rest of the dinner was equally embarrassing for me, though I tried my best to be as neutral as Santos. Especially after dinner was served, he took on a more jovial manner with them, as if their awkward comments were jokes he was in on. Mom and Harriet sat on one side of the jumbled table while Santos and I were on the other side.

"You know, Luke has quite some talent as a musician," said my mother. "He played a beautiful piece at the funeral--Black Bird, by The Beatles. It was quite touching."

"I've heard him play myself," said Santos, looking at me as if he were a proud father. "I agree that he should pursue it."

"You hear that, Luke? And I don't think he's flattering you," said Mom, winking.

"I'm just okay," I said sheepishly before biting into a second serving of maple ham.

"I take issue with that," said Santos. "You're fantastic."

Turning to him, I responded, "I'm practiced, but not a professional. There are a ton of pianists way better than me."

"I don't care. You're amazing, is what you are."

As my mom stared at us, I noticed her eyes were practically sparkling. "You two are just adorable. I can't stand it."

Harriet sent me a shit-eating smirk, motioning towards Mom's ear before whispering, "Luke and Santos sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage..."

"Harriet!" Mom hissed with a giggle, waving her away. "Leave them alone."

Santos covered his mouth with a napkin as he chewed, pretending he hadn't heard. I just shook my head, trying not to blush.

I assumed Santos was already vowing to never step foot in the Perlith residence unless strictly commanded. Maybe there was a reason I had been single so long.

"You're a music lover, then, Santos?" asked my mother.

"Yes. It's part of what brought Luke and I together."

"That's nice. I think it's important for a couple to have something in common. There's so many people out there who are only together because, well... who knows why. Proximity, attraction, convenience, you know. Before we divorced, Fred and I loved watching movies together. He was a science fiction nerd, but he liked the old films, too, like Casablanca."

"Here's looking at you, kid," he said in his best (and exaggerated) Humphrey Bogart impression.

Mom clapped, letting loose a guffaw. "Not bad! Freddy would have loved you. He was always quoting famous lines from movies."

My stomach twisted at the thought of Dad sitting at the table, joking around with the rest of us. I tried not to show my melancholy, but it was fucking hard to quell that bottomless feeling of loss. Mom seemed to realize she'd crossed a boundary, judging by how quickly she shifted to another topic.

"Do you like cake, Santos? We don't usually do dessert, but Harriet and baked it up special for tonight."

"There's cake?" asked Santos.

She pranced back to the kitchen and placed a few candles in the frosting, lit them, and brought the cake over. I'm sure if there were some kind of official 'coming out' song, she would have sung it in tandem with Harriet. Santos did his best to keep a straight face, but I wouldn't have blamed him if he burst out laughing as soon as he saw the frosting art.

When I blew out the candles, he mentioned, "This is the greatest thing I have ever seen."

The cake tasted to Mom's standard of perfection, even with the additional frosting. After eating, we spent an hour or two playing dominoes before Santos mentioned that he had to leave. The air was chilly as we walked out of the apartment, and I felt as nervous as I had when we'd first met.

"So what was your impression" I asked.

"It was great," he answered as we stood next to his car. "I wish I didn't have to leave, to be honest. I bet you I would have won the next round of dominoes."

My brows darted up in worry. "You know, you don't have to go. My mom adores you, and I could explain your situation."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "Let's not talk about it. But there is something else I needed to bring up. I wanted to mention... I had to discuss..." he trailed off, as if in a consternated knot. I kept expecting him to pick up the sentence or move on to some other thought, but no words came. It seemed as if he had a sock in his throat.

"What is it?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

"Just that..." He swallowed. "You have a nice family. Your mom and sister seem like really nice people."

I reached for his hand, staring at him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

His eyes hardened and spine stiffened. He turned to insert a key into his car door. "I'm fine. Are you free tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Sure. What do you have in mind?"

"I have a surprise for you. Can you be ready for me to pick you up at around ten in the morning?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why? What did you have in mind?"

"It's a secret," he said, placing a finger to his lips. "You'll see, though. Be sure to dress nice."

"I'll do that."

I knew I was going to obsess over the mystery that night instead of sleeping.

He kissed me on the lips before getting in the car. It was supposed to be only a peck, but it was hard to pull myself away from him.

"I'll see you later," he whispered.

"Bye."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Early the next morning, I was blindfolded and directed to Santos' car.

I was wrong every time I guessed what the mystery was, which I expected. The Orca Islands seemed the most obvious location, or Vancouver, or even the beach. I had no clue, though I was happy to play along with his plan. I noticed throughout the trip that he was playing a lot of Stevie Wonder. I wasn't sure on the reasoning for that, but figured it might have been some kind of hint. Was he going to take me to a Stevie Wonder concert? I didn't think that was likely, but it wasn't completely out of the question.

Spending time in the car with him was a joy. We were on the road for a good hour or two, and hearing his voice as he joked and talked with me was like tasting drips of heaven. He mentioned a whole lot of things, like his time in Europe or when he was forced to play violin for three years. Sometimes his stories covered times spent with other men. I wasn't jealous when he recounted these occasions, because deep down I felt that I was one of the only people in his life he took seriously.

"You got up at dawn to get croissants with this guy?" I asked.

He shrugged. "After we had been up all night, it seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, I'd never been in Paris before, and the whole thing had been pretty romantic." He paused, and I could tell in a flash that he felt remorse about the story. It was easy to guess what preceded the 'croissants at dawn' part of this tale.

"I'd love to take you to somewhere like Paris. It's so romantic, especially if you've never been there before. You can't even imagine."

"Some day, right?" I mentioned.

"When I finally get to transfer, and my parents give me the balance of the trust they owe me, it will all be worth it. We can go anywhere, or do anything. And after that, well... I won't be talking to them much after I get into a decent university."

"You know, I could get some kind of job, and save for us to go on a trip somewhere. That's also an option."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "You're too talented to work at some retail job. It would be a waste of time and a distraction to work minimum wage at fast food or retail."

I laughed. "You're being ridiculous. I live at home and go to community college. I don't even know what I'm going to do with my life."

"I see a lot of potential in you, Luke, even if you can't see it for yourself."

I wanted to argue with him, but decided not to.

The magic moment finally arrived around ten minutes later. When he pulled the blindfold off me, I faced a pretty average looking lot featuring bland office space. The sky was gray, as was the norm for early fall, and few cars or people surrounded us. I eyed him curiously, wondering what in the world I was supposed to be so surprised about. "Are you taking me to my casting couch interview? Should I have waxed my balls before this trip?"

He laughed. "Sorry, I thought it would be kind of silly if I had to lead you into the building when you couldn't see. Here, walk in with me and I'll show you what's up."

I followed him as we entered and checked in with the receptionist. The waiting room was as nondescript as the parking lot had been, resembling a dentist's office. But as we were directed down a hall, I saw on the walls albums and photos of musicians I recognized.

Wait... I thought as I spied album art and electric guitars mounted on the wall. Has he taken me to... a recording studio?

In the next moment, we passed by a glass booth, and I saw a middle aged man strumming on a guitar as he sang into a large microphone. He was bald on top and had a white ponytail... and for some reason was wearing sunglasses inside of that dark room.

"What is this?" I asked.

"What do you think this is?" he returned, smiling.

The receptionist stopped at a particular section of the hall where, through the glass, I noticed a grand piano and a microphone. There were blue and purple lights scanning across the room, and I could see a sound engineer in the far corner give us the thumbs up.

"It's for you," said Santos. "I want you to play some of your songs. I rented the room for an hour or two, or however long it takes to get some good recordings."

Despite myself, anxiety bubbled inside. "For, like, what?"

"For a CD," he stated simply. "They can professionally produce a finished product from what you play today."

"But... I haven't practiced... I have nothing written down. I mean... Oh god, I don't know if I can do this. Santos, it was so nice of you, but I don't think I can do it." How much had he spent on this? I know some of these recording studios can be hundreds of dollars an hour! Why didn't he give me some kind of warning? He's going to be so angry when I mess up and waste his money.

"You're saying that because you're nervous," he mentioned, patting me on the back. "I bet that once you get started, you'll roll right into it and be fine. I heard you when we were at the college--if you could play something like that, whatever you do here will be amazing. Don't act like you have to impress me or anything. This is a gift from me to you. Do what you want."

I felt anemic. "But, I... I don't know. I was alone then, or at least I had thought I was alone. I've never done anything like this before."

The sound engineer was staring blankly at us as I put up my best defenses. I was coming dangerously close to ruining this for Santos--something nice that he was trying to do for me. I could already see some of the vivaciousness fade from his features, which was like a cold dagger to the gut. The shame of letting him down immediately outweighed any reservations I had.

"I'm sorry. I'm acting like a little bitch," I said.

He put his hands on my arms, facing me. "Take a deep breath. You can do this, and if it doesn't work out, it's no big deal. It's my parents' money I spent on this, so it's already a good day if I wasted something of theirs."

I couldn't help but laugh a little. His smile was reassuring to me then, full of so much patience and faith.

"You're gonna be great," he said. "When I heard the music you wrote a few weeks ago, I knew there was something deep and wonderful about you. It never left me."

I blushed, dropping sight to the floor. I felt the impulse to tell him I loved him, but my gut wouldn't allow me to follow through on it. "Okay, I'll go for it."

"Do you need anything?" he asked. "Like, coffee or notes or the Internet or something?"

I inhaled deeply, thinking it over. "No, I'm fine. Man... If I had known this was coming, I would have been freaking out. Maybe it's a good thing you did it this way. I feel bad, though--I haven't practiced at all."

"Don't you play every day?"

"Yeah, but... I guess I didn't have the chance to be neurotic about it." I laughed. "Okay, I'm gonna go for it. Do I go in and start playing?"

"I've actually been at one of these things before. I'll go with the sound engineer, and we'll give you the signal to start. If you need time to stretch your fingers or something, you can let us know."

"Okay."

I pulled on the door, entering the surface of Neptune. Considering the panning lights, I suspected I would be filmed through this whole thing. I decided that I wasn't going to ask on whether that was true or not--I had enough to worry about.

"Luke, this is Dave," I heard a voice announce overhead. Santos and the sound engineer smiled as they waved from the booth.

"He says he wants to get a feel for what your music sounds like," said Santos. "So, we were thinking you could play a few songs of yours you'd like to have recorded, or anything you'd like, really."

I placed a single finger on the D sharp key. This piano was better than the one at the college, and definitely higher quality than what I played on at home. Still, I missed the familiarity of privacy. It didn't matter what I felt like or what was on my mind in my room, by myself, because I had headphones to keep the keyboard quiet to the outside world. I had been nervous when I sang for Santos, but I figured it was because I was playing for Santos. I was now performing for a more frightening audience, since it would potentially be everyone I was associated with.

"Play us something, then," I heard Santos say. "Anything."

I pressed down the D key again... and again, as if my finger were isolated to the sole slice of the piano.

"I'm sorry, is it possible for you to come back in the studio with me?" I asked.

He and Dave turned to one another to talk for a moment before Santos walked out of the booth. Watching him walk in settled my nerves, though I wished I had the strength to steel my nerves alone.

"I'm getting stage fright," I said.

"It's fine if you need me here. You want me to straddle the piano for you? I can put on a short skirt if you'd like."

I grinned. "That won't be necessary."

He leaned against the piano, looking down at me with his usual casual cool. "You're wonderful, you know. This was my secret plan to get mp3s of your music on my phone. I couldn't settle for any low quality recording."

"Makes sense," I responded.

"Would you play the instrumental song for me? The one you did in the TCC building?"

"Yes, I can play that."

I stared into his tranquil eyes, aligning my fingers on the keys. I held this pose for a few moments, feeling as if I were standing on the edge of a twenty-foot cliff that overlooked the sound. I counted to three in my mind, willing myself to make the jump.

The moment I pressed down, the music lifted around us like the night sky on a clear desert night. The more I thought about him, and about how I was performing for him alone, the less I made mistakes or thought about how I might mess up the opportunity.

I played, and played, and played. An unexpected obsession swelled in me, as if I were consumed with fervid desire. I played covers of songs I liked, I played songs I wrote in reference to Santos, and I played songs I had forgotten I knew. I did jazz, I did classical, and I experimented on the fly. Perhaps this drive was ferocious because, finally, someone noticed me and cared. I must have been playing and singing for hours, but all I wanted to do was keep going. With Santos there, it was all so much fun.

And then, like the last remnants of sand through an hourglass, I realized in an immediate way that I was completely drained.

We were told it would take at least a week for the recording to be cleaned up and finished. Santos seemed happy with my performance, even giddy, as he talked about it all in retrospect. He treated me to a fancy restaurant afterward, spending way too much on steaks, lobsters, and the best crab cakes I'd ever had. We decided to buy a bottle of champagne, and almost as an afterthought, rented a room at a hotel. My veins pulsed with the positive energy of that recording session, as if Apollo's ghost inhabited my body.

When we made love the night, the electricity of the day was still present in our touches and kisses. His caresses were firm, protective, and continually searching for more of me. We entwined like ivy, smelling and licking and laughing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We ended up attending the Halloweenie party. It wasn't my kind of crowd, since I don't generally hang around a bunch of horny gay guys, but we had a load of fun that night... probably too much fun. I got so drunk and dehydrated that I passed out at our table after three hours.

Santos seemed happier--honestly happier. He was focusing more on his applications to colleges, and as far as I knew he was drinking a lot less (excepting the night at Halloweenie). When talking on the phone, we chatted about funny things going on in our lives, how our days had gone, and hopes for the future. Every moment with him was joy, whether I was in his presence or not. We planned on going to the same college, and he tried persuading me into applying early so we would attend a school at the same time.

For the first time since my parents' divorce, I looked forward to waking up in the morning.

Mom decided it was time to move back to the old house. Harriet was tired of sleeping on the couch, which was understandable, and we had a security system installed before moving back in. Harriet and I were the ones on the title, and paying the mortgage with money from the will, but it still felt like Mom was the one running the roost when she told us to do our chores or come home before midnight. I appreciated the return to my old room, though fear crept under my skin every time darkness fell.

My friends didn't realize Santos existed. I'd been meaning to tell them, but procrastinated the whole mess for two to three weeks. It was bad, but I held on to this desire to keep certain areas of my life separated for as long as possible.

The partition of my personal life didn't last long, however. During a November morning, in a climate controlled area of the college cafeteria, they were all gawking at Hayden's cell phone and giggling. I peered over their shoulders and saw a video of a certain young man playing piano in a sea of purple mood lighting. A low, dumbfounded emotion filled me as I realized they not only knew about my music, but that Santos was obviously my lover. They spotted me before I managed a hasty retreat.

"Oh no, you don't!" called Terrell, laughing as he pushed me back towards the table by my shoulders.

"I don't know what that is, nor have I had any association with it whatsoever," I mentioned with a laugh.

"You can't run now, you've been caught red handed," said Hayden as he smirked.

"Who's the sexy lad, Luke? And why have you been hiding him from us?" asked Vi, winking.

I watched the video progress, keeping my composure in front of whatever judgments they had. "He's, uh... someone special."

"As if we couldn't tell," said Terrell. "What is all this? Are you some kind of star now?"

"I went into the studio, but I don't know what else you're talking about. Where did you find that?"

"We found it on Facebook," said Hayden.

I took his phone, observing more closely. There were more views than I thought there would be--20,000--but that was nothing too insane... I thought? It seemed strange that so many had seen it already when I wasn't even aware of its existence. I didn't recognize the name of the YouTube account either, but assumed it had to be a cover for Santos.

The video hadn't been up all too long--the time stamp was from only three days before. What had Santos been up to?

"So fess up," said Terrell as Hayden took the phone back. "What's going on? It's like you've got a double life goin' on or something."

I shrugged weakly. "Okay, so he's my boyfriend--"

Whoops and whistles broke out immediately.

"You guys already realized that, didn't you?" I asked with some indignation.

"We didn't know your boyfriend was an underwear model!" announced Vi a little too loudly, attracting stares.

"His name is Santos," I said. "He'd heard me play, and surprised me with the studio thing. I didn't think my performance would be posted online."

"I didn't even know you played music this good," Hayden mentioned, still eyeing the video.

"Yeah, no wonder you suck at Counter-Strike," said Terrell.

We talked a little more about the video until I left for my next class. I didn't mind it so much, since I got the sense they were awed by the idea I had secret musical superpowers. I set off with a spring in my step towards my next class, pulling out my own phone on the way.

So you posted the piano session, I see, I sent to Santos.

It took only a minute for him to respond, How did you know? I haven't sent the link yet.

My friends tipped me off, I responded.

Hah. Well, I hope you liked the video.

I licked my lips as I thought about the next response, dodging people as I tried to keep one foot in the real world. What on earth happened? It seems like more than you and my friends saw it.

This time, the response returned by the time I sat down in my Spanish class. I may have arranged things with marketing.

I shook my head, the breath escaping me. I was amazed he'd even orchestrated the studio time--what else was he meddling with? I didn't want to tell him he was doing too much, but I was in an oddly inert position. Half of me reveled in all this positive attention, and the other half wished I was still safely inside my cocoon of anonymity.

You do too much for me, I said.

You need someone to care about you. If it's me, so be it.

Did I ever tell you that you're wonderful?

I miss you, he said, carrying on to quote the song Wonderful. We'd been listening to Adam and the Ants the previous night before falling asleep.

Yes, I do.

Meet me at the Japanese garden after class?

Sure.

I would have gone on texting him, but the Spanish professor was giving me heavy side eye. The class dragged on enough to make me want to check the old clock on the wall about once every seven minutes. I wished that there were some cosmic way to press a fast forward button through all the parts of my life that were drudgery or unpleasant. I practically pranced out of there as soon as it was over, wishing I could rush faster.

Santos was sitting on a cement bench when I arrived, bent over his phone. Surrounded by the elegance of purple maples, flowers, and flourescent green grass, he reminded me of a handsome prince in a fairytale illustration.

"Hello, beautiful," I said, taking a seat next to him.

"Hi, sunshine," he responded, his face brightening before he knelt for a peck on the cheek.

"Your next class is in around fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. We can't be together long--I just wanted to see you."

A simple happiness filled me. "We could hang out tonight, if you want."

"Nah, I've got an exam in chem coming up tomorrow. Maybe we can see each other on the weekend when I have more time."

"Sure, though... I don't know if I quite believe the chem line."

"Excuse me?"

"I think you're actually plotting to make me into a superstar. Don't deny it."

He laughed. "It's easy to throw money at that stuff. It doesn't have anything to do with effort." He pulled me in for another kiss, this time on the forehead. "Besides, maybe I'm rethinking the whole stardom thing."

"Oh?"

"Maybe I want to keep you for myself. If everyone knows about you, I'd have to share you with the world."

"If I only belonged to you, I'd be fine with that."

There was a moment of peace when we looked into each other's eyes, the world calm and quiet. Why couldn't we stay there, just like that?

"I have to leave, but can you give me a hug before I go?" he asked.

"Of course."

We held each other for a few minutes, just breathing out the stresses of the day. I felt like his comforter, both knight to protect him and teddy bear to sway away his terrors and concerns. Before breaking away, he whispered, "I love you so much."

Rubbing his back, I whispered the words I had been longing to say since serenading him on his front lawn: "I love you, too."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After Santos left for his last lecture of the day, I decided to surprise him in my own way. I bought a bouquet of flowers, a lot of blue ones, and a box of chocolates. I decided to sneak into his room and leave them on the bed with a nice note of fresh poetry I'd been toying with. Reflecting on it, I hadn't been to his house since the afternoon I serenaded him; he always preferred going out somewhere, or hanging out in my room. Though the mansion appeared like a fortress from the street, I realized it was more facade than garrison. There was a broken fencing behind stretches of the boxwoods, and I slipped in with the ease of a fox.

The driveway was clear of any cars, giving the grounds an immaculate emptiness. Milling around, I thought about climbing a ladder to get into his window. The front door was locked, of course, and it didn't seem likely that there was an easier alternative. I found myself doing a lot more detective work than I thought I would have to, resulting in finagling my way into a garden shed and the four-car garage. It was easy to enter garage, which surprised me considering how locked down the little green shack was.

There was a small button I could hold down, and I waited for the door to lumber up. I found a light switch once inside and discovered that the space was absurdly large and cluttered. Tools were scattered about, a disassembled lawn mower took up a ten-foot radius, and piles of cardboard were tossed in the corner next to a dozen plastic bins. Besides that, there were six luxury vehicles parked. I jiggled various doorknobs in the hopes for an unlocked passage (there wasn't), so I set again on finding a ladder. Surveying the chaos, I spotted a nice long one leaning against a far wall.

I thought nothing of the fact that there was a white luxury SUV parked in front of it. I stepped right around the driver's side before realizing the horror that was displayed right in front of me. The front bumper was dented and long gray stains marred the front and passenger side. There were flecks of faded red... old blood.

I didn't want to believe what I saw. My thoughts circled around from Santos, to his mother, to the white SUV, and then to my father as he laid wounded in the hospital bed. As I stared, small balls of light appeared just above my eyelashes, and the impulse to either faint or vomit struck me. I grasped for something to lean on, but instead stumbled back into a stack of cardboard boxes. I wanted to faint. I wanted to beat the car in with a crow bar. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I got up and dusted myself off. Grasping my phone with a shaky hand, I snapped a few pictures.

The sky was darker to me as I walked out. I held a temptation to stomp the bouquet and mash the chocolates into the dirt, but thought better of making my visit unnoticed. After slipping through the bushes, I drove on and on and on.

My mind was blank and a jumbled ruin all at the same time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I found myself in the middle of the Cascade Mountains that afternoon. I cried the entire car ride, my eyes only clearing of wetness frequently enough to follow the white lines dividing traffic.

My location was somewhere east of Mount Rainier, something I only discovered once coming around a corner of road to a beautiful vista of the towering mountain. Exhausted and weary of wandering, I stopped near a conspicuously marked trailhead. Opening the door to my car, I felt I had popped the bubble of my melancholy. The air was bitingly fresh because of the elevation, I stepped onto dirt instead of sterile concrete, and a cool breeze caused the pine branches around me to sway in a lazy serenity. I stopped for a moment, taking in the beauty of it.

As I walked along a trail that led through the forest, I didn't bother putting effort into hiding my sadness. There weren't many people out, but the hikers who did notice me showed distant concern as we passed each other. I could have used a hug then.

As dusk approached, I found a boulder to sit on just off the path. I watched the sun lower near the tree line, letting myself catch my breath as I wiped away the tears. I should have returned to the warmth of the car, but something in me wanted to feel uncomfortable. There were a few texts on my phone, but no calls. One was from my mom, wanting to know when I would be home for dinner. Two texts from friends were for nothing of importance. The ones from Santos read:

When can I see you?

I miss you.

I took a deep breath, briskly tapping on the phone. We need to talk.

My phone rang a moment later. Trembling, I answered. My voice was rough and uneven when I asked, "Where are you?"

A long hesitation followed before he said, "I'm at home--why? Are you okay?

"Are your parents there?"

"No. What's this about?"

Staring at the darkening sky, I let the words slip out: "Where were you on September fourth at 5:13PM?"

"Oh God," he whispered.

"Where were you?" I demanded, gaining courage.

"I had nothing to do with what happened to your father." The line went quiet for a few moments. "How did you find out?"

"Don't worry about how I found out. Who did it?"

He swallowed. "My mother had it out for your dad. He was cajoling the city council members and mayor to beef up the building regulations in town. My mother said he was... particularly nasty to her when she tried to negotiate with him."

"The day of the accident--what happened?"

"I wasn't there when it happened, okay? My mom was on who-knew-how-many drugs, and was probably drunk."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I was on the verge of screaming.

"It wasn't as easy as just telling someone! For hours she was screaming about how she was going to murder me if anyone found out. Day and night she's threatening me that I'm going to be tortured and buried for squealing. It's why I had to get away from her--why I want to get out of here and never see her again."

I reflected on every memory with him I could recall, starting on our first night together. "The night at the city pool... when we met..."

"... Yes."

"Christ."

"I'm so sorry, Luke. There were dozens of times I wanted to say something, but I could never find the courage. If I could go back in time and tell you what happened the second I met you, I would. I didn't realize right away who you were and your association with your dad. It was only much later."

"How could you look me in the eyes after this? How could you be intimate with me? If I were in the same room with you right now, I'd tear your limbs apart."

He sniffed, and I could tell he was trying to be strong even though he was crying. "Maybe you should. You know where I live."

My hands and throat were stiff from the night air. I zipped my hoodie up. "You know it's over now, right? This is unforgivable. I'm telling the authorities everything I saw the minute we're done with this conversation."

"Then tell the police. You act as if this hasn't been something I've wanted since my parents did this."

"You sure didn't seem concerned about it before I called you out."

"You have no idea what I've been going through. Every time I wanted to tell you, I'd put it off and spoil you with dinners, dates, and anything else I could spend my money on. I always told myself I would explain everything the next time. Do you know how in love with you I am? I was mortified to lose you."

I shook my head, a hot tear rolling down my cheek. "There was no way you were ever going to tell me about this. No way."

"I never got the chance."

Neither of us said anything.

"If you want to tell the police now, you can, but I think you should wait," he said.

"You have the audacity to tell me what I should be doing?!"

"I know you're mad, but I can still help you. I'm aware of things surrounding this you aren't. If you tell a lawyer what you saw without any more than some pictures, important evidence might be lost."

It may hurt my pride to cooperate with him, but if he helped Dad's case even a little, it was worth the gamble. "What things?"

"You have to come to the house. I can't help you over the phone."

"How do I know you don't have other motives?"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Who do you think I am? Do you assume I'm going to be waiting for you with a machine gun?"

"How am I supposed to know?! You only fucking lied to me for two months about what you knew about my dad's death."

He breathed. "Look. I'm trying to give you help. You can do what you want. If it's your will to go to the police, then go to the police. If you want some data that can help your case, I can help you. It's the least I can do to help you after... after I've let you down."

Gripping the phone tighter, I said, "I'll think about it."

"Take all the time you need."

"... I will. Goodbye, Santos."

"Goodbye."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The house was pitch black when I got home. Mom left out a plate for me, though eating was the last thing on my mind. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by ignoring it, so I took it with me to the room and and put it in my mini fridge. Checking the clock, I noticed it was almost one. Early enough to be forgivable, but still suspicious. For the first time since the break-in, I felt uneasy about stepping through the hallways of my home. Who knew what would happen now? Was there another man hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce now that I knew too much?

I took a hot shower, pushing the lever until my skin scalded. I wish I could say I wasn't crying in there... in truth, it was hard to stay standing up.

I didn't sleep through the night, and I had no aspirations to show up to school the next day. I decided to head straight for the liquor cabinet to drown out my misery. Unfortunately, I was caught red-handed in the middle of pulling down a Costco-sized bottle of vodka.

"What in the world are you doing?" hissed my sister from across the room. She was looking extra... pink that evening, dressed in bubblegum pajamas and bunny slippers. Her hair was wild with fluffy corkscrews, framing her face like a lion's mane.

Her face fell when she got a good look at me.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Did something happen?"

"Take a seat," I said, reaching for a shot glass. "You want some?"

"Are you crazy? I'm not about your boozy lifestyle."

"You might want it after what I have to tell you."

She didn't accept the offer, though she did join me at the kitchen table as I spun my tale. I took a healthy swig of alcohol before leading in.

"You're probably not going to be very neutral about what I'm about to tell you," I said.

She stared, tapping her finger impatiently. "Well, I'm all ears on whatever it is you want to tell me. Fire away."

"But... no. You have to promise not to freak out. I've been through enough already."

"I don't even know what you want to say. How am I supposed to know if I'm going to freak out?"

"But that's the point. Okay, nevermind, you're going to flip out either way. Harriet... I know who killed Dad."

"What?!" she exclaimed, bolting up. "What do you mean? How? Who is it? Did you go to the police? Is that where you just came from?"

"One thing at a time! I... I discovered the vehicle."

"Oh my god! Where?"

I swallowed, taking another drink. I hadn't even announced it, but I already wanted to cry. "Santos' parents. In their garage. It had stains and marks and everything."

She sat back in her chair, flummoxed. "Are you messing with me right now? This isn't a joke?"

"I'm not joking!"

"How is that even possible? Of all people, him?"

"I don't know! I'm as shocked as you are."

"What did he say? Did you talk to him?"

"He didn't deny it... but... he said he wants to help us."

"What the heck does that mean? My head hurts."

She reached over, drinking from the rest of my glass. Her lips screwed up immediately, and she started waving at her lips as if to put out a fire in her mouth. I couldn't help but sneak a smirk.

"You can't trust him," she announced.

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Of course you can't trust him! He kept this from you for how long? And while you guys were dating? Oh my god, this is horrible!"

"He said he had nothing to do with it, and that his parents threatened to kill him if he told."

"Yeah, he said that after you found out!"

I poured myself another shot, swallowing it.

"We need to call a lawyer. Like, yesterday," she said. "No more talking to Santos. We don't even know if what he told you was the truth. He might have been in the car when it happened. It's possible he lied about the whole thing and actually was the one who hit dad!"

"He did not have an active role."

"How do you know?"

"I know, okay! Do you really think he's the kind of person to murder someone?"

"I have no idea what kind of person he is, and neither do you."

Memories between Santos and I flashed through my mind, from our first night together at the community pool to the last time we embraced at the school. I couldn't stop crying. I wished so much that it would stop; it felt never ending.

I clung to this conviction that I did know him, and after a full investigation, he would come out with a clear name. He had personal demons to conquer, but I would have never comprehended that his secrets were this bad. Maybe it had all been in front of my eyes the whole time, and I wouldn't let myself believe it.

Harriet pitied me, scooting close to put her arms around my shoulders. "Oh, Luke--I'm sorry. I realize you really liked him. I didn't mean to be a jerk."

"It's okay," I said, wiping away the tears. "But you're laying in too hard on him. I do know him. I don't think he's completely innocent, but I also don't suspect he had anything to do with this. He told me he'd wanted to confess for a long time, but he couldn't find the courage."

Her pinched lips signaled that she had something igniting to say, but held her tongue for my sake.

"I think that we should believe him," I continued. "He's giving us a chance to get a better foothold before his parents catch wind. We haven't been happy with how the police handled this whole thing, right? We should be taking every opportunity we can get."

"Did you collect any evidence today?"

"I took some pictures, and obviously, I know where they live. The authorities could probably search the place with no problem."

She scratched her chin. "Yeah, and I'm sure seeing a squad of police cars pulling up to the house will tip them off that something is up. If Santos actually wants to help, and isn't pulling your leg..." This time, she stared into my eyes as if judging my character. "Luke, you're wearing rose-colored glasses when it comes to him, because I know I would be if he were my boyfriend, but think: do you really believe he won't pull the wool over our eyes?"

I forced myself to seriously consider it. Based on gut impulse, I'd never once perceived he was a creep or slimy. I understood better why he was acting out sexually, and perhaps why he had a drinking problem. He was getting better in the few months we were together, and honestly seemed to want to do the right thing in most cases I was aware of.

Was he getting as shit faced as I was at that moment? I had the premonition he was probably already passed out on his bed with a bottle of liquor on the nightstand.

"No bullshit, if we don't accept his offer we're going to regret it," I said. "I think he feels guilty about how he handled this and he's trying to make it up to me."

Her body language didn't suggest she was happy to hear that. "What does he want to do?"

"He said he wants us to go to the house."

"There's no way in hell we can do that" she exclaimed with the slap of her palm on the table. "Even if he is being honest, what if something happens?"

"I can ask him to meet us in a public space, but I don't know if that's possible."

She crossed her arms. "If he regrets his actions, he won't mind meeting us somewhere.

"Yeah, I guess."

I poured myself more alcohol, though Harriet tugged at the bottle.

"Go to bed, Luke," she said. "Take it with you, but you should go to sleep so we can deal with this tomorrow. I wish you had found out about this earlier in the day. I feel... uneasy about everything."

"Me too. I'll try to turn in, too."

She sighed in a defeated way, downing another shot.

"Do you think we should tell Mom?" I asked.

"If we weren't planning on meeting with Santos, I'd say yes. Let's not make this more complicated than it already is; she'll freak."

"You're right. Then... We'll talk about it tomorrow morning."

She thought for a moment before heading back up the stairs. "Can you text him? He might be awake."

"I guess."

She didn't seem to have much faith he would respond, judging by her worn and wayward facial expression. I pulled my phone out--no messages. Typing into the messenger, I tried to be curt but respectful:

Can we meet somewhere? Like the park?

He didn't respond.

I went to my bed cradling the phone, longing to hear his voice again, or to at least see a response. Instead, I did something that was likely more pathetic--I watched the music videos we had created at the studio over and over again until I fell asleep.

Because of my paranoia, I woke up three hours later to the vibrations of my phone. I was relieved to see it was Santos, though I couldn't imagine who else would be texting me so early in the morning.

I can do that, but it might be better to come here. It's up to you.

Still buzzed, my head pounding, I responded: We're worried about potential security issues.

'We?'

I told Harriet. You really think I was going to keep this to myself?

Have you told anyone else???

No, only her.

Okay. Where? When?

Today. The beach at Point Defiance. 10 a.m.

I'll be there.

Harriet would leave for high school soon, so I forced myself to turn over in bed and get up. She was applying makeup in the bathroom, and after informing her what was up, she demanded to come along with me. We decided to eat at a diner to pass the time. I forked at the eggs and sausages in a methodical way as I put the food in my mouth. At least the greasy breakfast could alleviate some of the hangover I was bearing. Harriet only ordered toast and a cup of tea.

At around 9:50, we arrived at the barren parking lot and got out. A few people walked their dogs under the downcast sky, but there were otherwise few around. We discussed the situation and decided that it would be better for her to keep her distance in background cover. Harriet considered Santos a threat, so in her mind, if anything nasty happened she would be able to get away. I thought she was being melodramatic, but let it go.

I suppose her feelings about him flipped since that first meeting in the mall. I would never accuse Harriet of being uncaring, but it hurt to know that I couldn't talk about my mixed feelings concerning Santos. I didn't have anyone to confide in about this. I considered giving Robin a call, but the whole situation was way beyond her pay grade. Besides, I was about to submit to an open investigation on my dad's murder; it wouldn't be prudent to discuss details.

Santos arrived at ten on the dot, a solitary figure in black as he walked down towards the beach. He looked downright anemic. His skin was pale and sweaty, his eyes were bloodshot, and he moved in a slow and careful manner. As he approached closer, I saw that his clothes were crumpled and his hair greasy. I wanted to reach out and comfort him, though I held up an image of the asshole I had been on the phone. I kept my distance, frowned, and tried to appear as large as possible.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey. So what did you bring?"

"Right," he said, half to himself as he pulled a black backpack from his shoulder. He presented me with a small laptop... The laptop that had been stolen from my father's study.

"Your mother..." I began.

"Yes, she was the one who broke into your house."

"Harriet said she saw a man."

"But did she?"

Reflecting on it, I realized that the 'man' who had broken in had been wearing a motorcycle helmet. It wouldn't otherwise be hard to bind back breasts, don oversized leather, and wear boots that boosted height.

"She hired some thug to drive the car during the hit-and-run, though," he added. "Had the plates reversed during the incident. "

"Makes sense."

"Also, my dad's the reason your father didn't get a proper investigation on the hit and run. Thought you should know."

"Your dad?"

"He works in Olympia, remember? He manipulates the system in his favor whenever it suits him. There's a lot of people he knows and has power over."

Santos handed over a dozen Polaroids he'd taken. One was a small license plate that I assumed belonged to the motorcycle, along with shots of the leather riding gear. He wrote dates on the back, along with his name. He also handed over a manila envelope that held documents and emails I didn't understand, having to do with a proposed building. The text discussion that had occurred between us that morning was also there, and there were printouts of discussions that Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez had had with one another regarding the attack.

I couldn't believe it.

It dawned on me what would happen to him if his parents found out to what extent he was ratting them out. This was a lot of personal and damning information to be digging up and handing over. I couldn't tell if I respected him for coming forward with all this stuff or if he was a snitch covering his own bases. Looking over his shoulder, I was also shocked to see that his little black car was crammed with dozens of black garbage bags full of stuff.

"You're going to the police, then?" he asked.

"After this, yeah," I said.

He nodded. "Good. Be sure to get a good lawyer."

"What about you?"

Shrugging, he answered, "Away. You can probably guess what my parents will do to me when they find out."

"You're not going to leave the state, are you? That would look pretty bad."

"Well, I'm not staying here, that's for damn sure. I'm also buying a new phone pretty soon, so don't try texting the old line."

"Okay."

I felt uncomfortably sentimental at the idea of keeping communication open between the two of us. I should have demanded that our connection be extinguished, but all my heart yearned for was to maintain a secret link for as long as possible. There was an odd moment when we stood in front of one another, our eyes locking as we understood that this may be the last time we faced each other again. He then fell to his knees, and for a moment I thought he was fainting. I reached for him, my palms landing on his shoulders. He touched my right hand, staring at me with a sincere intensity. He had an angelic and pleading quality that frightened me.

He spoke softly, but with such conviction: "I know you will never forgive me for what I've done, but I hope I can help you with your father's homicide case. I'm so, so sorry. I'll never forgive myself for lying to you for every single day we've known each other. You trusted me to love you, and I betrayed you. I don't deserve the songs you wrote or any of the nice sentiments you've had for me. I want you to know what you've meant to me over the past few months. You're a marvelous person, and the time I spent with you had some of the best days of my life.

"Please, realize I would never do anything so awful as to murder an innocent man. I never thought my parents would actually follow through with it. If I wasn't in fear for my life, I would have never felt so afraid to tell you. I understand you'll never want to see me again after this, and I get it. I love you, and I always will love you."

He was crying by the middle of the declaration, and I empathized with him, but it was also embarrassing that he was doing this in a public place. I guess he figured he would never get another opportunity to apologize to me.

Of course, it was touching to see him prostrate himself like that. And, okay... I did cry a little.

And maybe I lifted him up from the concrete and hugged him as if all was forgiven, and that I loved him back just as much.

"Luke!" I heard Harriet screech from the distance.

I turned to her, but I couldn't let go of him. He was mine, even if he made a huge mistake, even if he was flawed and damaged...

"Don't run away," I whispered into his ear. "I... I need time."

"I know what I need to do," he said, breaking away. He looked disoriented enough to collapse, but he held himself with dignity. "I'm going away now. Don't try looking for me, at least for a while. I don't even know if I can stay in this country now."

"Don't leave the country."

He shook his head, turning back to his car. "I'll contact you in the future. Don't worry about me--I have enough money to survive. I need to lay low."

I nodded, wiping tears away. "Thank you," I called out. "Thank you so much."

He tipped his head to me, walking away. Where he was headed, I couldn't say.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Harriet and I were high on adrenaline, with the conviction that if we didn't go to a lawyer right away something would be irreparably lost. Soon after Dad's death, we had interviewed a few law professionals to get a feel for what our chances might be to fight back. The person who gave us the most confidence was a woman in her early 40s who looked like she gave (and took) lashings for breakfast. On the day we walked in with Santos' evidence, her hair was meticulously wavy, she had on a stiff black pantsuit, and her lips were painted with dark purple lipstick. She spoke with conviction and a hint of aggression, which was the reason we had originally felt confident about her. I gained hope that we weren't going to be held in incompetent hands or swindled out of our money.

She collected all of the evidence, and I felt like a fool for not copying anything before handing it over. When we told her about Santos, and the kind of involvement he had in the case... Well, she wanted to know a lot about him and when he could come in to talk to her. Tiny alarm bells seemed to go off around her ears when we told her he was MIA, but after I explained he was in fear for his life, she seemed more understanding about it. Some advice was offered concerning him, mostly centered around convincing him to keep contact.

Any answers on when the next course of action would take place was firmly non-committed. I felt like we were placing a lot of faith in her, because we were, and I hoped Santos' sacrifice wouldn't be for nothing. I believed his story, but there were still doubts in my mind. If he could lie to my face for months, it was in the realm of possibility that he was lying about something to do with his 'evidence.' It was also possible he fabricated his passive role in the whole thing and sped up to Canada as fast as he could. I didn't believe any of that, but it was possible.

In any case, I didn't have time to ponder his situation. As soon as Harriet and I arrived home, she laid in to me about how horrible I was for showing any kind of affection for my scorned boyfriend.

"Christ, can you give me some breathing space?!" I fumed, throwing my keys at the kitchen table. They skidded across the wood and landed on the floor.

"No, we should talk about this now." She leaned against the wall, as if to block me from making my escape up the stairs.

"Fine. What do you want?"

We'd had a few things to say to each other during the ride home. Because of the time restraints and the stress of the situation, we'd kept our more inflamed opinions to ourselves. Now we were comfortable enough to air out our real opinions.

She straightened, staring me right in the eyes. "You're only listening to the beating of your own heart. The sooner you get used to the idea that Santos is your enemy, the better."

"My enemy? Without him, we would be showing up to a lawyer empty handed. He's homeless now because his parents are going to put a hit on him."

"Please, who do you think they are, the mob? Don't you think he'd be homeless either way once they figured out you were the reason the pictures of the SUV got out? He's not seventeen anymore; they have no obligation to put a roof over his head."

"His mom is a developer and his dad works at the capital, so it's pretty reasonable to assume they have connections with shady people. At least you find it plausible he had nothing to do with the murder itself."

She crossed her arms. "I didn't say that."

I shook my head, getting up to grab myself a glass of water. I jumped back and nearly fell on my ass when I realized someone was standing in the adjacent hall. After recognizing that the shadowy features belonged to my mother, I grasped my chest in relief.

"Jesus, Mom! You scared the shit out of me," I exclaimed.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she mentioned delicately, stepping into the light. She was still dressed in her work clothes instead of her usual 'relaxing outfit' of sweats and a bath robe. "What in the world are you two talking about?"

It was exhausting explaining myself again. While Mom was surprised we'd actually gone forward with as much as we had, she was also disappointed that we'd achieved this without her. In her mind, we were naive and too inexperienced to handle the case by ourselves, which probably wasn't wrong. What disappointed me most was that she took Harriet's side concerning Santos. She didn't have as much vitriol about the subject as Harriet did, but she definitely didn't see Santos as a tortured soul.

We were all sitting at the kitchen table, each of us with an herbal tea she'd steeped.

"Luke, he's your first love, and he has helped you immensely with something that's very sensitive, but have you taken a step back to absorb this all? I don't think it would be healthy for either of you to continue a romantic relationship, but regardless of that, so much has happened so fast. You both need breathing room."

Mom had a way of putting things that could pull my defenses down. Because I was accepting some of what she was saying, it made it feel all the more real that Santos and I wouldn't be together anymore. It felt like the joy in my life was shattering into sharp, tiny pieces.

"I'm abandoning him," I said, trying to calm the tremors in my throat. "He should be here, with us, so we can protect him."

"You can still be supportive of him and show him kindness in a more limited way," she mentioned with maternal warmth.

I gripped the mug of tea with both hands. "He's a good person. And I mean, if you were raised the way he was in a lunatic asylum, you would probably do the same thing as him. I don't think you guys are showing enough empathy for his situation. He honestly seems sorry for what he's done."

"He was telling you he loved you while keeping his parents' dirty secret!" my sister blurted. "Don't you have any self respect? Doesn't Dad matter at all to you?"

"Harriet!" Mom scolded, turning back to me. "Give it time, honey. Think, pray, and meditate deeply on it. We don't cast stones in this family, but it must be acknowledged that... he's made some questionable choices." She grasped my hands, looking into my eyes. "Sometimes things aren't meant to last, and that's okay. He can still be a relation to you, and you can still think well of him. You'll come up with a resolution to this once you reflect on it. Take a little time for yourself. Use the money Dad left you. Let yourself wander somewhere, or go to a spa retreat. You've been through a lot. We've all been through a lot, and it's fraying us."

I didn't want to argue any more about it, because I knew she'd have something else reasonable and mature to say. "It's an idea."

"A good one," she said with a smile as she stood up. "Now that we've taken time to talk about this, I'm going to be making phone calls. Will you both be staying home? Or, should I say, you both will be staying home. At least for a while."

"Yes, Mom," we both droned.

Harriet left the kitchen, shooting me dagger eyes. I felt as lifeless as Santos had seemed at the park. I sat there, staring out the window as a few birds fed at the planter. How nice it would be to only think of flying, eating, and nesting in a tree.

I had a lot to think about over the next week.

Mostly, I was trying to stay positive about life, despite feeling like my entire existence was melting around me. Our lawyer stayed vague on the progress she was making on the case, and I hadn't heard from Santos, either. I checked my phone by the hour, hoping I'd gone deaf and hadn't realized his call or text came in. Reality was always there to tell me I was hoping for too much.

I wasn't sleeping, also wasn't eating as much as I should... but at least I wasn't drinking. As soon as I got home from school I usually went straight to my keyboard. Playing music was my only escape from the anxieties of my daily life, so I played a lot.

I took my mom's advice (because she shoved me out), and drove to a hot spring deep in the mountains one weekend. The trip was supposed to 'rejuvenate' me, and I guess in a way it did. I didn't want to invite anyone with me, to be honest... Though, okay, I did, and yes, it did lift my spirits to get in a mud fight with Terrell, Hayden, and Vi. I nearly got us kicked out of the place after I hit an old lady with a handful of hot muck. Things smoothed over after we all smoked a bowl of weed in one of the changing rooms, so it wasn't a total loss.

I wished Santos could have been there with us. I kept imagining him in his car somewhere, staring out at a desert sunset all by himself. I texted his old line a few times, hoping he would see my concern. I never received a response.

The weekend ended, and while I was more positive than the Monday before, I still felt like a dark cloud followed me wherever I went. After taking a shower and getting dressed, I walked to the kitchen to toast an onion bagel before school started. I was so focused on breakfast that I missed the sight of Harriet and Mom standing and staring in the living room at something. Albeit, it was the television, but they only ever stood in such rapt attention during the finals of Olympic figure skating. It was when the toaster sprang up that they realized I was awake.

"Luke! Get over here!" called Harriet.

"What is it?" I asked, yawning as I walked into the other room.

She had the remote in their hand, DVRing the details of a news report. I nearly choked on my saliva when I saw Mrs. Rodriguez being escorted out of a squad car into the police station.

"They nabbed her?" I asked.

"They're getting her husband, too! And the guy who drove the vehicle! Listen!"

"... Officers found the suspect nearby in a vehicle parked in the 400 block of South Yakima Avenue. Mei Li Rodriguez, forty-four, was booked into Pierce County Jail on suspicion of first degree murder of local government employee Frederick Alan Perlith..."

A hot gust of wind blew out of me as I took a deep breath. "Oh my God! This is great!" I said, hopping in place.

Being the silly person she was, Harriet grasped my hands and started jumping along. Also, being idiots, we started singing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead from The Wizard of Oz.

"I hate to rain on your parades, but you two know there's a chance she won't be convicted, right?" Mom said, not able to help giggling herself.

"Please, Mom, let us have this!" Harriet said, bouncing around. "Ding dong, the witch is dead! Which old witch? The wicked witch!"

We kept dancing around until our steam ran out, which was long after the segment on the news was over. It had been months since the three of us possessed that kind of camaraderie, and it was nice to drag it out. I was looking forward to what I assumed would be a pleasant day when Mom walked back in the house from the garage.

She slammed the door on the way back in, which was already alarming, but then she uttered, "Kids, look out the windows!" while pointing with a harrowing finger.

Perturbed, we did as she asked, parting the lace curtains before gasping. There were three news trucks parked outside with what had to be over a dozen people milling around. From what I could decipher, there were field correspondents, cameramen, support staff, and a general menagerie of curious neighbors.

"That's not good," Harriet said quietly.

"Where did they all come from?" I asked to no one in particular.

Mom walked up from behind us, surveying the front lawn. "They must have been tipped off about us somehow. They would know we're related to your father, but I wonder where the interest is coming from?"

Neither Harriet or I had much of an answer for that.

"Well, I can't barricade myself in here all morning," said Mom, pulling back her sleeve to check her watch. "I'm already fifteen minutes late! Just ignore them, kids--I'd deal with them, but I'm in hot water as it is."

I stared, watching for what she would do once the garage doors opened. The crowd of people seemed particularly excited when she rolled out in her car. She returned the sentiment with happy smiles and waves, but ultimately drove away down the street to work.

Harriet and I both ferried ourselves to school, though our cars weren't concealed in the safety of a garage. I mulled over how I would politely do the same thing Mom did, albeit on the walk out to the section of the street I'd parked on.

Well, I wouldn't have to find that out, because the doorbell rang almost as soon as she was out of sight. Harriet and I looked to each other as if we were telepathically trying to shoulder the responsibility of answering the door.

I'll do it, I thought. Besides, I'm the man of the house. I should start acting like one.

I marched right over, telling myself to stand up straight and speak with authority. My stern resolve thawed as I opened the door and saw all of these nicely dressed and eager people standing in front of me.

"Hello, Luke?" asked an Asian woman with the biggest blowout I'd seen in my life.

"Uh, yeah?" I looked like a gawky kid, but I couldn't shake feeling like I was standing naked in front every teacher I'd ever had.

"Good morning! I'm Laurie Nakamori from KOMO News. I was wondering if you had some time for a short interview concerning the developments of your father's criminal case."

"Um, I don't know," I said, motioning to shut the door.

"It would only take a few minutes of your time," she said, placing her slender hand on a wood panel. "It would help us out a whole lot, considering the significance of this case in the local community. Please?"

"Well..." I started, getting lost in the the eyes of the people standing behind her. "If it's quick, you guys will leave me alone?"

She seemed flustered by my phrasing, but kept up a professional facade. "Of course. We can ask you a few questions right now and get out of your hair." She'd somehow pulled a microphone from behind her back, and I noticed a red light shine on one of the cameras.

"So Luke, what are your thoughts on the arrest of Mei Rodriguez?"

I had an immediate gut reaction to this one. "It's great. I hope she receives proper justice."

"And are you optimistic about the likelihood she will face jail time?"

"I hope she does. The evidence points to it."

She nodded, not forgetting to flash a large smile. "Right. Considering this development, are you disheartened to hear about the disappearance of Santos Rodriguez? He's the son of said suspect."

A jolt of melancholy flashed across my face. My voice cracking, I said, "Well, I hope he's okay, wherever he is; that he's safe. I know he was concerned, after everything."

This comment threw everyone off simultaneously. Judging by her flexing lips, I could tell Laurie had a problem forming a professional and coherent response. "Excuse me, do happen to know Santos? Is he a classmate of yours?"

"He's... uh..." Shivers passed up and down my body as the arm that held onto the doorknob began to shake. The media must have found out that our lawyer possessed concrete evidence, but not who the true source was. "I... I shouldn't be talking anymore. I'm sorry. Goodbye!"

And then I slammed the door shut. I locked it as well, though I felt like a nasty hermit about it. Harriet was staring at me, her mouth open.

"Nice," she said. "Real nice."

I shrugged, not sure what to say. More knocks came at the door, but we ignored them all and pulled the curtains. With every minute that passed, we both realized a bit more that we weren't going anywhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I tried not to become obsessed with the media coverage. I peeked through the windows like a gossipy housewife every once in a while, hoping that the news trucks would move on somewhere else. Only one or two eventually left, and different vans replaced them at around three in the afternoon. I could only play the keyboard or video games for so long before the tedium and curiosity set in. Harriet was baking up a storm, making cookies and pizza to fill her time. She had the television on in the living room, occasionally pausing to watch the screen. I guess she found footage of our front door and neighborhood amusing.

The local channels ran the same basic bullet points over and over: Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez had been arrested, their alleged roles in relation to my father's demise, and the fact that Santos was missing. On KOMO, I got the opportunity to watch myself slam the door in that reporter's face over and over.

Evening arrived, and with that, progress on the investigative efforts of the press. Mom was home by that time, which made the whole ordeal all the more foul. We circled around the section of the kitchen table that gave us a direct view of the flat screen television, inhaling our pizza as we stared. I was expecting another iteration of the same stuff I had been watching all day, but to my surprise that wasn't the case.

Instead, I saw an entire special on my close personal feelings for my disdained lover:

"A heartfelt plea from a teenage boy shouldering a tragic love story: 'Well, I hope he's okay, wherever he is; that he's safe. I know he was concerned, after everything.'"

It didn't matter how often I saw them air that conversation--I wanted to hurl and crawl into a vomit-encrusted oubliette every single time.

"A gifted piano player and a son of wealth and power, brought together by love and separated by a gruesome homicide." A recent picture of Santos in his swimming tracksuit (handsome as usual) filled the screen. "Exclusive lyrics unearthed recently about the heartthrob details Luke's unending love and desire for them to live together happily ever after."

A crumpled piece of paper slowly floated across the television, with my messy handwriting marring the page. I wanted to die, especially when I thought about my friends seeing this.

"'Why must sorrow come to pass?' says the poetry written by his hand. 'Why can't I always be happy with you? / I wish that we could run away together, / see Athens, Paris, and Florence / Never look back, your hand in mine.'"

Harriet stared at me with sisterly malice and glee, her mouth wide open as she mouthed, "OHHH EHM JEE!" I slumped down in my seat, wishing I could turn into a puddle.

"You gave them your poetry?" Mom asked, stupefied.

"You really think I would hand something that personal over to bunch of reporters?" I shot back.

"Then where did they get it?" asked Harriet.

"I threw those papers out after I found out about what Santos did. I haven't had them for days."

We simultaneously scuttled to the window, observing the trash bin under street light. It looked as inauspicious as a plain receptacle could, though I think we were all looking for clues concerning our litter being sifted through.

"Is it legal to dig through trash?" I asked.

"The homeless do it all the damn time, and I don't see the police doing anything about it," stated my mother. "Why were you cooperating with these people? I told you not to talk before I left," she continued, heading back to the table.

"I didn't talk to them!" I responded.

"I saw you stumbling over your tongue right there at the front door."

My fists tightened into tight balls. "Well, I don't know how they found out about Santos and me."

Next, a music video of the studio session aired. I knew the music video was online already, and that anyone could theoretically see it, but I felt so violated knowing... I don't know, that I was being lobotomized in front of a live audience.

What else were these vultures going to find? What ends would they go to to raise interest in this stupid story? Mom mentioned that some of the reporters had left when she rolled into the garage. But I had no idea how many would be back the next day. I still had to go to school!

I slithered off to my room after dinner and sat squarely in front of my computer screen. The last thing I wanted to do was check my phone that night, but as soon as the segment on the news ended, my phone started buzzing. Mostly, it was my friends trying to text or call me, or cousins I hadn't talked to in a while. But then I started getting Facebook notices from people I was barely acquainted with from high school, well-wishers, and... to put it vaguely, very friendly men. I told myself that if this kept going on I'd have to close my social media accounts, but I never thought it would come to that.

As the night wore on, I decided to be nice and respond to people. Most of my comments were around the same thing--"Yeah, it's true." Or, more likely, I copy and pasted, "Thanks a lot."

None of the messages came from Santos, of course. I wished so much that he would surprise me that night, but he didn't.

Robin called, and out of everyone, I decided to chat with her. I guess I needed someone feminine to tell me everything was going to be all right.

"So I saw your feature online. Exciting!" Her energy helped bump up my spirits, at least.

"Yeah, I guess."

"You don't sound so excited about it."

I sighed deeply. "I don't know what to do about this. I hope it blows over soon."

"Blows over? Isn't this really good for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, all the publicity! Most people would kill for this kind of attention if they were a musician."

"But.. I'm not the extroverted type. Santos was the one who surprised me with the studio session. He uploaded it to the Internet and got the views for me."

"And I guess he's the one who is going to propel you even further than that."

I swallowed, feeling like I was digesting a lead bolt. "I don't know about that."

"If you want to be a musician, you should probably take advantage of whatever comes your way, right?"

"Yeah... I guess."

"Well, whatever you decide to do, I only wish you the best. This is a great opportunity for you."

"Thanks."

"Have you heard from him, by the way?" she asked.

"Santos?"

"Yeah, him. The man of your dreams."

I laughed softly. "If I knew what I could do to hear his voice again, I would do it. I haven't had contact with him at all."

"Aww! Maybe you can play for him, on TV. I bet you that even if he's hiding out because he's afraid, he's still watching in on everything. At least, there's a good chance he is. He's gotta be doing something with all this spare time."

"True."

"So, it's for real, then? You guys have feelings for each other?"

I smiled to myself. "Yes, it's true."

"I assume you guys made sweet sexy love then."

Smiling even larger, I responded, "Maybe."

"Lucky jerk! You completed the pact without me."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll continue wandering the local forest, trying to entrap men with my gingerbread house."

"Had any luck lately?"

"No. Well. I was interviewing for this job at the mall recently, and the guy doing it was super hot. I tried to send him signals, like winking and doing a little footsy, but he wasn't having it."

"At a job interview?"

"What?"

I shook my head. "Go on."

"There's not really an ending. He ignored me and I never got a call back."

"Sorry I asked."

"Story of my life. Anyway, I'm rooting for you guys and I hope it all works out. I wanted to check in and see how you were taking everything, but I gotta go to sleep for an exam tomorrow morning."

"It was nice of you to call. I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure. See you later, Luke."

"'Night."

I laid on my bed, letting things sink in. I didn't think getting more media attention would convince Santos to call me--it probably scared him away--but it was fun to fantasize about playing to him, in a romantic way.

I have school tomorrow, I thought. This is all exciting, but I need to get my head out of the clouds. It's killing me that I have no idea what's going on with Santos, but I have to keep myself together and continue on with my life.

I avoided everyone the next day; Mom, Harriet, the press (yes, they were still there), and my friends. I received a lot of stares as I walked through campus. I told myself that if I pretended everything was normal, well... maybe I could also compel the world into believing the same thing. Unfortunately, it felt more like a spotlight hovered over me wherever I went.

Arriving to the literature class, I ambled to my usual desk and acknowledged the heaviness of everyone's gaze. However long I stared at the door or watched the clock tick by on the wall, I didn't posses the power to will Santos into appearing next to me. We'd spent so many mornings chatting with one another while pretending to do work that I felt exposed without him.

It was obvious to most of the class that we were at least close friends. By that November day, everyone knew we were a couple. A few classmates asked questions, trying to conceal their excitement with supportive pleasantries. I tried to remain as vague and polite as possible, hoping the interest would dissipate. It wasn't like school would be in session for much longer, anyway--there were three weeks until I wouldn't see any of those people again. It was possible I wouldn't return to college at all.

Professor Ninvosky's eyes fell on me a second or two longer than they usually did when she surveyed the class. She wrote a single word on the whiteboard, then turned to us.

Forgiveness

"Well, if you all are caught up on your readings, we should be closing in close towards the last quarter of this book," she stated with a pleasant smile. "If no one has any comments on the last assignment, I'd like to dive in to discussion today. As you've guessed, we're going to be exploring themes that are a bit cumulative up to this point. But more specifically, we're going to start off with forgiveness and what Tolstoy was trying to communicate to us about this concept. Can anyone tell me the religious background of Russians at this time?"

A student in the front raised their hand. "They were Eastern Orthodox, right?"

"Yes, though we're going for a more general classification--we'll say Christianity for the sake of brevity. In this scope, can someone tell me a story from the Bible that illustrates themes of forgiveness? We have a diverse classroom here, but I believe most of you possess partial experience with the stories from this text."

"The prodigal son," said someone near the front.

"Yes! Excellent example." She turned, writing the title of the story on the board, and then picked up a piece of paper off her desk to read from. "He was lost, and has been found, straight from the prodigal son. This is the story of a son who wasted his life needlessly, and came home to his father after learning some hard knocks in the real world. Let me read you other quotes from the Bible:

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

These phrases are probably rather familiar to a lot of you. I wish they were said more often! We might be a more peaceful world. Anyway, if the major theme of this book is Anna's fall from grace after cheating on Karenin with Vronsky, what can we say about the resolution? Tolstoy explores a lot of angles of this setup, though it's up to each of you on how you would like to interpret this in your essays."

Someone called out, "It seems like everyone steps on toes in the novel."

"Yeah, for sure!" she responded, happy to see the beginnings of a discussion brewing. "It's human nature to have a diversity of feelings about others. It's also common to make mistakes, even if we don't mean to. There's also the circumstances we find ourself in from birth, the role we play in society, and how we deal with our condition. Karenin had to come to terms with his wife cheating on him, obviously, through his Christian faith, but also... can we say there's a certain humanity to him? He's touched by the state Anna finds herself in, even though she is the betrayer. She made a laughing stock out of him, right? What you kids call a 'cuck?' It seems like, to me, he's a person pushing through towards a place of understanding and forgiveness."

Awkward laughter followed the mention of 'cuck.'

This was all getting much for me to listen to; all I thought about was Santos, and what was going to happen to us. The tears demanded to well up in my eyes, though I did all I could to hold them back. I had an unstoppable conviction that I shouldn't go back to school, even if I was almost finished. As I stared at my Spanish notebook to distract me from the lecture on Anna Karenina, every word only reminded me of Santos:

Te amo, I love you.

Quiero verte, I want to see you.

Volverás, will you return?

I was deep down, marrow-in-the-bones sad. I woke up that morning believing I should function as I normally did, and I honestly held the conviction I could continue life normally, but I was sadly wrong. If the shock of it all hadn't set in before, it was shaking me up and down that morning.

I grabbed my bag, ignoring the perturbed looks as I swept out of the room. I knew I was being rude, but it was better than sobbing in the middle of a class discussion about Russian literature. I needed a friend, or a therapist, or something I couldn't name.

The only person I wanted was in the abyss.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The record companies came banging at my door.

And, okay, I'll admit it was pretty exciting.

It wasn't like I'd forgotten about Santos or the court case or anything. But it all seemed like perfect timing. What do they call it... Serendipity? As soon as I decided that I couldn't deal with the stress of school any more (really, this time), the offers rolled in. A few record companies were ruthless in their fight over me, and I ended up with a solid recording deal along with some money in the bank. The news vans hadn't gone away like I hoped they would; instead, I found that my story was being featured on regional morning talk shows. Television representatives were calling our house non-stop, and while Mom was trying to be supportive of my delicate feelings, she was also gently pushing me towards, "... striking the motherfucking iron while it's hot!"

There were a few different lawyers on retainer because of the court case and all of the business dealings I needed handled. We had no understanding at that point of what the future would hold when it came to my 'music career.' Even with all the media attention, we weren't sure if it was all a flash in the pan. No one would be calling it that one year, thousands of album sales, and a concert tour later. We couldn't perceive that kind of success at the time, least of all me.

I was watching the viewer count on the YouTube videos daily, and man, was it climbing. It occurred to me that because the views were under Santos' account, he might be profiting from the millions of hits, though he didn't have any ads up.

It was funny how Mom could be understanding and supportive about some things, like Santos and Dad, but also cut throat when it came to success and money. Harriet was the first to tell me she was surprised I was still going to school, but she was was also super critical about Santos. I guess for every mother there's a daughter with an opposite reaction.

My general goal on the interviews was to not make an ass out of myself. Especially with Christmas closing in, it seemed easy to gain sympathy from the hosts, who usually happened to be nice middle aged ladies. The holidays are a romantic time, and in contrast to shoppers getting trampled at Wal-Mart, hearing about a cute love story garnered pleasant attention. I would usually play a song after the interview and then go home. However, sometimes 'going home' meant sleeping at a hotel overnight and hopping on a plane the next morning. And, well... sometimes there were gay guys at these things who wanted to get to know me better.

I never acted on anything. I still loved Santos, even though he disappeared on me. Even if I decided that I didn't want to be with him any more, I'd need to provide some kind of closure for both of us before moving on. Besides, I wasn't exactly the extroverted type or one to sleep around. I was usually happier to be inside a given hotel room by myself than warding off fans chasing the 'soulful piano guy.' I think the average person forgets that people are still people, even if they happen to become a celebrity.

Most of the public was nice and well meaning. Given the amount of times I heard the phrases, "I hope the Rodriguezes are put away for life,' and, 'I hope Santos returns soon,' I was surprised that a vigilante group hadn't tracked down his car and towed him away to some kind of bunker.

Even after the weeks of media appearances, he hadn't come forward, called me, or come into contact in any way. I was beginning to feel that phantom of doubt gently tapping on my shoulder.

What if he's dead?

What if he left the country forever?

What if he decides to never come back?

How long do I wait?

I tried to focus more on business matters and exciting things going on. I was pegged as a 'poet singer,' and people on the Internet were having serious discussions about my work. That people out there in the world cared enough about my work to make analysis was flattering and bizarre. What I remember most about that time was an article someone wrote, and while it wasn't negative, it wasn't directly related to my piano skills. It mentioned how everyone was living in a time of automation, fake news, and fake sentiment, but that I had written something touching and human on a real life instrument. It was true that my songs were very personal, but I hadn't been out to challenge popular culture. I hadn't expected my music would ever leave my bedroom, let alone to the wide world.

A singing coach was hired to improve my natural ability, which enhanced my sound a lot. I recorded the songs again with experts in the field, to be used for the new album. It was a more professional context than the time with Santos, and I felt more confident the second time around, but there was an emptiness inside me as I played. Though my professional release was more 'polished,' it lacked the same warmth that my time with Santos possessed. The record label also wanted to do new music videos featuring me, but I refused. I rejected it partly because I'm introverted, but mostly because I thought it might compromise the integrity of the originals. I ended up compromising by allowing animators to make claymation pieces to interpret the songs instead.

I had to be a bit of a showman now. Being a 'performer' was the biggest learning curve for me; I was one of the shyest people I knew, and it was a slog towards finally feeling comfortable on a stage in front of people. Robin went out shopping with me to acquire a new wardrobe, which comprised mostly of casually stylish suits. The clothes did help me feel like a different, more confident person onstage. As with most things, I became better at performing with experience.

As far as the case, it was slow going. There were meetings scheduled, but as far as anything concrete, I was told it would take months (or years) for a concrete ruling to occur. As long as the Rodriguezes stayed locked up during that time, I sure didn't care. They nearly got out on bail, but a merciful judge decided they were too much of a danger to society to be let out of bonds. I didn't have to fear for my life because of a 'hit,' and neither did Mom or Harriet. Maybe Santos hadn't been overreacting when he went on the run.

I missed him a lot.

I took a business weekend to LA, interviewing with an obscure music magazine. After finishing a photo shoot in a grungy alley, I went back to my hotel room to relax before I would have to appear on a 'late' late show that evening. I was watching daytime TV and eating a cheeseburger I ordered from room service when the hotel phone started ringing. I thought it was the hotel staff calling me about the service or something, but I was instead greeted wit any airy, masculine, "Hello."

I held the receiver to my ear for a moment, trying to place who exactly was calling. I wanted to trust it was Santos, but my rationale wouldn't allow me to quite believe it.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Who do you think it is?" he responded.

I licked my lips, turning towards a window that faced a busy stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard. "Where are you?"

"In your heart, where I've been all along."

I smiled, my nerves loosening up. "I've missed you so much. I can't stop thinking about you."

"I feel the same way. I love you."

"Love you, too... Where have you been? You hadn't contacted me at all. What made you decide to call me now? And from the hotel?"

"Well, I didn't want to be found. I noticed you on TV and decided that I needed to talk to you again. Tell me, what are you wearing?"

The question put me off, but it wasn't completely out of character for Santos to ask something like that. "Some getup they wanted me to wear for this photo shoot. I don't come up with the weird things they have me put on for the camera."

"Maybe you should take it off if you don't like it."

"What does it matter if I take off my clothes? You're not going to see me."

"Maybe I can see you."

I narrowed my eyes, taking a sharper gaze towards the sidewalk. Nothing appeared inconspicuous about the passersby down below, and traffic continued as it had been since I got there. "Who is this?"

Heavy breathing returned on the line. This time, the guy didn't try disguising his true voice, which was higher and on the smoky side. "What do you think about doing to Santos when you touch yourself at night? C'mon, just take your shirt off. Just a little bit, you sexy bitch."

I gasped, slamming down the phone on the receiver before pulling the curtains closed. As I stood there, I couldn't shake the feeling of being dirty, stupid, and completely exposed. Losing control of myself, I swiped what remained of my lunch onto the ground, threw a lamp to the floor, and proceeded to punch into the pillows of my bed until I was too tired to hurt any more.

And then, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. I ran to check that my door was locked, then picked up my cell phone and called the cops. A report was made, security was beefed up around the vicinity of the hotel, and I was reassured that my safety was a top priority by the manager of the building.

Regardless, as soon as the guy left, I took a steaming hot shower before wrapping myself in blankets like a cocoon. The last thing I wanted to do was appear on television that night. I begged my agent to cancel the appearance, though he tried to talk me out of it, stating that I needed to 'build my brand,' and that it was, 'just one guy.' All I could think about was that creep's eyes on me, leering as I lived my life.

Even if I did go, I couldn't imagine there would be a positive outcome from it. I refused, consequences be damned, and went home the next day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I needed an escape after that episode. Instead of doing something sensible like going on a weekend getaway or talking to a therapist about what happened, I locked myself in my room and played a bunch of violent video games. Mostly, this included first person shooters, but I also took to beating the shit out of monsters with a club and pretending it was that asshole.

I was otherwise eating, hugging my pillow, or crying. I felt helpless and alone. If becoming star couldn't convince Santos to find me, I didn't know what would. What could I possibly do? It wasn't even possible to reason with him because I had no contact. He was like a ghost of my recent past, or a daydream I had mistaken for reality. I was even beginning to think about hiring a PI to find him instead of passively waiting around for him to make an appearance when he 'felt safe.'

My friends came online to play with me one night. It was nice to talk to them and hear them gripe about their lives. In the past few weeks, I had been surrounded by so many 'adult' people mainly concerned with my music that I was beginning to feel isolated and alone. While I wouldn't say my friends provided me with anything close to heartfelt discussions, they made me feel at ease by being their normal, everyday selves.

"Haha! You dumb cunt!" Hayden's voice barked a little too loudly into my eardrum.

We were playing Counter-Strike at our respective homes, and it being a Saturday night, I safely assumed most of them were drunk, high, or both.

Vi kept running into walls or trapping himself into corners, getting his dumb ass shot. I couldn't help but laugh like a dumb cunt myself every time he did something stupid to sabotage himself. Every time I guffawed, giggled, or chortled, it felt like a ten pound block dropped from my shoulders. He probably had no idea he was doing so much to alleviate the pain I had been enduring--we were all laughing at his high jinks--though he seemed to be conscious of how entertaining he was, given that he never remedied his mistakes.

I thought the night was going to be simply that: laughing, mashing buttons, and making off-color jokes.

"You know Luke, you're not very gay for being gay," said Terrell, his voice slurring more as the hour passed midnight.

"How gay do I have to be?"

"Super gay," added Hayden. "Liber-flippin-ace."

"How do you even know who that guy is?" asked Terrell. "He was popular in the 70s."

"Hey, man, I know things," said Hayden. "What you need, Luke, is you need... a candelabra. And... sequins. Lots of sequins."

"Please," I responded, trying to keep my focus on the game. "I'm gay, not a drag queen."

"Watch, three years from now you're going to be wearing a pink leotard with a feathery boa on stage," said Hayden.

"Not happening," I said.

"Uh huh," said Hayden, landing a death blow on my character before hooting in victory.

"Don't listen to these idiots," said Vi. "Their experience with queer people are limited to Big Gay Al and Bruno."

"Okay, so how is being famous," asked Terrell during the brief lull. "We wanna know."

"Being famous?" I asked. "I mean... it is what it is. I'm not even that well known."

"Do guys mail you their jock straps?"

We all snickered at least a little bit at that question.

"No, haven't gotten any jock straps yet," I said.

"Obviously, you're not actually a success," said Vi.

"I thought being rich meant you were actually famous," said Terrell.

"Are you rich yet?" asked Hayden.

"No comment."

"What about the record deal?" asked Terrell.

I held my tongue from dropping anything specific. "I mean, I'm not a millionaire or anything, if that's what you're getting at."

"What? How much was it?" asked Hayden

"In the thousands range," I said. The answer seemed non-committed enough. In truth, it was closer to the hundreds of thousands range, but I had no desire to bring that up.

"What about your guy--Santos," Vi asked rather innocently.

"I still don't know," I said, feeling a small knot in my throat form.

"Wow, I hadn't even thought about that," said Terrell. "I totally forgot he was gone. That must suck."

I didn't say anything, not wanting to get choked up.

"Wait, have you heard from him?" asked Hayden.

"No," I said, using the voice training skills I'd gained to keep my throat steady.

"No? Nothing?"

"Oh, that's not good," added Vi.

"We should try to find him. Like, hire Dog the Bounty Hunter or some shit. And, like... keep watch in front of all the ass-less chaps stores."

I laughed deeply at that one.

"Where do they sell ass-less chaps? Is that a thing? Can you walk into a store and walk out with ass-less chaps?" mused Vi.

"Hello, sir, one ass-less chaps, please!" said Terrell with pep. Laughing, he continued, saying, "Is that a country western thing? Like where they sell boots and spurs and shit?"

"Cowboys. Lassos. Brokeback Mountain. Gayness," droned Hayden.

"I wish I could quit you," said Terrell.

"It's what your mom says to me, too."

"You little gutter punk. I'll kick your ass."

"Yeah, try it, Señor Burrito."

"All right, all right," said Vi. "We got off topic. Anyway, Luke, I hope he's okay, wherever he is."

"Oh," I said dumbly. "It's okay. I'm sure... he's probably fine."

It got uncomfortably quiet, as if I'd farted through the microphone.

"Do you guys think he's dead?" asked Hayden.

"What the fuck kind of a question is that?" I found myself yelling at him.

"Oh, shit," Terrell uttered quietly.

"I mean... I'm just asking. It's a possibility," said Hayden.

"Hayden, shutup--" Vi stammered

"If your dog ran away, and I said there was a good chance a truck hit him, do you think you would respond positively to that?" I asked.

At a loss for words, he said nothing. Nobody else said anything, either.

"I think it's time for me to sign off," I said. "Goodnight."

I turned off the computer before they had the chance to send their goodbyes, fuming. Launching myself on the bed, I buried my face in the pillows to muffle my cries. I gave myself time to calm down, secretly hoping I would cry myself to sleep, but instead the night dragged on as negative thoughts circulated around in my head. I eventually became bored enough to pick up my phone... Hayden had left me a message, as I thought he might.

I'm really sorry man. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I know you really love the guy. I wasn't thinking.

Sighing, I responded, It's okay. Just choose your words carefully.

Surprising me, he responded. It must have been close to 2AM. U can slap me in the face the next time u see me.

I'll slap ur cheeks. And only if ur wearing ass-less chaps.

... Ok, sailor ;-)

I grinned, shaking my head. It was weird how quickly all could be forgiven between my friends. I probably overreacted to the comment, but I guess deep down he knew he had crossed a territorial line. He was always saying dumb stuff, anyway. It was just in his nature.

I wasn't going to sleep that night. Figuring it would be better than staring at a screen for the next three to five hours, I quietly tip-toe out of the house. I didn't know where I wanted to go, only that I wanted to drive. I thought about stopping at a diner for breakfast or something, but I had no aim on where I was venturing. I just wanted to get away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I decided to cruise through town. I didn't want to spend four hours driving back home from somewhere like Mount Rainier, and I was sick of being on long business trips. There was a kind of enigmatic power to driving through town while everyone slept, as if all of Tacoma belonged to me. I liked to imagine that I was rolling through a dystopian future where everyone had been obliterated by a plague or biological warfare.

Okay, not actually; just in a fun way. I would never want everyone to die in a pandemic. I think the appeal was the emptiness factor. It was rare to be out and about, but also completely alone.

I imagined what it would be like to wander downtown, knock the window out of the diner, and make myself a Monte Cristo. I could do whatever I wanted every day, take whatever I wanted, and not worry about being famous or putting on a good show for people. It calmed me to think about escaping everything. Everyone probably thinks about it at least once in their lives.

After driving through downtown, my old high school, and the shopping center, I was impatient to see the sun rise. 4AM... It would be a few more hours.

I drove to the park by the old apartment, almost by coincidence. I hadn't been back since the quarter started, not that I had reason to go there. It was empty, of course. In the black of night, streetlights peppered the gravel paths that spread out. Combined with the wind and cold, an eeriness floated through the air. I guessed it was around thirty-five degrees out, which had to be the average low that month. I zipped my jacket up after locking the car door, a feeling of nostalgia alighting as I gazed around. I wandered to the jungle gym and picnic tables, but inevitably headed towards the stands that faced the community pool.

Before I reached a seat, I realized in a harrowing moment that I wasn't alone. Small splashes waved towards my ear, and then the sound of someone blowing bubbles.

Someone was in that freezing water.

Someone, someone, someone...

I wanted to cry out, to scream, the jump up and down...

What is he doing?

I must have been in clear sight of Santos--I stood under one of the few light bulbs in the area, but he was more concerned about...

He was washing himself. He had a bar of soap and was rubbing out the grease and grime in that frigid, chlorinated water. A bottle of whiskey sat on the edge of the concrete, presumably to keep the hypothermia from setting in.

Oh my God, I can't let him kill himself in that cold water.

"SANTOS!" I cried, scrambling up the chain link fence.

The whites of his eyes were so stark when he spun in the water towards me. I was already sobbing, not caring about how I got to him as long as I got to him. As I dropped from high up, pain shot up my ankles, nearly immobilizing me. He glided through the water towards me instead of getting out and walking--probably because he was drunk--which in a mad way, caused me to laugh.

I leapt in, clothes and all, splashing and kicking my way towards him. The piercing cold was secondary to reaching him, and I experienced bliss as my arms circled around his lithe body. We floundered as we kissed each other, unconcerned for the fact that we were sinking.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, wheezing as he took in air.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," I responded, taking his hand before leading him towards the edge.

His wrist was so thin, his bones prominent and rigid. As he lifted himself out of the water, there seemed to be nothing of him but ribs and sinewy muscle. I fell over as I lifted myself out, holding him, touching him, and seeing him. Being with Santos again after longing for him so long concentrated every happy sentiment I'd ever possessed for him.

We were all limbs and grasping, our lips wild and searching as we kissed.

"I missed you so much," I cried, the tears flowing down my face. "You can't leave me again. You can't leave me."

"I won't, I promise I won't," he said, his eyes bloodshot and his skin carpeted with goosebumps. "I love you. I couldn't let you see me like this."

All I saw was a man who was beautiful, beaten, and lost.

"Come on, we can't stay here," I said. "You're going to get sick."

Something about the look in his eyes told me that that had been his intent all along, to slowly kill himself through drink, cold, and self-neglect.

No...

I wiped the thought away, like scum off a window pane. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that I had found him, and was going to keep him safe from everything in the world threatening to drag him under.

I believed him, that he wouldn't try to leave me again. Maybe all he needed was to be found.

I helped slip his clothes back on, handing him what were essentially rags. My wet clothes caused an unforgiving chill to cling to me, and I feared hypothermia. Despite that, the amusement and humanity of it all sunk in as we gazed at each other.

"You never even left town, did you?" I asked, a white puff appearing with my breath.

"Well, I've lived here all my life. It seemed like the best place to be, since I'm aware of all the hiding spots."

I smiled. "So where's your car?"

"Around." His dimples lit up his smile, however small and brief it was.

He had on ripped jeans, I realized, and an old grey sweatshirt which had stains from every stretch of the color wheel. With the wet greasy hair and burgeoning beard, I wanted to throw him in a hot washing machine and turn the setting to gentle.

"Come to mine," I said. "I was just driving around. It's still warm, and I have heated seats."

He nodded to himself, as if he knew he was about to bite off more than he could chew.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Not here, and not at your house. Somewhere we can be safe."

"Of course," I said, my spine stiff. I didn't know what he was talking about when he said that, but I was about ready to do anything to keep him from drifting away from me again. My body tensed as we walked together towards the car--a racy car I had bought with the music money he helped me earn. It was a 2015 galaxy-blue STI, waxed to magazine cover perfection. Santos whistled as we approached it.

The digital clock read 4:32 when I fired up the engine. The hot air was a relief, though the rap music I was streaming seemed out of place. I shut it off, closing the door before heading to the trunk. I had a spare blanket in the back for emergencies, something I only kept there because Mom nagged me into it.

She always knows best, I thought as I stripped off my wet shirt and hoodie, pulling the throw blanket over my shoulders.

"A shame it's cold out," he mentioned after I got in the driver's seat.

I smirked at him, knowing exactly what he meant. "I would have made love to you on the pavement, or even here, but you insisted we leave."

"Take me somewhere," he said. "Somewhere far away. I'm so tired of this place."

"I don't think we could stop somewhere even if we wanted to. Hotels don't usually take people in until eleven, right?"

"They don't."

The idea of staying awake until 11 o'clock made me want to pass out at the wheel. I had no idea what his hours had been like. Based on the fact he was taking an ice water bath in the middle of the night, he probably couldn't be feeling too out of sorts. With all the flights and appearances I felt like I was on a roller coaster going in loop-the-loops all day.

We entered the highway going north. The Canadian border wasn't far away, and Idaho didn't interest me.

"Can you drive stick?" I asked.

"The BMW is manual. Why, want me to take over soon?"

"I've been up since 6AM, so yeah."

"Oh, shit. Why are you even awake right now?"

"Because my life is insane." I let myself have a little laugh.

"That's right," he said happily. "You've made it. You're a STAR. Oh no, I left my whiskey at the pool. I hope a kid doesn't find it."

I looked over to him with a more critical eye this time, rolling my eyes. "So, how drunk are you right now?"

"Uh... I'll be honest, I've got a good buzz going."

"How much have you drunk?"

He paused for a moment, as if counting shot glasses in the sky. "I'm not sure."

"You're drunk pretty much always, huh?"

"Yeah."

I let out a deep breath, feeling like I was facing a climb up a steep crag. "How are you getting the booze if you're trying to keep a low profile?"

"Pakistani guy in the seedy corner store just wants the cash in his hand. Plus, I took a lot of booze with me from the house. It gave me time to change my looks a little."

By starving yourself to death? I thought.

"I know, I have to stop drinking," he stated, as if reading my mind.

"Have you been doing drugs?"

"I'm not that stupid."

Well, at least there's that.

"I can help you find a rehab facility," I stated. "You also need to meet with our lawyer and tell her your side of the story."

"I know," he said with blank acceptance.

"Don't worry about how much it costs; I'll cover it. Can you go a day without drinking?"

"Yes."

"What about a week?"

He faltered, thinking on it.

"You've got to break this habit," I said.

"It's been a dependency. It's like... if I don't drink it, I feel empty and terrible. I used to have music to fall back on when I lived at home, and I haven't even had that. Being away from you just made everything much worse, on top of becoming destitute. I don't drink to get wasted. Quitting will be hard, but I don't think it'll kill me."

"It's easy to say before you've tried."

He sighed, looking out the window. "My life hasn't been easy, okay? Cut me some slack."

"Do you think you need to quit cold turkey? Like, for the rest of your life?"

"I'd be lying if I told you anything else. I've been binge drinking since I was thirteen. A person drinking since then shouldn't be trusted with alcohol."

I nodded, placing a hands on his. "I promise not to talk about this any more. I guess it was like the elephant in the room."

"No, you had to bring it up. We both realize I have a raging problem."

With that out of the water, I decided to shift gears: "When were you planning on coming forward?"

"No idea. When the zombie apocalypse came."

"Right."

It hurt to think he might have been lost forever... Like I wasn't important enough for him to get his act together. But then, I had no idea what was going through his mind, or what was occurring behind the scenes when it came to his parents. I only knew that his shitty home life drove him to become an alcoholic, and he was frightened.

Maybe Mom was right about how he would be a temporary part of my life. It wouldn't be the worst outcome if we parted ways, if I helped him get back on the straight and narrow. Harriet still believed he was no good, and would always be that way. I still couldn't believe that, but it was possible.

Did he want to find me? I thought about him almost every hour of the day. My life was unbearable without him.

It was easy for me to judge him, since my life was going so well. I could never repay him for propelling me up into musical success, all because he had seen something special in me. He was the one who gave up all the evidence we needed to have his parents arrested. I owed him so much, and I was ashamed for suspecting him of not loving me enough when his life was a dumpster fire.

I would probably never know what it was like to live in my car through winter, or to feel like my existence wasn't worth it unless I had a substance that was sucking my soul away. I had family who loved me, and I usually felt all right with myself, even though I was a homebody and a bit of a nerd.

I decided I would be on his side, no matter what. Whether that meant we remained a couple didn't concern me, tough I did desperately want it to work out.

It was impossible to foresee how we would come out on the other side of this.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

We beat the morning traffic going through Seattle, chatting and talking about music as if nothing of consequence had come to pass in the last month. We stopped for caffeine and donut holes along the way, keeping things low key by stopping at one of those coffee shacks that dot the Northwest. With the blanket around my shoulders, I felt as homeless as Santos, though I liked to believe I passed for a Bohemian. My clothes would still be soggy going on the next day--we devised to buy new clothes later. My stomach was black, cavernous, and greasy in the way that too much fried dough and coffee can nepalm an empty stomach.

Highway 5 passed through more of Washington: fields of blueberries, signs for forgotten towns, and trees that hadn't been hacked by progress. The San Juan Islands were fun to drive by, and we were tempted to stop, but Santos was too worried about being recognized. It was finally reaching a 'reasonable' hour to stop, though, and I was exhausted. There were old sailors straightening out nets on their sleepy boats, seeming part of a quaint painting by Winslow Homer. Shops for things like candy and pastries were firmly closed, their storefronts desolate in their charm. We passed through town, driving along the coast until we found a quiet place to park and admire a view of Bellingham Bay and the islands that dotted the water.

Santos was starting to seem more like his usual self instead of, well... drunk off his ass. Sober Santos was the reserved, more collected version of himself. Or perhaps he seemed that way from my angle, standing majestically in front of a sea cliff. It was freaky (and also pleasant) how he appeared like a super model without trying.

"I haven't been here in so long," he said, drinking the dregs of his coffee.

"You've been here before?" I asked.

"When I was fifteen I took the car and drove up the highway," he said, folding his arms for warmth.

"Your parents let you do that?"

"They had gotten me upset about something, I don't remember about what. Probably the usual crap. I drove up here, decided I wanted to keep going, and turned back around for another thousand miles. I went all the way to San Francisco. I remember before getting outside the city limits, somewhere around Half Moon Bay, I saw this giant rainbow! I thought it was the greatest thing I'd ever seen in my life. I decided I had to come back one day, like to live there." He laughed. "I guess that isn't realistic now, with how insane the rent is, but at that time it felt like something I really wanted to do. I was scared shitless driving through the city. I didn't know where the hell I was going or anything about navigating the weird thoroughfares or alleyways. There was this big white truck that almost tipped over on me at one point. I stopped around the Gates of Chinatown before getting out for an hour or two. I got a coffee and wandered around, people watching. Then I got right back in and drove home. I remember it being one of my few nice memories from that time."

I didn't have the words to respond to that, though I found the story amusing.

"The freedom felt so sweet, you know? It was like a high. I loved being on the road, looking out the window," he said.

"Did they punish you when you got back?"

"They were too busy to care. I'd just be waiting for the next time they blew up at me about something. I'd also be waiting for the day I could finally leave. I was so disappointed when I found out I wouldn't go to college yet. Like, I was devastated. I cried in my room for three days, playing records to soothe myself. I needed someone like you so badly at the time."

I put my arm around him, then realized I was pulling him into a hug. Despite his body being cold and gaunt, I loved all of him. It was heaven to be close to him, especially then, to be his confidant and sole protector.

"If I went on tour, would you like to ride with me?" I asked.

"I'd love to," he mumbled into my chest.

"We'll figure something out. I don't know when or if it's happening, but I want you to be with me."

"Thank you."

We stood there for a while, holding each other as I rubbed his back. I was glad to see there was no one around, not just because I didn't want us to be recognized, but also because we needed the moment to ourselves. Unfortunately, the warmth combined with the lapping of the waves was putting me to sleep. I tried to fight the urge to pass out, especially as I began to hallucinate small balls of light, but the need to rest hammered on me all at once. I collapsed in his arms, my reflexes compelling me to grab him.

"Oh, God! Are you okay?" he asked, pulling me to my feet.

"I'm sorry, just tired," I responded, collecting myself.

"Come on, you need to nap. We'll rest in the back. It folds down, right?"

"Yeah," I responded weakly, getting my keys out. I was ready to collapse again before opening the back up.

I wished that there was more than one blanket in the car, but we made do. I would have fallen asleep immediately back there, but Santos was looking down on me in his captivating way, running a hand through my hair. We smiled at each other, the feeling like sunshine on a spring day. He knelt to kiss me, and I held on to him longer, my blood running.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," I whispered back. "Did you think of me?"

"Of course I did. Every day."

Further torturing myself by staying awake, I asked, "What kinds of things?" I knew it was pathetic, but I guess I needed to hear it to know for sure.

"I missed hearing your voice. I missed joking around with you in Russian Literature. I missed the butterflies in my stomach when I knew I was about to see you. I missed holding you in my arms, and feeling the taste of your lips. I used to watch the studio video over and over, just to hear your voice. I watched every interview of you for as long as I could without getting spotted by a stranger when I was using wi-fi. It's stupid, but I would pretend to reach out to you through the glass... It hurt, having to pretend that an old pillow was you. I missed you so much."

I wiped a stubborn tear away. "I wish that you had found me. Every day, I'd wish you would come out of the woodwork. I felt like I was dying inside."

"Maybe it was meant to be this way. We needed the time apart."

"I don't know," I said, pulling him in close "It would kill me if you left again. I can't take it. You can't do this to me."

"I know. I won't."

"You can't really think your parents will hire a hit man to kill you."

"I'm almost certain they've done it to others before."

"But you're their son! And they're under investigation for murder."

He didn't say anything, quietly contemplating it. He'd been so afraid of them his whole life, I suppose, he saw death where there were only shadows. It was possible he was right, but I had this feeling that he was slinking in the dark of his own fears.

"I'll keep you safe," I said. "I can afford an apartment somewhere for you... for us. No one has to know where you are."

He smiled. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do. I love you."

He caressed my face, staring at me. His turquoise eyes never lost any of their brilliance, beaming blue and teal like a gem under spotlight. He kissed me, his lips smooth as silk next to my cracked and dry ones. Lifting himself on his elbow, he looked down on me with the affection of deep longing. Pushing the blanket aside, he exposed my naked chest and laid down small kisses. I was completely aroused.

I loved him. His smell, his way of being, and his desire for me. Removing his rags, he tossed them in the corner before climbing on top of me. He was a lot thinner, I was guessing around fifteen pounds so, though I thought he carried it with grace. His cheekbones jutted more exquisitely now, and the new hollows around his collar, ribs, and hips were like new corners I'd discovered about him. His eyes seemed to be asking for some kind of answer from me, as if he wanted my approval.

"Hello, angel," I said as he gravitated towards my face.

"I want to spend the rest of my life looking at your face, knowing that you're mine," he said.

"I am."

Wrapping our arms around one another, we joined for a slow, deep kiss. Our mouths sucked and explored each other, and I think Santos was scared I would fall asleep because he rubbed up against me with an eagerness. I couldn't help but groan as he bucked against me; I gave him a hard look, willing him to go on. He unzipped me, gliding his hand over my underwear before pulling back the final layer. He stared at my cock for a moment, as if admiring an old friend. Massaging my dick in his palm, slowly at first, he watched me for reactions. Then he smiled as he observed my parted lips, flushed skin, and trembling limbs.

We touched each other, eventually reaching climax. I took some old paper napkins from the center console, wiping us dry, and we nestled together in the warmth of the blanket. As I curled up in the rook of his chest, in the minute before I would fall asleep, tears of joy welled in my eyes.

"We're going to be so happy together, always," he said quietly.

"Yes."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

One day, a seafood dinner, and a bottle of champagne later, my mother gave me a call.

"Mom... Mom... Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Please! Let me get a word in edgewise. What? I'm fine. No, nothing is wrong. He's here with me, and yes, he's fine! I'm sorry, it was spur of the moment."

Santos gazed at me from the hotel bed, disturbed by the direction the phone call was going. The walls had this faded teal that made my surroundings feel all the more depressing. Santos was looking a lot better, at least. He was in new clothes, shaved, and vitality had returned to his skin. We'd decided to stay in the Bellingham area a few days to recharge and reconnect. I forgot about everyone else in my life.

"You can't just up and leave because you feel like it," she said. "Your agent has been calling the house looking for you, and someone else came by about a photo op. Did you forget about it?"

"Uh... maybe."

"They were pissed, and I didn't know what to tell them. They were standing there looking at me like I was personally responsible for you. Do you realize how infuriating it is being your personal secretary?"

"I'm sorry."

She let out an aggravated sigh. "I'm not even going to get into the issue with your boyfriend. Look--when are you coming back?"

"I'm not sure."

Soft laughter came over the line. "Why am I not surprised to hear that?"

"We want to find an apartment together."

"Baby..." Another long pause. "You're moving so fast. You love Santos, but I don't think you realize how much trauma you're shouldering. You need Harriet and I to help. We can figure something out with Santos."

"But he needs a place to live, and I want to be with him. We can't go home."

She paused to ponder this, so I jumped in: "I can still call you all the time, and we don't plan on moving far away. You didn't expect me to stay home forever, did you?"

Santos looked at me with an amused expression.

Turning towards compassion, Mom said, "I still think you need more sheltering, at least until this business with the court case is over. You're still very young and naive, and easily... well, I think you need someone older and wiser who cares about you to look over your shoulder."

"I appreciate that, and I love you, but we need to find our own way."

Empty silence tolled. "All right. Well, I tried. I can't force you to listen to me. If you ever decide it's getting too much for you, you can always come home."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Call our lawyer as soon as you can about Santos. The sooner the better."

"Already way ahead of you."

"Good. You... you really think he's innocent, right? There's no doubt in your mind? God, this whole thing is so bizarre..."

I turned to Santos, then back to the window facing a grey, overcast ocean. "There isn't a doubt in my mind."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to let you go. Call me again soon, okay?"

"Sure, Mom. Bye."

I hung up, exhaling deeply.

"So I guess the conversation convened smoothly," said Santos with a lifted eyebrow.

"She's worried about me," I said, laying stomach-down on the bed. "It's part of her job description."

He nodded. "I would give anything to have a mom like yours. She seems real caring, at least from what I know about her."

"She is... And, hopefully one day you can call her Mom, too."

His expression turned to one of modest consternation. The idea of marrying in to my family probably hadn't occurred to him.

I took his hand, kissing it. "So, do you want to go back down south to look for a place tomorrow?"

"To be honest, I'd rather stay here indefinitely. It's so calm and... easy going."

"I wish we could. I need to be closer to Seattle, and I like being able to see my family and friends. It wouldn't be possible to live in this area at the moment."

"Right," he stated, as if it had actually been a real consideration. "I can't even contribute rent. I'm almost out of money."

"I have money--don't worry about it."

He got up, placing a palm on the glass as he stared out. "I don't know what I'm going to do with my life."

"You'll figure it out. Give yourself time."

He stepped to the mini bar, pulling out the bottle of rum we'd bought the day before. I tried not to cringe. He had the decorum to pour the spirit into a plastic cup, at least, before swallowing a healthy shot down.

"Am I going to be your kept man? Are you going to give me an allowance while calling me your trophy husband to your friends?"

"What? No... Where are you getting this from? I haven't done anything."

Sitting next to me on the bed, he swirled his drink around. "I can see where this is going between the two of us. My only redeemable quality is that I'm hot--let's be honest."

"That's not true. You don't give yourself enough credit."

"Okay, tell me--what do I bring to the table? Who am I?"

Oh God, I thought, especially when he took another healthy swig from the cup.

"You're interesting and funny. I could talk to you for days about music, or life, or something as ridiculous as why caterpillars are hairy. You recognized my talent. We wouldn't be talking about moving into an apartment if it wasn't for that. You've already done the work needed to deserve a payout; you received no recognition for it."

This seemed to satisfy him in a meaningful way, judging by the way he was thoughtfully staring at the carpet.

"You're famous because my mom mowed down your dad and tried to get away with it. I helped, but your popularity wasn't my doing."

I decided to ignore the insensitive remark. "Why are you determined to disparage yourself all the time? Why can't you ever take some credit?"

I was reminded of the incident at the jazz restaurant on our first date when he accused me of being with Robin, like he fully expected me to be a cheater because of a few texts. Perhaps he was too accustomed to sabotage and subterfuge--what was to be expected from life.

My phone rang. I was so happy for an escape from the conversation that I answered without checking who was calling.

"What the hell is going on?"

Harriet.

"Hi," I said.

"Don't 'hi' me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You. Santos. What kind of travesty is this?"

"Travesty? Is that a word they taught you in school today?" I laughed openly.

"Shutup! You know what I mean."

I laid on the bed, stretching an arm over the side. Staring at the popcorn ceiling, I waited for more of her diatribe.

"This is a big joke to you, but not to me," she continued. "If you keep seeing him, you can consider it over with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Exactly what I said. I don't want to speak to you again if you'd choose someone like him over me and Dad. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I expected vitriol from her, but not ostracism. "I'm not breaking up with him. I love him."

"Fine. Never make any contact with me again. I'll remove myself from all your social media. Mom already told me you're moving out. Just tip her off when you're coming by for your stuff so I don't have to see you or... him."

"Harriet, there's no need to take extremes. We can work through this."

"You're the one taking extremes as far as I'm concerned. If you come to your senses one day, give me notice. I might forgive you then."

Click.

I rolled my eyes, groaning.

"I guess she wasn't happy, either," said Santos.

"No," I responded. "Seems lately that no one is."

We left Bellingham the next morning, making the dismal drive back to Tacoma. Since we couldn't go home, I found us a cheap hotel while we figured everything out. We thought about living in the vicinity of Seattle, or right in it, though we weren't picky about location. After touring a few places, we decided to live in a little one bedroom apartment on Capitol Hill. I could afford something luxurious, but we settled on a modest red stone building with a security gate.

It was exciting to sign the lease papers, perhaps even surreal. Beginning our lives together was no longer a wistful idea in my head or a heated declaration to my mom. I didn't have to ask for anyone's help or permission. It was just us.

I picked up my possessions with a rented van, avoiding any melodrama. Harriet wasn't there, like she had promised, though Mom saw us off. She kept a respectful distance from us, her expression decidedly matte. It would be easy to mistaken her vibe for apathy, but I suspect she felt melancholy over watching her family splinter. While our home life was turbulent, we were united and in a pleasant home only a year ago. Now... I wasn't sure she knew where her future was headed, or how much worse things would get.

I cried a little on the ride out; I was weak, too. I left behind not just my mom, but my friends, as well. Tacoma wasn't far from the apartment, but because I wouldn't be attending college anymore, there were less opportunities to see my friends. I'd probably only interact with them on social media or video games from then on. With my schedule and the distance, there would be less chances to hang out or go to parties.

I was entering a new realm of my life.

A day after picking out a new couch and furniture pieces for the apartment, Santos and I were greeted with interesting news. He had just woken up, performing the daily routine of checking his phone, when he shook me awake like a living alarm clock.

"Luke, look! We're being followed!"

I rubbed the sprites out of my eyes, confused. "Is it the FBI?" I blurted out, still half asleep.

"No, it's the paparazzi. Someone spotted us shopping at Macy's and recognized us. We're all over the skeezy celebrity blogs. One of my friends shared it with me."

"Oh," I said absently, burying my face back into the pillow.

He read aloud: "Santos Rodriguez and Luke Perlith getting homey. The two were seen walking around in the Macy's Department Store, checking out kitchen sets. Aren't they adorable? They have us thinking of love sonnets."

I smirked, letting my eyes rove over the 'exclusive' shots of us wandering the department store. We were adorable.

He gave me one of his endearing grins, moving in to kiss me on the cheek. I pulled him in, wrapping my arms around his body. His skin was as soft as a spring petal from the massage I gave him the night before. I bought fancy lavender oil, and even after sleeping for eight hours he smelled like a fresh bouquet. We held each other, our arms reaching around like twisting ivy. We laid down kisses as our thighs brushed one another, making love as we had been making love for the last two weeks.

I tried not to think about the looming date when he would have to go away to rehab for a month. The Monday on the calendar was circled in red, and fast approaching. I didn't know if a month was long enough to help him conquer his habit, but it was what the clinician on the telephone recommended.

While I loved being with him every day, it was a stab in my side every time I saw him take a drink. He'd start out the morning sharp and sober, progressively getting more loosey-goosey by noon. There was at least a plateau he hit when he drank, beyond which he never seemed to venture. His ideal state was what I'd describe as 'lubed up.' He was friendlier than usual, wearing all smiles, but he was also sloppy. I think before dropping out of school he was too ashamed to let on that he was drinking all the time. Now that it was just me, well... He didn't seem to care I witnessed his routine of inebriation. The genie was out of the bottle.

We lounged through most of the morning, making banana pancakes and watching the news. Afterward, I went to the keyboard as he wandered to the patio. I got as much piano playing in as possible between the business I was scheduled for in a given period of time. It was easy to go days without putting my hands on the keys, which bothered me. I managed to squeeze sessions in when guilt or uneasiness weighed on my mind. Santos was usually alone in the bedroom while I played, looking at stuff on the Internet or listening to his records. The afternoon was his prime boozing time. He preferred to listen to my practice sessions when he circumstances allowed, which was okay, but I preferred to be left alone.

"Hey!" he yelled across the apartment, chasing a glass of wine with a fist of cheese puffs.

I pulled my headphones off. "Yeah?"

"The delivery guy is here with the chaise lounge thing. I see a truck outside. He might be trying to get through the gate."

I got up, identifying a consternated man in a baseball cap standing at the keypad of the gate. Heading downstairs, Santos following not far behind. Chatting with the delivery guy for a minute, I entered the code to let him in. As soon as the white truck rolled into the lot, a squad of photographers leapt from bushes. Their cameras clicked as they caught us unawares, reminding me of assault rifles. Santos thought the whole thing was ridiculous, laughing and pointing.

"Hi, Luke! How are you reconciling considering your sister's comments lately?" shouted a man with dark sunglasses.

"My sister?" I asked. Being cornered by strangers was bad enough, now they wanted to communicate? "I don't know what you're talking about."

"She made a statement that she didn't want to see you again. How are you coping?"

Santos stepped up. "He loves his sister. And he loves... Jesus."

Oh God, I thought. I hope he doesn't make a bigger fool out of us.

More clicks from the DSLRs went off.

"We're going now," I said. "I'm going to close the gate. You need to leave the property."

"One more question, Luke--when will you and Santos be tying the knot?"

"Uh... Ah, we... I, ah..."

"We order cheesy knots all the time from the local pizza place," said Santos. "I mean, we're not going to spend all afternoon tying them. It would be way too time consuming."

Snickers followed, and I was glad the comment was taken as irony.

"You know," said the paparazzi, "are you guys getting married any time soon?"

Santos took a long pause, gazing dreamily at me. "Only if I'm the luckiest man in the world."

I blushed. Seizing the moment, Santos pulled me in for a hug. More camera shutters went off as they captured the delicate moment.

I wasn't imagining it when I surmised that Santos was drinking more than his usual standard.

We went to sleep on what felt like an ordinary night--we ordered out a combination pizza, watched a Robert Redford film about a man lost at sea, made love, and then passed out. Five hours later, however, I was forcefully awakened by his screaming. It was a harrowing sound, like the battle cry of a dying animal. I remember gazing up at him in the light of the full moon, shirtless, pale, sweaty, with bloodshot eyes and a heaving chest.

"Santos..." I sat up with him, putting my arms around his slick skin. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and then patted me on the back, as if I were the one who needed comforting. "I just had a bad dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, rubbing my eye.

"No, I just... I'm going to get a glass of water. Go back to bed, baby."

He kissed me on the cheek, then pushed me back to the comfort and warmth of the covers. He left the bed quietly, heading down the hall for the bathroom. I laid there and stared into the darkness, though the temptation to slip back into unconsciousness pulled at me. I have a vague recollection that he was in the bathroom for a long time... long enough for me to briefly pass out before I was jolted awake by the sound of the toilet flushing.

The seal of the freezer was tugged on, followed by the heavy roll of the caster wheels. He was going for either the bottle of tequila or the gin. The cupboard door creaked opened, a glass was carefully placed on granite, and then the guhg guhg of the liquor splashed in.

His sign-in appointment for the rehab was the next day, so I wasn't about to stop him on his last bender for what we hoped would be the last time ever. Still, I was worried about him. I couldn't shake the horrific cries, and what was he doing in the bathroom for all that time?

I pulled up my phone: 4:52 AM. It was by no means a normal hour to be waking up, but I was concerned about him. I felt that I might be ruining his personal drinking party by getting up, but it was too late to go back on that once I stepped out of bed. I got to the living room, a few soft lamps turned on around our brand new baby blue couch. His back was turned to me, kneeling down to look at what I assumed was his phone. The table next to him had a perspirating glass of alcohol on it; what appeared to be three shots of tequila blanco. A pleasant night breeze blew through the windows, the noise of traffic next to nonexistent. I placed a hand on his shoulder as I approached, and saw that he had a large photo album in his lap. When he looked up to me, large tear drops were rolling down his face.

I didn't ask if he was okay--it was obvious he wasn't. "What's going on?" I asked delicately.

He shook his head, staring back down at the pictures. "I don't care if they kill me--I've wanted to die for a long time."

I walked around, sitting next to him on a cushion. Peering down at the book with him, I saw snapshots that I had long teased him about wanting to see. The particular page he was turned to featured a six-year-old version of himself, full of fresh smiles and dressed up in the kind of quaint juvenile clothing that can only be bought brand new at the mall. One of the photos I found most adorable was of him in a swimming suit, his arms posed up in the form of a dive at a kiddy pool in his backyard. He had one of those bowl cuts that every Asian mother thinks is adorable, and he looked for all the world like the happiest kid on earth. I wanted so much to gush about how adorable he was, and to urge him on to keep turning the pages for my amusement.

"You've kept this hidden away this whole time," I said with a smile.

"Yeah," he responded, swiping away away the tears. "It's too embarrassing."

"Where have you been hiding it?"

"The BMW. It's mostly just pictures of me in here... I threw away some of the other ones."

I fingered at it, flipping backwards to some of what I missed. Some photos featured him on his first day of school, during a school play, or when he was dressed up in a little tux for a wedding. He seemed so... capricious and unfettered. As I flipped forward toward his later years, especially around puberty, he developed towards an attractive young man, but he also appeared distant and miserable. There was no more open, carefree laughter or relaxed body language. Instead, his eyebrows became pointed and arms rigidly straightened as he stared blankly at the flash.

"What happened?" I asked as I stared down at his prom photos. "You look so gloomy." I suppose I didn't need to ask--I could guess why things had changed.

Santos swung me this look, like I should have known better than to ask. "I was no longer a child in their eyes. Just a prop to brag about."

Something I never asked him was what exactly they had done to him. I had been too scared to ask, or at least, felt that it was too personal a question to pose. Looking through that photo album with him felt about as personal as one could get.

"What was the worst of it?" I asked.

"The worst? Oh, you don't want to know."

"No, I do," I said, holding his hand. "Tell me."

"Stupid petty things. Like, as a kid, my father used to race me across the yard and beat me every time. And I mean, maybe that is a little bad on its own, but he'd also rub it in my nose, like it was my fault that he was a forty-year-old man while I was only seven."

"He sounds a bit small minded."

"Never saw him at my swim meets. He never gave me praise for anything I accomplished--he'd just say that I needed to move on to the next thing to get right. I was so resentful my whole life for trying so hard for him, but never getting anything in return for all that effort. But, oh, you better believe my world came crashing down if I fucked up. He'd destroy my phone, my computer, video game system, whatever, if I showed up with a B or if I wasn't performing to whatever standard he had. I wouldn't even care when he beat me with a belt or a wooden spoon--I mean, it hurt, but the pain ended after the beating. It would straight up horrify me when he started trashing the things I treasured. He once threw away a decades-long collection of postcards and letters I had in a shoe box from friends and pen pals because it was, 'a waste of time.' He and my mother would go through my room at least two or three times a year, snooping for crap to threaten me with."

"That's horrible."

"My mom mostly threatened me as I got older, but as a child, she was really obsessed with me being some kind of prodigal student and swimming star. There was this one time she demanded that I beat a certain time for 100 meters, and every time I was slower than she wanted, she 'donated' one of my toys to charity. I guess in her mind it was killing two birds with one stone--she could teach me perseverance while also doing a 'nice thing' she could brag to her friends about, but for me I felt like living, breathing sewage. I eventually began to hate receiving gifts from them, because it felt like some kind of joke they had constructed for their own amusement to eventually take everything away from me. We all got into a humongous fight one Christmas because I refused to open any of my presents. It got really bad once the relatives started showing up and asking why I wasn't interested. My parents called me ungrateful, a bad son, disobedient, disrespectful, whatever... I just didn't want to go along with their song and dance any more. I was done. The only thing I wanted in the world was to finally be free of them."

"Holy crap."

He shook his head, closing the album. "You don't want to know what they did to me after everyone had left. It was... mostly physical."

"They beat you?"

"For a week, before Christmas break was over. I was forced to sleep outside in the cold, and they had me run laps around the property all day. All I had was a thin blanket; I nearly died one night when it hit fifteen degrees. Somehow, though... I felt I'd won. They sort of ended the major manipulations from then on out and backtracked into utilizing harassment instead."

"What about your music collection? They didn't try to take it away from you?"

"I bought all that with my own money. It was mostly cash given to me by relatives and an inheritance from my grandfather, but it was still mine. I threatened to burn down the house if they touched it. Besides that, I learned how to put a lock on the door."

"I see."

"I'm just lucky I came out looking the way I did. They were hyper critical of anyone who looked less than average. They'd comment all the time about fat people on the street, or ugly people on TV, or anyone they thought was less than perfect. It was disgusting. I hated them for how they were, but at the same time, I didn't want to fall into some lower category of humanity in their eyes. I never told them I was gay--they found out one day walking in on me with some guy. Even after that happened, they kept talking about how I'd get over it and marry some pretty, rich girl who was acceptable enough for them."

Tears spilled down as he covered his face with a hand.

"It's going to be all right, Santos," I said, wrapping my arms around him. "You never have to take any of their crap again; you're free to live your own life. I'll always think you're perfect just the way you are."

"I don't mind a challenge," he blubbered into my neck as he held me. "I don't care that they wanted me to be the best. But God... Why? Why did they treat me like their enemy? Why couldn't they have said they loved me? Why did they try so hard to drive me away?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"How are things going?" asked Keith, my agent. It was the third day since Santos left to detox, and I'd done nothing but play video games and sulk through the afternoon.

I sat up straight in the recliner, putting the controller down. Holding the phone more firmly, I told myself to speak with confidence. "Uh, okay." Not my best effort.

"You and Santos enjoying the young couple life?"

"He's not here, actually. He's on a retreat."

"Ah." I couldn't put my finger on why he knew exactly what the subtext was.

"Well, the label is anxious to get the ball rolling for you. Sales have been steady after that initial explosion, and you've shown to be a talent that people really like. We think you could take it to the next level and be a sensation, if you're willing to put your nose down to the grindstone."

"What does that entail?"

"Well, it involves a certain level of sacrifice. How do you feel about touring fifty cities around the United States? You're really popular in Japan and the UK, too--how about visiting Tokyo and London while we're at it?"

"Say what?"

"I know, pretty exciting, right?"

This seemed like something that should have been discussed in, say, his office, but he always gave me the vibe that he was conducting things from a beach side resort. "Wait, but... when is this going to happen?"

"We're hoping to announce the tour as soon as possible. You don't want to miss the boat. Before you can go anywhere there's a lot of planning involved."

"I see."

"And the payout is going to be pretty substantial, man. There are a lot of people out there who absolutely love your brand, and the manner in which you deliver your message with the piano playing talent. If you sell well, the profit margins could be north of twenty million."

I froze, the world around me feeling darker. "Twenty million? Twenty million dollars?"

"Yeah, man! I told you people love you. It's probably a nice motivator, huh?"

I couldn't flex the chords in my throat to form words.

"So you're up for it?" he continued. "It'll be a hell of a trip, that's for sure!"

"Uh... Yeah! At least, I think so."

"Great!" he responded, as if he was afraid I might change my mind if given time to think it over. "I can have you come to sign the contracts after a week or two, and then it'll be all set into motion. Do you have any more content cooked up? What you have is okay, especially with the cover songs, but it wouldn't be a bad thing to put out a single or two to help grease the wheels of the tour."

Man, this guy doesn't quit. "I don't have anything specific done yet; I've been playing at home."

"If you have anything in the can, let me know. Anything you can produce will help to keep eyeballs on you, know what I mean? The publicity on your personal life has been solid; keeps you in the bloodstream of pop culture. Things are going great."

"I'll do what I can."

"Great. Call me if you have anything more in the can."

"Will do."

"Ciao, baby."

"Bye."

I walked to the window, staring blankly at the parking lot below. Maybe I had been fooling myself about the intention to live 'modestly.' Dad always raised us to have a strong work ethic and to persevere with a humble mindset. The idea that my fun little 'hobby' was gong to skyrocket me into demi-god status seemed absurd. On top of that, I found myself more and more around people I couldn't relate to, or just found phony, whether they were interviewers, music executives, well-wishers, or gold diggers.

Playing music and expressing myself was one part of my personality, only people were beginning to make grand assumptions about who I was or what I wanted because of my lyrics. It was an alien feeling. I wondered where I belonged, or where I should go. Maybe moving into an apartment in Seattle was a bad idea, because now I felt the obligation to move into an even more gaudy and guarded neighborhood because of my popularity and fortune. People were showing up outside of the gates of the apartment building with their smartphones pointed at my unit. The neighbors were complaining, and many moved out. I was stared at wherever I went, whether I was treating Santos to sushi or going on a walk through the park. When we ordered chicken and waffles at a local hole in the wall, each patron in the restaurant asked for an autograph and photo. It was a sweet moment, and I was thankful for the well wishing, but I wanted my anonymity back. Everything was so off the rails.

My phone rang again, though I was happy to see where the call was coming from: the rehabilitation center.

"Santos! How was it today?"

"Okay," he answered without mirth in his voice.

"Getting used to the routine they have going there?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Santos?" I pleaded.

Another long pause followed, mild sobs following up on the tail end of it.

"What's the matter?" I asked as gently as I could muster.

"I can't do this any more!" he cried. "I feel like I'm dying inside."

Oh no, I thought darkly. He's cracking already. "They warned us that it might be a difficult transition period during your detox..."

"No, what I'm going through is complete hell. I can't do this without you, Luke. I'm shaking constantly, I can't sleep, I'm sweating buckets..." He let himself cry again for a moment. "I know I only have myself to blame for doing this to my body, but this is out of bounds of what I can bear, especially without you."

I had been warned by the psychologist that he might have a difficult time transitioning. Detox is hard for anyone to go through, especially for someone experiencing it at a young age. He probably wasn't exaggerating about how close he was to his breaking point.

"You don't want to have to go through this again. You've come so far--why would you want to waste the last day or two now when you know you're just going to have to go through it all over again?" I said.

"I'm in over my head. I thought I could handle it, but I can't do this. I never realized just how much alcohol comforted me and mellowed my nerves out. I was completely dependent on it."

I was at a delicate impasse. I didn't want to press him so much that I felt like another domineering parental figure in his life, but I also didn't want to coddle him. He seemed self aware of the situation, which I appreciated. I wasn't the one who actually had to go through all of his; he was.

"I mean, you can sign yourself out and walk through those doors any time you want," I said. "I know there's something pulling yourself back from doing that. Maybe you should reflect more on why that is."

The line went quiet for a moment. "I don't want to disappoint you. I love you. I swear to god, though, I'm five seconds away from doing it. I don't like these stupid group meetings where we have to talk about ourselves and call ourselves 'addicts.' I feel like I'm in trouble when I came here for help."

"I think they want to help you face the problem."

A pause followed.

"Well, besides that, the food here stinks! They keep trying to make me eat this sprout shit. I'm freaking starving! I can't eat vegan food. I want a cheeseburger or something."

I tried not to laugh. "But think--in twenty-eight days, you could be walking out feeling like you really did it. Isn't that worth more than a bit of suffering now? They told us that it gets a lot easier as time goes on, too. It's supposed to be hard--not everyone quits drinking. A lot of people die from the disease because they can't get past this part. A lot of people can't even face that they have a problem that requires help. You've come so far--you shouldn't damage your self esteem by giving up on yourself."

There was another moment of silence, during which I assumed he was considering his options. "I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I don't know if I can do this," he stated with a vulnerable kind of sincerity. "I think that this might have been a bad idea."

He heart sunk. "Please try. For me."

"Sing to me. Sing to me to give me some comfort."

"Sing to you?"

"Haven't you been saying that you were working on something new? Sing that to me."

I hadn't exactly said that--I told him that I had been working on variations based on some of Chopin's work, not that I'd seriously been working on a new song. "I don't know. I haven't finished anything concrete."

"Well, I don't know if I'm going to be able to stand staring at the ceiling tonight without you. Please, just give me something. It doesn't have to be perfect. I don't have much time left--they only let me use the phone for another five minutes."

I swallowed, thinking on how I might pull this off. "If I sing to you with the piano, and you promise to stay?"

"Yes, I promise."

I lurched to the bench of the shiny new grand piano I purchased over the weekend. Yes, I bought myself a brand new $30,000 piano. If I had to pay for his rehab, I figured I was buying myself something, too. Placing my fingers on the keys, it was easy to think of how I might interpret the acoustic end; I had been playing a lot of Chopin lately, and my mind seemed to drift into its own interpretation of the kinds of twists and turns he preferred in his music. It was how I was going to vocally express myself with words and emotions that was holding me back.

Something about the word 'comfort' stuck in my mind. It kept circling in my brain...

Comfort, comfort, comfort...

I reach for that,

My favorite green coat.

It wraps me in tenderness,

It wraps me in your love.

It's the one you left behind

When you decided to go.

I can't live without you,

And it's my only comfort for now.

Its magic holds the heat of your skin,

The tenderness of your touch.

I see a single hair in the weave,

And I'm holding you close again.

I'm reminded I'm not alone,

The comfort of your spirit is right along.

My hands drifted along to the intonations with relative ease, though my voice faltered here and there, and sometimes I lost confidence in myself. I forced myself to keep playing the music, though, and as I went along I gained more assurance in myself.

It's being held safe and sound,

Inside a closet by my room.

Please come pick it up, won't you?

I don't mean to be rude,

And I'd like to see your face again.

The coat won't be any good soon,

The summer sunshine is arriving.

I don't want to need it

But I do need you.

I finished the song off towards slow and mellow cascade in F major. I let myself smile and breath, passably happy with how I pulled off the performance. Picking up the phone, I asked, "Was that okay?"

I could hear him sniffing again. "Luke, that was more than okay."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm just... I'm so happy that I have a boyfriend as wonderful as you. I'm so blessed. I'm so goddamn blessed. On that day at the college, I knew you were the one."

I gripped the phone tighter, my throat clenching. "When you were in the piano room?"

"Yes. When I heard the piano playing, something lit up in me about you. You have a gift, Luke. It wasn't just that you played an instrument or anything, because almost anyone could pick that up. It's how you express yourself; your style, your emotions. Your music is you, and it's beautiful. It's wistful and tender and elegant. I was only the first person to realize it."

I swallowed, the pit of my stomach acidic. "It's only because I love you, that I can be inspired like that."

"I don't know why. I'm such a fuck up."

"Santos, don't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm on edge right now. You shouldn't listen to anything I say."

"I bet you're hangry right now."

He let out a little laugh, like a beam of light in a dark cave. "You're probably right. I wish that you could come and drop off some food to me. I wish I could see your face."

"When you get out, I promise to take you to the best buffet in the city."

"Really?"

"Really really."

"Okay. I'll... I'll stop bothering you. I need to get through this. I need to be brave."

"You're never bothering me."

"You don't need to be nice. I know you didn't want to hear this call. Luke, promise me that you get that song recorded. Don't keep it hidden away in a vault somewhere. You have to promise to get it recorded as a single."

"Why do you say that?"

"If just one person could hear that and feel like this life is worth it... Sing it to me again tomorrow."

"Of course. I'll sing anything you want to hear."

"Okay. Thank you. They're giving me the signal to end it. I'll talk to you later."

"Talk to you tomorrow. I love you."

"Love you, too. Goodbye."

I played piano for Santos every night until we could have our 'free afternoon out' two weeks later. There were few details on what exactly was going on at the rehabilitation center... He seemed to treat our time on the phone as a sacred relaxation and recovery space.

We could only be together for a few hours, but I was practically skipping on the way to the entrance to pick him up. He appeared largely the same as how I left him a fortnight before, except... he smelled different. He had this sweet smoky musk to him, and I noticed a long necklace of wooden beads around his neck. As well, his voice had a smoothness to it, like the feeling of polished stone. There was something wholesome, or at least foreign, about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I didn't dislike the change, but I was unaccustomed to these nuances.

As we drove to get lunch, he seemed happier. I'd felt before that he reserved a portion of himself in our interactions, perhaps just the secrets he held to his heart, only now I got the vibe that he knew something of a higher order that I couldn't quite comprehend. He spoke with calm and clarity instead of his usual suave charm. I knew that he had to change in order to overcome his addiction to alcohol, but what exactly had been going on?

He seemed quietly discouraged as soon as we arrived at the restaurant, which wasn't really a restaurant--it was one of those burger places that knocked off a certain popular chain in California. I thought he might welcome a change from the 'vegan shit' he had been complaining about on the phone once or twice, but as he stared at the menu board, he seemed deeply consternated.

"Everything has milk or dairy in it..." I heard him murmur.

"What's that?" I asked.

"This menu is really... carnivorous."

The acne-ridden woman at the cash register stared at him blankly, looking like she had something more pressing to multitask that day.

"I thought you said you wanted to eat a cheeseburger," I mentioned quietly.

"Before, I would say that, but I've changed a lot in the past two weeks. My priorities have shifted."

You could have hinted something about this big change before I drove you to this place, I thought.

"Do you want to leave?" I asked.

"No, it's fine," he responded before stepping to the counter. To the register woman he asked, "Is there a vinaigrette for the side salad?"

"Oil and vinegar, yeah," she responded in a tone that seemed a bit too low on a woman, without seeming specifically queer.

"Are the fries fried in animal fat?"

"It's canola oil."

"Okay, let me have a medium with ketchup."

She looked to me expectantly, and I felt eerily guilty about my plan to order a triple cheeseburger and a milkshake. "Just, uh... Get me what he's getting."

"Sure."

As soon as we found a window spot to sit at, I began with the questions: "Are you a vegan or something now?"

"I should have told you, I know," he said, nervously running a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have put it off."

"No, no... I get it. You have a lot going on."

He seemed sincerely reassured by my reaction. "I was mostly afraid you might take it badly. It can be a sensitive subject for a lot of people."

"I mean... Yes, but you don't have to feel afraid to tell me. I can take it." And hopefully it's some phase he gives up on in a few months, I thought. "When did you make the switch? I thought you hated vegan food."

"I'm not crazy about vegan food, but you know what I think tastes worse? The guilt of knowing about the pain, agony, and apathy that it took for the food to get to my plate. Do you know how many chickens die every year in America for no reason at all because people crave the taste of meat?"

"Can't say."

"Almost nine billion."

"Nine billion?"

"Yeah, and guess what? A quarter of those chickens will never be eaten because of spoilage. That's over two billion miserable wasted lives. These are animals that aren't even given enough space to flap their wings, or even know what sunlight feels like. The pigs we eat grow up in a crate that's only two by six. They can't turn around, and sit in their own feces all day. Long lines of pregnant pigs are stacked next to each other in huge sheds like people were stacked on the slave ships from Africa!"

An old obese couple eyed us warily as they chomped into their burgers. After gazing on our surroundings more closely, I realized that most of the people in our vicinity were listening in.

"What brought about this change in you?" I asked. "It all happened so quickly."

"My counselor brought me to an animal sanctuary. These cows, Luke--they were the sweetest animals, with these big brown eyes. The chickens could wander around the grass and pick at insects, like chickens are supposed to do! Our country is so backwards that people completely disassociate themselves from what these animals go through before they go into our sandwiches."

"It was just the sanctuary? And your counselor."

"He showed me this movie... It's called Earthlings. I don't want to say that you don't want to watch this movie, but it's horrifying. It'll change your life."

I swallowed, and was relieved for the release from the conversation when our order number was called. When I picked up the trey from the counter and inhaled the smell of fresh fries, I regretted not making a double order of Santos' order; I'd been fasting all morning in anticipation of this meal.

As soon as I sat back down with him, oddly enough, I lost my appetite. Maybe I was reminded of the animal feces, I don't know. I respectfully dabbed the fries in ketchup before chewing on them, one by one.

"So what else has been going on with you?" I asked.

"Well, this might surprised you, but I decided to take up Buddhism."

At this point, nothing surprises me.

"Why Buddhism?" I asked, but then I realized...

"... The counselor," we uttered in unison.

"It's just the natural progression to my life," he announced. "To cut yourself from a substance, you need something else to fill the hole that the poison was supplicating," he said, as if reciting a pamphlet from the rehabilitation center. "They didn't shove me into it, but there was definitely a lot of information relayed to me about alternative lifestyles."

"Well, I'm glad that it seems to be working for you. It is working, right?"

"Absolutely. I haven't known what feeling good inside really meant, since probably ever. I'm eating way better than I ever have in my life, and I feel amazing."

I nodded, keeping a smile up as I maintained eye contact. I didn't know whether he'd actually hold on to this new belief system, but I wasn't about to fill his head with doubts.

"How are you coping?" I asked.

"Like, with wanting to drink?"

I nodded.

"I'm okay. It isn't easy to liberate yourself from an attachment, but I'm managing."

I thought better than to ask the following question, but decided to go for it, anyway: "If I put down a bottle of vodka between us right now, how would you feel?"

He shrugged sharply, chewing on some romaine. "It's not part of my life goals any more. There's too much at stake now--me. What I want to do is reach a point where I desire nothing, because believe me, the root of all suffering is letting yourself wallow in feeling unfulfilled and unsatisfied."

"You know, I think you're right, because I never feel so miserable than when I want you."

He gave me a double take as he fully absorbed what I'd said, then smiled and reach over to peck me on the cheek.

"Okay, so, when you get back, don't worry about the food thing," I declared. "I'll get rid of all the animal products and replace them with something else." I wanted to take back the words as soon as I said them, but then wanted to say them all over again when I saw the look of blind joy on his face.

"You'd really do that?" he asked. "No, you don't have to do that. It's your kitchen, and you should only do it if you completely understand, and decide on it for yourself."

"I want to do it," I stated resolutely. "You're a part of my life. You mean a lot to me. It's just food, after all."

"But you're going to be so resentful."

"No, I won't. I'll even watch that movie--what's it called, Earthlings?"

His face fell. "You don't want to watch that movie alone."

We went on talking about his new religion and diet for the next hour or so, then left the restaurant. I suggested we go home for the remaining time we had together, but he seemed more interested in enjoying what was a rare clear day in spring. We strolled around Wright Park, taking our time as we wasted an hour or two. I remember starting that day wondering what the sex would be like, or if he'd pounce me like a half-starved tiger once we were alone. Being intimate seemed to be the last thing on his mind. He was more interested in lying next to me on the grass, looking up as the clouds drifted by. When I dropped him off at the rehabilitation center later on, I was filled with the conviction that he wouldn't fail us, and more importantly, that he wouldn't fail himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Welcome back to The Late Show!" an overhead speaker announced, following shortly by the cheering of a studio audience.

My heart pounded as I stood backstage. I was accustomed to appearing on local news circuits, and maybe in front of small crowds in swanky bars, but performing in front of a national audience was a definite step up to a high league. I tried not to let it get to me, but I was psyched that Americans across the country were tuning in just to see me. At least, some of them wanted to see me. Or, more likely, people would search for my appearance on the show later.

I'd been called about the appearance only a week before. My agent was super excited that he'd nabbed this for me, and three days later, staff from the show gave me a call to prep for what to expect.

I paced in the little enclosed box, as if the physical activity could eradicate my frayed nerves. Moving about helped, but I was still bouncing out of my skin. The signal was coming any second, the moment I had been anticipating all week, but I was somehow still scared I would miss my cue.

"And now, for your entertainment... Luke Perliiith!"

I breathed deeply before heading out, adrenaline hammering my veins. I would only experience this kind of rush in my life again when I sold out an entire stadium, but that was years away in the future.

In my mind's eye, I appeared to be a (somewhat) charismatic musician, deeply motivated by my muse: sophisticated, contemplative, but also a little quirky. Because a spotlight shined in my eyes, I couldn't make out what the crowd looked like, though I could see members of the show's band give me the thumbs up. I smiled, waving at them and the crowd.

I was taking a gamble by playing a brand new single, but everyone I'd talked to about it assured me that I was golden. This whole appearance was supposed to be a springboard for the upcoming tour, so I figured that if I wowed people well enough, I'd end up selling more tickets. If the song wasn't taken well, then...

Everything was ready--the spotlight, piano, and microphone. All I had to do was play.

"Hello," I said into the microphone, the vibrations of the sound producing a pleasant tingle. "I'm going to play a song called Understanding tonight."

The lead-in for the song was far more melancholic and slow-tempoed than anything I'd done before. I thought that the lyrics streamlined well with the melody, like the figure of a phantom slowly materializing in the mist.

How far does the ripple go

When a child's fire no longer glows?

Could I even understand

The blighted ship you must command?

From where does the wind blow,

A land as cold as Moscow?

This island I call my home,

Is modest, but any are free to roam.

The sand is warm,

And there are no windstorms.

Lay down on my threaded hammock,

You'll find the sunsets dynamic.

There's no anchor for any who stop,

But there's always coconuts in the treetops.

From the look in your eyes,

There's no need to vocalize.

I know, in your mind,

You've already sailed away.

I figured that my fans would realize right away how personal the song was. Santos was usually the assumed subject of any piece I wrote, anyway, but the allusions to being lost and then found were obvious signifiers to the struggles in his life. He never seemed bothered that he was the inspiration for a given song as long as the piece was good. For him, the beauty of music trumped any kind of self conscious feelings he was harboring because of my lyrics and fame.

Applause followed the performance, with many whistling as they stood up to clap. I blushed, humbled by the magnanimous show of appreciation. The host of the show greeted me with a big smile before motioning for me to follow him to the leather seats on the opposite side of the room, where the interview would take place. I sat down facing him, aware that my every move was being recorded by the camera's lens.

There had been a 'pre-interview' on the phone with a producer about three days before the appearance. She mainly went over the format of the show, when the dress rehearsal for the musical portion would be, and then chatted with me on some topics about my personal life. Even while I was waiting in the dressing room, I'd been told which topics the host wanted to talk about that night.

"That was great! I'm not sure why you chose our show to premier it, but I guess that's a personal choice."

I smiled shyly, the anxiety kicking in as I stared out at the crowd. "Seems like a good show to me."

"You're too kind, too kind. So this song, it seemed like a lot of your other songs, drawing from things going on in your life."

"Yeah," I responded, not sure if I should provide more details. My eyes roved over the faces in the audience--the demographics seemed to skew more in favor of young women, and they also seemed to be in rapid attention. Someone even brought a sign that said, "GAY 4 Luke." I couldn't help but smirk.

"Is it okay to ask about your boyfriend, Santos? Is he around?"

The way he phrased the question seemed polite enough, though I assumed he was fully updated through the gossip magazines on my boyfriend's treatment for sobriety. "He's, um... He couldn't be here today, but he wanted to."

"Yeah, it seems like he enjoys talking to the press."

"He does."

The host seemed annoyed by my curt responses, but put on a friendly face.

"I really enjoyed this song you just performed. It's more... contemplative. How about you, audience?"

Cheers lifted into the air along with light clapping.

He continued: "Would you say that you're reaching a deeper level with your lyrics, now that you're older and dealing with more adult problems? The chorus on this song was touching."

"Yeah... I guess you could say that I have more to deal with now." Quit saying 'yeah' And give him more than a one-sentence response, I scolded myself. "The piano playing really helps me deal with things. I mean, the label wants me to produce stuff, so that's motivating, but I don't know what I would do without music. I can really express myself this way."

He nodded. "That's great. I think most young men your age express themselves through trolling strangers on the Internet."

"That may be true," I said with a little laugh.

"And how is the court case going? Are you allowed to talk about that?"

"Well, I can't go into details, obviously, but it's set to start in about six weeks." I swallowed, not expecting to feel adverse emotions at ending the sentence.

"It must be a lot more complicated, too, with the eyes of the world on you and your family."

"We manage. I mean, we're optimistic that the jurors will see our side and use good judgment."

He nodded, maintaining friendly eye contact. "I couldn't imagine going through everything you have, and at your age. You're only, what, nineteen?"

"Almost."

"Amazing. Oh, well I'm sorry to say that it looks like we're going to have to cut for commercial break. Thank you for coming on the show, Luke, it was lovely meeting you. The album is Trouble in Love! Luke Perlith, everyone!"

The brass band ignited into song, signifying the end of the show. I was relieved it was over, as I usually did for these kinds of things. The host talked with me afterward, and I greeted some fans backstage. While signing autographs and taking selfies for the next hour, it sunk in that I had now crossed into yet another realm of my life. Maybe I could find myself anonymous in special places, but I knew that my inconspicuousness was now a thing of the past. I was a celebrity.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Driving to the rehab facility wasn't the pleasant escape I'd hoped it would be. On the day I picked up Santos, there had to be around around a dozen photographers and busybodies watching me as I entered the building. I waved amicably, but I knew I needed to put into motion my plan to move somewhere more private. Breaking the lease and getting all of our stuff carted out again was a pain, but I couldn't see how it would be a good idea to stay another ten months. More depressingly, I realized I might need to hire a bodyguard in case one of the people in a given crowd turned out to be less than friendly. Waking up to a rabid fan with a butcher knife wasn't my idea of a good time.

I was anxious to see him when I walked through the doors. We'd been talking on the phone every night, cheering each other on. I even began to believe his alcoholism would be stamped out for good. The changes he was going through were dramatic enough, with his talk about transcendentalism and Buddhism.

I felt like I had been sitting around flipping through cooking magazines in the waiting room for weeks before he finally emerged. There was something different about him at this encounter. Like, he was smiling at me, but this time the smile was... infectious, or extremely sincere. He seemed to be smiling from the depths of his soul when he saw me. I felt that my smile must have been just as candid, because he jogged over to me as I got up to embrace him. He was wearing the same clothes as when he checked in--black jeans and an athletic jacket--but this time he smelled of sage and his hair was slicked back in a pleasant wave. We kissed each other in front of a middle aged man with broken capillaries and a bad case of rosacea, not caring that we were being judged.

"It's so good to see you," he whispered, holding my face.

I couldn't help but grin stupidly. "I missed you, too. So much."

On the drive home, we were chattering like two excited squirrels.

"How have things been for you?" he asked.

"Okay," I answered. "We're scheduled to show up for court soon. I'm not looking forward to it."

"I see," he said quietly. "We'll be able to put all of this to rest, at least."

"I'm looking forward to when this will be over. I don't want think about those people again."

He fiddled with a loose piece of thread, keeping his head down. "Does the lawyer consider it optimistic?"

"With your testimony, yes. The only issue is that both of us have been all over the tabloids. It's hard to get a good pool of jury members because of that. And then, your parents are wealthy, so they can afford excellent lawyers."

"Whether they're convicted or not, they're miserable people."

"I just hope the jury sees how dangerous they are. There's no way they can wriggle their way out of this through other means besides a real court case, so hopefully we have luck on our side."

He looked out at the spring buds that lined the streets. "Whatever happens, as far as I'm concerned, they're part of a past I left behind."

"Well, we need to meet with my mother and Harriet to discuss this."

"Haven't you mentioned a few times that your family hates me?"

"Unfortunately, that's still the case."

Nodding to himself, he said, "Well... I suppose we'll have to put our opinions about each other aside for the next period of time until this is all over."

After rolling into the apartment lot and heading to our place, we were greeted with another thick stack of fan mail crammed into my box from the record company. I didn't know people still used snail mail, let alone enough to bury me in. Santos was highly amused when he saw this, flipping through the envelopes as we walked inside.

"It's nice that people go through the trouble to send fan mail," he said. "I knew you were getting popular, but I didn't know it was getting to this point."

"Yeah, after the TV thing, I began getting a lot more attention. I got a ton more views online of my videos after that, too."

Still smiling, he pulled one out from the collection, opened it, and read aloud:

Dear Luke,

I discovered you recently through a viewing of The Late Show, and I just wanted to send you a personal note with my appreciation and thanks. I have been working twelve hour days at a factory in Ohio, living alone in a crummy apartment after my girlfriend broke up with me. I've been feeling lost in life, and the show was a nice diversion from reality. Your songs touched me in a spiritual way. I feel we all start out innocent, but life diverts us from what we should be. I read about your story with Santos, and I want to send you positive vibes considering everything. It's my belief that karma is a real thing, and those people will get their comeuppance.

I'm rambling. Thank you for the music.

Randall Kipfer

"Yeah, there have been a lot of letters like that," I said, peeling a banana. "I feel bad, because I can't read them, let alone respond to them. I wish I could."

A flash ignited in his eye. "You know, I could answer them if you don't have the time. I bet you they wouldn't mind getting a response from me, as long as they got one. I could forward you the really touching ones."

"Man, that would actually be a relief," I said with a little laugh. "You're not even witnessing the emails, Twitter, and Facebook messages. I don't go on the Internet much at all. My agent is trying to get me to use Twitter or Instagram, but I'd rather get a root canal. I only went online before for piano music and to play games with my friends."

"Don't worry, I got you," he said, eyeing another letter. "I'll be your personal PR firm. I mean, I need to do something with my life, right? It'd be great to read all these positive messages. What a gift."

"Well, I'm glad, Santos. Like, really glad. You've changed. I didn't have a lot to do with it, but I'm glad you managed."

"Please, you had everything to do with it. You gave me a reason to care. You sent me to the best facility possible so that I could get quality help. You talked and sang to me every day to make sure that I was okay. You're my world."

I reached for his hand from across the table. His palm was soft and warm.

"I'm just glad," I said. "I was so scared. I didn't know what would happen."

"It's all right. We all--"

My phone rang, loudly imitating the noise of a rotary phone. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay."

I picked it up, trying to find the button to shut it off, but instead eyed who was calling: Mom.

It was actually important I answer, considering everything. The court date was soon, and I promised to meet with her.

"Hi, Mom?"

"Luke, great. Are we on for tomorrow?"

Santos and I eyed each other wearily.

"Uh, yeah, it's just... are you and Harriet cool with Santos being there? He's out of rehab now. The lawyer said he'd be a good witness, right?"

A silence stretched out. "Well, you know that your sister is going to be there. I don't know if it's the greatest idea to invite him."

"If she cares more about justice for dad than her feelings about Santos, maybe she should consider it."

His eyes dimmed with concern.

She responded: "It's up to you. I'm just saying, it might not go over positively just because you want it to."

I swallowed. "Would you be okay with him there?"

Eerie quiet.

"I'm over it, to be honest. It is what it is, but I'm concerned about you. Are you okay? Are things okay with Santos?"

"They're fine. He's been doing great."

"Well, that's good to hear. As long as nothing bad has happened, I'm happy. Look, we're meeting at the steak house in Tacoma tomorrow at noon. Try not to be late."

"I won't. I mean, we won't."

"Good. Bye, sweetheart."

"Bye, Mom."

I let out a heavy breath as I hung up.

"They still hate me, huh?" Santos asked.

"They don't hate you. They just... have reservations about you."

"Harriet hates me."

"She can get over her issues with you enough to get justice for Dad. Especially if she sees how much better you're doing, and we end up staying together, she'll probably warm to you again. She has a habit of getting angry about things and then cooling down."

He let out a laugh before getting up for the bathroom. "Well, I hope you're right, because otherwise it's going to be a crappy meal of dead animals tomorrow!"

I leaned back in my chair, taking a deep breath.

Harriet and my mom were fifteen minutes late to the steak house. I actually liked the restaurant she chose--it was one of our favorite places to go on special occasions--but I could feel stares radiating towards Santos and I as we waited in the booth.

"Was scheduling this at a restaurant a good idea?" he asked as our soft drinks were served.

"I don't know," I said. "I'd rather focus on keeping the conversation as light as possible."

Maybe Mom doesn't quite realize how famous I am now, I thought. It would be hard to understand unless she were part of the madness.

They ambled in not long after, seeming as aggravated as I was afraid they might be. While Harriet acted like she was forced to make pleasantries with Adolph Hitler, Mom was the polite diplomat without an agenda.

"Thanks for coming," announced Mom. "It's good to see you, Luke. How have you been?"

"I've been good," I said. "The music thing is taking off. How about you?"

"Oh, same as always. I go home and then deal with what needs to be taken care of at home."

The comment was more passive aggressive than I would have liked.

"How about you, Harriet?"

"Fine," she answered curtly from behind her menu.

I swallowed some ice water, hoping it would cool me off. "How is it going with the lawyer and everything?"

"She's expressed positivity. But we need more confirmation from you and Santos that there's going to be follow-through when the trial begins next week."

"It's next week?" I asked.

Harriet rolled her eyes as dramatically as she could muster while my mom sent me a contrite smile. "Yes, next week. It's on Thursday at 9AM. You've cleared your schedule for that day, I hope?"

I couldn't answer that with full honesty. With the tour coming up, I had an endless list of things to do involving managers, staff, musicians, and general planning on what was coming for the following six months. The court appointment felt like an afterthought. Considering how long it took for the ball to get rolling on prosecution, I felt like I was driving on the highway while staring at the rear view mirror. "Um, I'm going to have to get back to you, but if I don't--"

"\--Are you serious right now?" blared Harriet. "You're too important to know if you can make it to the court case of your murdered father?"

"Harriet!" my mother hissed.

"I'm going to be there!" I snapped. "I have a lot on my plate right now."

"Nothing else matters besides this. We have been doing so much of the heavy lifting when it comes to the court thing, Luke. You haven't been around at all."

"I'm always there to sign the checks for the lawyer fees, aren't I?"

"Kids, kids," Mom interjected. "Enough. Look--you're attracting the attention of everyone within a five mile radius. Knock it off."

We noticed, also, that our waitress had been standing there with a horrified expression on her face. Settling ourselves into compromised propriety, we ordered, though I wished I could walk out.

After an excruciating three minutes of sitting in silence, Mom started the conversation up again. "Look, we're all bearing thoughts about each other that aren't positive, but we're still a family. We need to be united in what we're trying to accomplish against the real bad guys. Santos, we never said hello to you, and I'm sorry. How are you, dear?"

"Okay," he said, though he looked as uncomfortable as a cowboy in Tokyo.

"How are you feeling about going on the stand? Are you confident?"

"The lawyer talked with me about it, so I think I'm fine. I'm just going to tell the truth about what I witnessed."

"Yes. And hopefully that's enough."

"I think it will be. The evidence seems to be overwhelming that they're guilty, and besides that, public opinion is strongly against them. The fact they weren't granted bail is also damning. The only issue is... I wish there were something I could do to reconcile for my silence, before all of this was found out. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you both, please, let me know. Any favor you need, I want to help with. I can't change the past, but I can change my actions now."

They stared at him like he was a purple alien from the planet Proxima Centauri B.

"That's nice, but let's stay on the topic of the court date," said my mom.

"All right," he responded calmly. "I just wanted to put that out there."

"It's nice of you, Santos, but that's... a whole can of worms that we're not going into."

After that, eerily, things calmed down between us quite a lot. We talked more about the court case, like what the lawyer had been telling us about how things were going to proceed. This was a high profile case, involving public servants and an important businessperson. I prayed that the whole thing wouldn't take longer than a month or two, because there was no way I would be able to make regular appearances going into summer.

After the meal ended and we walked out of the restaurant, Harriet looked at Santos with a curious kind of air. She definitely wasn't sending him any looks of sisterly affection, but she also wasn't summoning hellfire his way.

I hoped that she would take Santos on his offer for slave labor. I could tell that she needed, deep in her heart, to forgive him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Santos was sincere when he mentioned his desire to answer fan mail. For the next few weeks, he dutifully went to our shared office space and spent four hours opening and answering letters, whether physical or electronic. When he came out for lunch after this routine, he was usually whistling, but always had a smile on his face. I was glad that he had something to give his life meaning, and maybe also felt that I needed to keep up my standard of celebrity so that he had a job to do. As it was, I was backlogged on fan mail for the next six months.

There was one piece of mail, however, that made me wish he never started taking up this task.

It was a normal morning as far as mornings go. I wasn't actually doing anything important at the time--I was just watching the news and drinking my coffee--when I heard Santos call my name from across the apartment. I was a little perturbed when I walked up to the entrance of the office and saw that the door was closed.

"What is it?" I asked, twisting the doorknob.

"Don't come in!" he screeched. "Get away from the door!"

My face fell, and I stepped back. Even when I had annoyed him most, he'd never taken that kind of tone with me.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"I've called the police. Just, I think it's safer if you cover your mouth. Go to the balcony before you let them in."

I felt an impulse to twist the doorknob again. "Can you tell me what the hell is going on? Why did you call the police?"

"I opened a letter addressed to me, and there was white powder, Luke. I think that someone sent us anthrax."

I didn't know what anthrax was, what it did, or even what it looked like. The name signaled something malevolent, at least.

"I really don't think it's safe for you to be near this room," he added. "Please, I just wanted to let you know what was going on."

I felt yoked by a desire to obey him, and perhaps the fear that something bad might happen to me, but I was also consumed by confusion and curiosity.

"Santos, can't you just let me know what's going on? Are you in pain?"

"I can tell you later! Please leave!"

I walked away sullenly, standing by the front door like a dog waiting for its master to return. I expected police in standard uniform to show up, but instead what I witnessed was was a group of men dressed up in yellow HAZMAT suits, appearing like they had just walked off the set of Breaking Bad.

I was forcefully escorted to an ambulance, even though I insisted that there was nothing wrong with me. I felt confused in the way that getting caught up a twister must be for someone. They didn't allow Santos to stay in the same vehicle with me, though I was told that my place of residence was now under investigation, along with a thorough hazardous waste cleanup. When I asked what exactly anthrax was, the EMTs looked at me with a mixture of pity and skepticism.

I was kept in the hospital overnight, and wasn't allowed to see Santos. I was cleared of any illnesses the next day. I didn't think I had contracted the disease, but there was still the chance that I had somehow breathed in the spores. For Santos, however...

I was told outside his room that he would likely be kept at the hospital for a month, if not longer.

"Is he going to be all right?" I had asked the white bearded doctor.

"Your boyfriend is a smart guy," he'd said. "He knows danger when he sees it. If not for that, I couldn't tell you the likelihood of his survival. Pulmonary anthrax is often fatal. He won't look like it now, but the symptoms will come for him later. I think he has a fighting chance, but I definitely can't guarantee it'll be easy."

I felt all over again like the boy at the nurse's station who had asked if his father was going to survive. I broke down and cried right there, and in a sweet understanding, the old man comforted me.

God can't take him away, I thought to myself over and over. He already took my father, he can't take the love of my life, too.

It took around twenty minutes to corral my emotions together enough to see him. He had a private room to himself, and though he didn't appear ill when I opened the door, he had a pensive expression on his face as he spooned Jello into his mouth. When he saw me approach, his countenance brightened right up.

"Luke! You're all right, then?" he asked, putting his dessert down.

"Yes, and you're..."

He straightened up. "Yes, they've told me I have it."

I sat down across from him, taking his hand in mine. "How in the world did you know it was anthrax? Where did it come from? Was there a message?"

He put a hand up, signaling me to slow down. "I just... I know about these things."

"From being around your parents?"

His sad look communicated enough.

"Where did the letter come from?" I asked.

"I doesn't matter. I know who sent it."

"Your parents?"

He nodded dimly.

"How, though?" I said. "They're in jail."

"They know so many people, Luke. Their connections span the United States, China, and Mexico."

"Why would they do this, though? They're under a criminal investigation."

He shrugged dramatically, focusing his attention back on the small television mounted on the wall. "They've gotten away with bad behavior most of their lives--why stop now? Besides, if I'm dead, I can't let the whole world in on how awful they were."

"So, then... You..." I sat back in my chair, feeling lost. "You'll be here, then? Do you know what will happen?"

"I'm going to get very sick," he stated, annoyed, though not with me. "There's nothing the hospital can do about that. They can help, but..." He sighed. "I feel more bad for you. I can take it--I'm used to putting up with stupid crap--but I hate thinking about you worrying over me."

"You think it's going to be fine, though?" I asked. "You'll get sick, and then you'll get better."

"I don't know, Luke. The doctor told me it's a coin flip whether I live. I can't lie to you say I won't die. I might."

My desires alternated between wanting to break into the jail to murder Santos' parents, taking Santos' place, and doing everything I could comfort him. He put up a hard shell, but I could tell that he was terrified, too.

A week of peace preceded the hell that was to come. First the coughs arrived, and then the specter of fever, and then... I found myself sitting at his side as he transitioned between rest and agony.

I read versions of our story on the Internet, courtesy of crafty journalists and the paparazzi. I was in line at the corner store across from the hospital when I saw our apartment complex on the front page of National Enquirer with a photoshopped stock photo of a man in a HAZMAT suit. I flipped through the issue, shocked to find that an enterprising photographer had taken shots through our open windows and into our residence. I nearly ripped the flimsy paper to shreds before paying at the counter.

Santos' hospital room became a sort of nest, piled with books, blankets, video games, balloons, bouquets, and a select portion of vinyl for his portable record player. When he was still well enough to remain conscious for a handful of hours at a time, the experience together was a sort of bonding experience, like camping in the Costa Rican jungle for a month. Each day possessed intrigue, but the journey still seemed hopeful. When he got sicker, and was barely cognizant even when awake, the whole experience felt closer to being stranded in the rapids of the Amazon River. When he had to receive all his sustenance from tubes, I stopped wanting to come in. If I was watching him die, I didn't want to see any more.

This is shameful, but I gave myself reasons to show up in small, bite-sized portions, written down in a corner of my smudged poetry book:

Tuesday

  * Sunny walk from parking lot
  * Another day to recovery
  * Buy peppermint mocha from cafe

Wednesday

  * Movie I want to watch on TV
  * He needs me, even if I can't tell
  * Buy frozen yogurt

Pathetic.

What was strangely captivating and unnerving were the 'appearances' we made on cable channels like E! and even Bravo. Well-wishers left cards and flowers at the front desk of the hospital, which was again flattering if a touch creepy. The secret of Santos' location would have remained a mystery only known to our most loyal fans had I note done the stupid thing of personally acknowledging one of them.

Okay, it's not as misanthropic as I make it sound.

It was simple. I happened to be walking into the hospital when I noticed these two girls and their outrageous five tier edible fruit tower were. I was dressed in my regular street clothes instead of, say, thick aviator sunglasses and a trench coat. We made eye contact, and their faces lit up like a sunrise. We chatted for what I thought would be a few minutes. I was happy to chat and do some autographs, but when I noticed that passersby were staring at us, as if mentally playing a game of celebrity Wheel of Fortune, I firmly and politely made my excuses and exited with the ridiculous tower of fruit.

By the next day, news vans set up just outside the parking lot. We were a small segment on one of the local news channels, but what could they possibly report on? It was known that Santos was likely sick, and that he was inside the hospital, but there was no information out there otherwise. Regardless of the lack of specifics, the gifts multiplied overnight. Kind people left us teddy bears, flowers, cards, and cake, though we couldn't possibly find a place or use for all of it.

Santos woke up one day, which wasn't unusual, but on this particular occasion he sat up, looked around, and marveled at the wall of presents that surrounded us. However brief it was, the moment gave me a victorious feeling.

I didn't realize that a rally was organized by someone until close to the meeting time. I found out about it when someone messaged me on my private Facebook account, though I never found out who exactly directed the whole thing. I braced myself when well-wishers marched towards the hospital at dusk, carrying with them candles as they filled the grounds. What started as a few dozen people quickly swelled into hundreds of fans and sympathizers who congregated to show their support. The hospital security did its best to prevent this from occurring, but it was all too late--with hungry camera lenses searching for drama, nobody dared to break up the peacemakers.

A rolling piano pushing through the crown, heading to the space two stories under our window. A young man with long hair led the crowd as he alternated between songs I had written and general pieces of support like Lean on Me. Everyone knew the lyrics to the songs and everyone sang. There were cheers and whistles coming from the revelers below, usually when a song ended or began. I waved and even said a few words, as loud as I could so that the crowd could understand me. I didn't want to let myself cry, but after some time, it felt completely appropriate to break down and show my thankfulness and vulnerability. When I cried, others did, too, and I shared a special moment with people who knew me in ways I never thought anyone would understand.

How far we've come, I thought as I looked back at Santos as he slept. We met at a community pool and thought our time together would only last a night. You can't slip away from me now. Not yet.

What surprised me, perhaps more than the adoring crowd, was the fact that Harriet made an appearance... without my mother as an escort.

This happened a few days later, though I couldn't say whether she knew about the vigil at the hospital, or if the occasion convinced her to approach me. She was dressed in all black, which I found inappropriately morbid, and she came with pink, blue, and white flowers. Santos wasn't awake that afternoon, but he was looking more pathetic than usual: completely drenched in sweat, the droplets on his brow resembling hot glue. As well, he was white as a fresh sheet of paper, his lips were cracked, and his eyelids had this strange shade of dark red.

There were no greetings shared when she walked in. Instead, she looked at him before setting the flowers down on one of the tables. She stared down on him with the reverence one reserves for a wake.

"They did this to him, didn't they?" she asked.

"No one knows for sure," I stated, remaining in a chair by the window. "Santos does suspect it was his parents."

She frowned, spinning around to face me as she crossed her arms. "I want to kill them."

"I thought you hated Santos."

"He seemed like a toady out to save his own skin. I can see now that that's not the case."

I glanced over to his still body. "Who's to say toadies don't get punished?"

A sisterly annoyance fell on her features. "I'm here and I'm on your side, what do you want from me?"

"You've come to see him--congratulations. Why don't you leave us in peace?"

"The FBI are investigating the matter."

"He got anthrax in the mail--of course they are."

She motioned to speak, but stopped herself, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

"I don't blame you, Harriet. I might have acted the same way. Forget about it."

"When he wakes up, can you let him know that I apologized?"

"Yes, I can do that."

She nodded, turning to look at him again. "Whether he makes it for the court date or not, I'd defend him to my dying breath. He didn't deserve any of the crap that happened to him."

I raised an eyebrow. "Was it really just the illness that brought you to his side?"

"It wasn't just that," she said. "Maybe he didn't tell you, but he's been sending things to us. Like, letters, fruit baskets, whatever. I ignored it, part of me thinking he was just sucking up because he felt bad for what he did, but I just don't believe that now. I can't accept that he was ever on his parents' side."

"The alcoholism and hiding from society wasn't enough for you?"

"There's been other stuff, too, Luke. There's been a new investigation into Santos' parents and their background, and Santos comes up completely clean. The worst thing that he's ever done in is his life are a few parking tickets and public intoxication. That's it."

I stared into her brown eyes, full of compassion instead of judgment and assumption. "To be honest, I didn't know for a long time if he was innocent, either. You were right--I had rose-colored glasses for him because I was in love. It could have just as easily turned out that I'd be the one apologizing to you after finally leaving him. I'm just glad he actually was innocent, because he's a wonderful person."

"You wouldn't want to be with him unless you believed he was good. I at least think you're not that stupid. Maybe I should have trusted your instincts."

"It doesn't matter now," I said, getting up.

I stretched my arms out as I approached her, and was pleased to find that she returned the gesture. We held each other for a few minutes, rocking each other as we struggled to not cry. I put up a tough exterior, but I had truly missed her for the time we were apart.

"We're a team now," she whispered into my ear. "We're going to take down the people who did this to us."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was quiet in the hall as I sat by myself in the hospital room. Even though he'd only been gone for an hour, a deep loneliness filled me as I looked around the room at the cards, deflated balloons, and half-eaten boxes of chocolates. Drowsiness floated around my temples, and I could have fallen asleep in the padded chair I'd been sitting in for the past four weeks, but I couldn't shake the desire to stay awake for just an hour longer. I turned the volume up on the television to stare blankly at the 24-hour news cycle.

I'll at least change the channel, I thought, flipping around to find something palatable.

I went from a cartoon, to a gardening show, a sitcom... and then Santos' face.

"Grave report coming in on soulful singer Luke Perlith and his boyfriend Santos Rodriguez," began a woman with beach blonde hair and too much makeup.

I leaned back in the chair, wanting to turn to something else, but also not able to stop staring.

She continued: "Past lovers give the inside scoop on Santos' not-so-innocent escapades. We have the exclusive interview with a man who claims..."

I groaned, just about ready to hit the red button on the remote before I heard the doorknob twist on the bathroom door. My instincts told me to get up immediately, but I held firm to avoid giving offense.

"You know what we should watch," Santos began, pausing to cough into his fist.

"What's that?"

He was skinnier than I'd ever seen him, his rib bones practically making an imprint through his skin. It was hard to not worry about him.

"Blades of Glory," he said with a smirk.

"Ah, yes. A masterpiece of cinema."

He made small, careful steps to the bed, the back of half his hospital gown open. Despite myself, I stood up to pull aside the blanket so that he could have an easier time transitioning to the bed.

"Such a gentleman," he said, staring up at me as if he had vertigo.

"For you, always." I knelt down to kiss him on the lips.

The voice from the TV circled back into my consciousness: "Robert Larsen revealed some shocking allegations to our team..."

Santos' ear flicked at the name, his face dropping when he took in the image of a guy with red hair who appeared to be around twenty-five. The mystery man spoke:

"Yeah, he definitely gave me herpes. We had a one night stand, I never hear from the guy again, and then the next thing I know I have sores all over my... you know. I never got in contact because I didn't know his name, and he blocked me on his phone or something."

I cast a questionable look in his direction. I didn't really believe the person on the television, but it was a strange accusation to lodge at someone in front of the eyes of the world.

"You don't have herpes, right?" I asked. "Because I don't have herpes. At least, I believe I don't."

"Of course I don't have herpes!" he exclaimed with more energy than I thought he was capable of. "Christ, I'm practically on my death bed and these people come out of the woodwork like rats. No wonder I never called this idiot again."

I was privately relieved that he made such a brisk denial, considering the gravity of the situation. Of course, I didn't believe he had a disease, but, you know... It could be true.

"I always wear protection," he insisted. "I get tested every year for STDs. I swear to god I don't have anything."

"It's okay, Santos, I believe you," I said, patting his arm.

Another one of the thirty men he'd professed to sleeping with came on. Eerily, it was someone who preferred to be cast in the anonymity of shadow. His profile suggested he had short hair, and he'd chosen to keep his voice unaltered for the show.

"Well, we were together on my couch, getting comfortable, you know? And then the next thing I know I hear him fart. We laughed a little about it, and maybe kissed a little... I mean, we all know what he looks like, so I wasn't about to drop out over something like that. But then he kept on farting! They weren't smelly farts, so I could ignore them, but I couldn't stop laughing while trying to get it on. He must have had a few bean burritos, or broccoli, or I don't know what."

He was stifling his giggles, but I was practically falling over the chair in amusement.

"Santos, how could you?" I said through laughter. "And Harriet was just here defending your ass! She said there was nothing on your record--nothing!"

"It wasn't me!" he exclaimed.

"First your parents, and then the liquor, and now this? I can't believe it. There's no trust in this relationship."

The television man continued: "He finally promised he was done with expelling the gas after I brought it up with him. I wish I hadn't believed him, because..."

I turned the show off, hopping in the bed with him. Wrapping my arms around him an sneaking some kisses along his collarbone, I said, "It's okay, Santos--I won't hold it against you on your next fart explosion."

"Fake news," he stated, still laughing. "This is a witch hunt!"

"Maybe you can sue them, baby. Let 'em know who's boss."

"Anything negative about me is fake news, just like the CNN, ABC, and NBC polls in the last election. This show's ratings are tanking and their credibility will soon be gone... like a puff of gas in the air."

My phone went off, and as much as I wanted to continue this conversation, I decided to take the call.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey, how's everything going over there?" Harriet asked.

"Oh... just fine."

"Checking Santos' vitals consistently? How's his fart rate lately?"

I sniggered, eyeing him briefly. "Oh, just fine."

"Believe it or not, that's not why I called. The lawyer wants to know if Santos is going to be well enough to testify. His subpoena is in a few days."

My gut tightened in discomfort. "Is it really that soon?"

"Yeah. I know he's still sick, but we really need him, Luke. He's integral to the case."

"I mean, I know, but I don't know if his doctors will sign off on that."

"How is he? Like, really?"

I shrugged to myself. "He can walk, but not very far. We might be able to wheelchair him in with some Gatorade."

"We only get one shot at this. I understand if he's not well enough, but we really need him."

"I get it. I don't have control over whether the hospital clears him to leave."

"Okay, okay... I'll talk to you later, then. Let me know what's up."

"I will. Goodbye."

I raised my eyebrows, looking to him. "She acts like you didn't just recover from a near death experience."

"I'll go, if that's what she wants to know."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I agree with her--I need to be there."

I flatted my back on what little portion of the bed was open to me. "You can always change your mind."

"No. I have to testify. If there's any chance at all that they won't see prison time, I have to be there."

I met eyes with him, nodding.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Santos requested to wait in a separate room before being called in to testify. I didn't know a soul who could blame him, consider what he parents put him through.

I showed up early, fidgeting in the silent courtroom as the proceedings commenced. It was hard not to feel anxious about what would come out after the day was through, or whether Santos would strengthen our case. I assumed he would, but it wasn't exactly inevitable.

People filtered in, including the judge, lawyers, and a small audience consisting of the press. Catching quick glances at Santos' parents, I realized they carried certain characteristics that bequeathed him his good looks. From his mother, he took his sleek black hair, high cheekbones, and milky skin; and from his father he received height, broad shoulders, and brilliant blue eyes. They were both past their primes, of course--Mrs. Rodriguez looked like your average career woman walking the street in a gray pantsuit, while Mr. Rodriguez was balding, fifty pounds overweight, and possessed fleshy jowls.

I made eye contact with Mrs. Rodriguez briefly before things commenced. I swore that she paralyzed me with the Eye of Sauron as she glared at me.

The clerk opened the session with the regular legal jargon that is required, and some statements were made by the lawyers. It wasn't long before our defense attorney called forth Santos, and he was escorted to the stand to be sworn in. His pace was slow and week, though he'd elected not to use a wheelchair.

"Santos," our lawyer began, "how would you describe your childhood living with Mr. And Mrs. Rodriguez for the past twenty-two years?"

He swallowed, and I could tell he was trying to avoid eye contact with his parents despite the opposite impulse. "Well... not good."

It seemed already like he was neutering his responses, as if he was afraid they would leap out at him and claw his tongue out.

"How would you characterize your parents?"

"They're... workaholics. Ambitious. They like extravagance, and feel they've earned it."

Our lawyer nodded. "Had they ever mentioned to you someone by the name of Frederick Perlith?"

"By his last name, yes. He had some influence over the city council in Tacoma, and wanted certain allotments for low income families at a big development planned in town. I think there might have been some other issues, but that was the main thing I remember. He was holding up the negotiations at the firm Mom worked at. Dad tried to help smooth it over, but it wasn't working."

"Did you ever hear Mr. or Mrs. Rodriguez issue threats against Mr. Perlith?"

"Not in the beginning. I think they tried their best to weasel around him. Honestly, I wasn't around for a lot of their conversations concerning him, but of what I do remember overhearing, they had a few scenarios on how they wanted him done in. For one reason or another, I think most of them ended up falling through."

"Can you describe those other methods?"

"Oh, having him shot in an alleyway somewhere... Having him mugged and hit with a baseball bat. Lynching him, and framing it like it was a Nazi incident. I guess hitting someone with a car on a sleepy street was one of the the easier routes. Didn't have to get their hands dirty, especially if someone else was committing the crime."

The woman appeared sincerely disturbed about the breezy tone he took talking about these methods of homicide. She paused for a moment, as if to collect her thoughts.

"Did they ever try to convince you to become involved in their plans?"

"No. I was barely family to them at that point. I don't think they trusted me. I guess they were right to not have faith in me."

I smirked at him, and he returned the look.

"On the night before the murder, September third, did you notice any unusual behavior?"

"I was drunk off my ass, to be honest. I didn't want anything to do with them."

Soft laughter wafted from the jury.

"What about at any time during September fourth?" she asked.

"Oh, I walked through the garage that night to get a tire gauge because I thought my air was low, and I saw the blood on the SUV and everything. I was shocked and sickened. I knew they did bad things to get their way, and I tried to keep it out of my mind, but I'd never before seen the aftermath of what they were up to. I think they were getting sloppy."

"Was there anything else?"

"As soon as I entered the house they were on top of me--I mean, like, yelling at me. They asked if I knew what happened, and I didn't say anything, and they just followed me around and screamed at me to never tell anyone what happened, or they were going to murder me. I'll be honest--I was yelling back at them, but I was afraid of what they might do to me. I wasn't exactly their favorite person in the world at the time. Anyway, I was tired of their crap, so I left. I was supposed to go, anyway, to house sit my uncle's place, but I was upset. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep that night if I tried to just go to bed."

"And where did you go?"

"The community pool, to swim. The weather was still warm enough to do a few laps outside by myself. I needed to get the tension out of me. Of course, like everyone probably knows by now, I met Luke that night."

"Did you have any idea why he was there?"

"No, I really didn't. I knew him from class, and thought he was cute. I assumed it was a nice coincidence. We left together that night, and, well... they rest is history."

She smiled, and so did a lot of the jury.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I alternated between bored and distressed as I sat at the same wooden bench during court proceedings. I had some understanding when it seemed like our lawyer had a good speech and evidence laid out for the jurors, but then the attorneys for the Rodriguezes would slap back with something striking, and I'd feel disheartened all over again. I had never produced so much sweat sitting in one place.

I made an appearance at every opportunity, though it often wasn't easy to escape my other responsibilities. Seeing Santos' parents in the flesh on a weekly basis wasn't exactly my idea of a tea party. I could see why he was scared of them, because even being in the same room was like sitting in the presence of two dementors. We always sat in the back of the room when we could, as if that extra space could pad us from danger. I once made eye contact with his mom and got goosebumps up and down my skin.

I couldn't imagine what it was like for Santos if I was this intimidated. He was always stone silent whenever it was a court day. It bothered me that he maintained a wall for his emotions, but I figured I should let him process the situation on his own terms. I was gone most of the time, but whenever I came home he was in his prayer room doing the Buddhist thing. He painted the room light lavender, decorated with sheer curtains along with images of the Buddha, and placed an altar at the center. It was a serene space, even if I didn't quite understand why he had incense and mandarins in there. I got to know more about the lotus pose and sage burning than I ever thought I wanted to.

As the day of the sentencing approached, I couldn't tell one way or the other how it was going to pan out. Santos' parents seemed more optimistic as we approached the final week of the case, their heads not bowing in shame any longer. They tried to keep an austere attitude, but I could tell they were holding back confident smiles as more evidence rolled out in their favor.

It took days for the jurors to deliberate the case. It was agonizing to wait for an answer, particularly for Santos. He woke up in the middle of the night from nightmares, crying out in terror. Sometimes he would scream about how he didn't want to die, or how he was doing his best for them. I would pacify him, rubbing his back as I sang him to sleep, but I also had no one to go to to comfort my own worries.

When we were notified that a final decision was made, I couldn't contain the temptation to speed through traffic. It was one of those rare sunny spring days that occasionally occurred in the northwest. The sky was clear and the heat of the sun warmed our skin. A stuffy court house was the least attractive place for a day like that, but if things went our way, a lavish picnic in the park would soon follow.

After hearing Santos testify against his parents, Harriet took a decidedly less abrasive front towards him. I knew that she wasn't going to be ready to admit she forgave him, but we could all at least admit that we were on the same team. We sat on the same pew facing the jurors, anxiety causing my feet to tap, tap, tap.

When a chubby middle aged woman, one of the jurors, stood up and started reading off the paperwork in her hand, our hands linked up like magnets. Mine was sweating, as usual, but Santos didn't seem to mind.

Unanimously, the Rodriguezes were pronounced guilty of all charges.

Guilty of felony murder, guilty of pre-meditation, guilty of conspiracy... Their eyes darkened in horror, though they didn't express their desperation through tears or to even turn towards each other for a hug. They just sat there, staring.

Santos' mother would serve the longest sentence. While Santos' father was involved in the plotting and cover up, he hadn't actually actually driven my father off his bike or poisoned him while he was in the hospital.

My father's remains had been exhumed for investigation, and there was also security footage of someone walking to Dad's bed after-hours. The evidence pointed out just how malicious Mrs. Rodriguez had been throughout this entire scheme. I cried during the conviction, soaking up the reality that the nightmare was finally coming to a close. They were given the option to make a final statement, which they declined. We were also given that same option, and, well... Harriet didn't hold back at all from fulfilling the role of moralizer.

She stood at the front of the room, looking strong and authoritative in a navy suit as she orated from a letter typed the night before.

"Mr. And Mrs. Rodriguez, you have no idea how you have affected the lives of everyone who has had the misfortune to know you. My father, Frederick Alan Perlith, was my male role model and my best friend. He taught me the importance of right and wrong, and made sure throughout my life that I really understood it. There is a Bible quote that I think exemplifies this in John 4:17: "So whoever knows the right thing and fails to do it, for him it is sin." There was no way that I could let this crime you both have committed slip away. No matter what it took, I had to try and bring you both to justice, even if it took everything out of me to make it happen.

"There's another Bible quote I would like to share, from Peter 3:9. It says: "Do not repay evil with evil or insult with evil. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." I hope that you both see your time in prison as a blessing to atone for your sins, though I have no way of knowing if you will see this as an opportunity. I hope that you can pray and search your feelings on why you ended a man's life over so shallow a thing as money.

"I will never see my father again, and I still miss him every day. If you both can reform yourselves, perhaps something good will come of this tragedy. Even if that isn't the case, I know for a fact that something positive has already come forward. You can't hurt anyone any more, which is a benefit for society, and your son is finally safe from your poisoning influence. I don't know if you realize this, but since you have been gone and my brother took him in, he's become a supportive and sweet human being. He's cooperated completely with the investigation, the trial, and has personally sent us letters and words of encouragement. He has done everything in his power to atone for his silence after being put in an impossible position by his own flesh and blood. It's been hard to put the past behind us, but after today, I feel like I can bury those hard feelings just like we buried my father's body. YOU were the monsters, not Santos.

"It's up to you whether you want to embrace evil after this, but I hope you don't. For now, we are moving on with our lives and will forever keep our father's memory strong. I'll never lose my father's memory, but from this moment forward, I will forever forget you two."

She stopped to look at them, her eyes hardened and focused. They despised her, as if she were an absentee parent lecturing them. Santos' jaw fell open upon hearing the positive words Harriet used in his favor.

"What a day," I said under my breath as the Rodriguezes were taken away in handcuffs. "What a day."

We went to dinner afterward, to an Indian restaurant that had a lot of veggie options for Santos. There was this released tension between us as we talked and laughed, as if the top to a champagne bottle had been popped. I felt for all the world like we were a family again. It was a different kind of family from what I had known growing up, and I still missed Dad, but I liked our new clan.

We said our goodbye outside the building, hugging each other in the parking lot. When I thought that the night was about finished, and Santos had already headed for the passenger side of my car, Harriet stopped me.

"Something wrong?" I asked her.

She licked her glossed lips, giving herself a moment as she gazed at me. "I just wanted to say I'm proud of you, Luke."

I tried to put away the side of me that was the teasing brother, despite being surprised by the confession. "Why do you say that?"

"Because... You stand by your principles. You stood by Santos when everyone else had cast stones at him. You make beautiful music. You're brave, and you work hard when people ask it of you. You've changed so much over the past year in a positive way, when this whole situation could have destroyed the family. You're the kind of man Dad was. I mean, without the stupid dad jokes. I want you to know that you mean a lot to me, and I love you."

Moisture was welling up towards my eyes, as much as I wanted to fight it. "I'm so proud of you, too, Harriet. You never gave up on Dad. You never lost your resolve, even when it seemed like all was lost. This was possible because of you, too."

We hugged briefly, aware that we were keeping people waiting.

"Keep in touch, okay?" I said, placing my hands on her shoulders. "We're living different lives now, but you'll always be my sister."

She nodded. "I will if you will."

We walked away from each other, going our different paths home. It was a difficult day, but one of the most rewarding in my life. The mess concerning the murder was behind us, Santos wasn't an alcoholic anymore, and I could finally look my family in the face without wondering what kind of crap they were thinking about concerning my boyfriend.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was one of those rare sunny days in May as I flipped burgers on the old grill in Mom's backyard. There were a few black bean burgers for Santos next to the regular patties, and vegan cheese slices with the rest of the sides. I wondered as I stood there if my friends would suddenly expect champagne and caviar at the cookout. No one seemed disappointed, but maybe there were some looming thoughts in the air about newly earned wealth and fame. There was craft beer in the cooler instead of Bud Light, anyway.

Mom made a casual appearance before heading back inside the house. Harriet never hid her general dislike of my friends, so I didn't see her before she headed out. It was chilly out, even for May. We were all wearing layers and hats, huddling together under a tarp next to a few space heaters I rustled out. I would have invited everyone inside, but we were all a bunch of rowdy drunks, and my Mom was babysitting a friend's kid.

For Santos, this was the first time he had ever met my friends, and, well... it was probably a bit of a culture shock, especially considering his recent adoption of Buddhism. He had a clam-like quality as he stood in the center of the lion's den, gripping his red cup of grape juice like it was the contents of the holy grail. I felt bad about not being able to baby him more through his transitory period, but I had my own questions to field.

"By show of hands, which of us has not heard Luke's music on the radio enough times in the past month?" Terrell asked with his usual brashness.

"I, for one, propose that the song Understanding has not been played enough in my general area over the last twenty minutes," said Hayden. "Has anyone got a stereo handy? I'll even listen off of a cell phone or a rusty soup can."

"You're not thinking about this the right way," said Terrell. "Luke is standing right there. Why don't you just have him serenade us?"

"Sorry, boys," I interjected. "I only serenade a very special person here tonight."

Before they could make another joke, Robin brought refinement to the conversation: "Yes, and what a gentleman he is."

Santos smiled good-naturedly, though he was forcing it.

"It's nice to finally meet you after all of this time," added Vi. "The story about you and Luke was fascinating for me to hear about."

"It was pretty crazy to live through, too," Santos replied.

"Is it true you're getting a book deal out of this?" asked Robin.

"Something like that, maybe. I'm still working out a deal with a publisher."

"What? Damn," stated Terrell in shock. "Where's my book deal? Luke, we're nothing less than the best of friends, right? That should get me something. I'm not asking for much--just a million dollar reality TV contract."

"I'd laugh if you had to write a book, let alone a sentence by yourself!" Hayden said with a laugh.

"Friendship is its own reward, isn't it?" I asked.

"Well, cash is nice, too," Terrell said.

"Do you hate your parents now?" asked Hayden to Santos.

"That's an understatement," said Santos. "Well, it's more like they hate me a lot right now."

"Are you scared for when they get out of prison?" Terrell asked. "Like, weren't you on the run for a while from them when they got arrested? I remember Luke was really concerned looking for you."

When he swallowed down the grape juice, I could tell he was really wishing it had vodka in it. "Yeah, that is true. But they have a lot more problems coming their way soon because of the anthrax. It's possible that they will never leave prison at all."

They all nodded.

"Well, you could hire bodyguards or something if that happens, right?" asked Hayden.

"To be honest, I don't really want to think about it," said Santos.

"Ahh."

A rolling silence followed that was more uncomfortable than probably any point in the night so far.

"Hey, who wants to get their butt kicked at ping pong?" asked Robin.

"I will totally cream you at ping pong. Don't even try me right now," said Vi.

"I bet not."

"Have you seen my backhand? I will destroy you."

"Prove it."

The two of them darted off the twenty yards to the outdoor table, the rest of them slowly following... save for Santos. I saw him circling a half-drunk Corona on the table from the corner of my eye. I decided to play dumb and pretend that I was too preoccupied with the grill to notice what he was up to. I flipped burgers here and there, humming to myself, and tried to hold steady as his fingers caressed the dew on the bottle. He stared longingly for a few moments before taking a deep breath and turning around.

"What do you think of my friends?" I asked in what was probably a tone that was suspiciously friendly.

"Oh... They're fine," said Santos.

I shot him a suspicious look.

"I know," he said, leaning on a picnic table. "I'm not used to making conversation without a drink to smooth things over. Plus, your friends..."

"... Are not exactly your people?"

"Something like that."

If Santos had any idea what kind of people I ran around with before, he might have decided to stop dating me, I mused. I have no idea what his friends are like, either. Or, at least, the ones who left after graduating high school. I probably don't fit in with them, either. I guess it was the power of the music that kept us together... Who am I kidding, he's way out of my league. Without the music, he'd see no reason to stay with a nerd like me at all.

"If you ever feel that you need to talk to me about something, just ask," I said, tossing buns on the grill.

"Don't I already talk to you about everything going on in my life?"

I shrugged, sending him another suggestive look.

"Everything's fine. It's just... changing."

"More of a grind?"

"I wouldn't call life a grind these days. It's more like... The rehab is over, and the court case is over, so now it's like after climbing a mountain and seeing a giant plateau. The big challenge is over, and now we're going to be journeying together towards something new. Sometimes, especially with the drinking thing... it feels like I'm jabbing my toe every other step on a rock. I know you'll always be there for me, but it's a challenge."

"You're not scared of touring?" I asked.

"Not as much as I'm scared of myself. I'm afraid all the time that I'm going to relapse, or that I'm going to screw something up in some way."

I patted him on the shoulder. "Well, if anything does happen, don't worry. We'll figure it out."

"See, that's what I love about you. You're so easy going. Even with my friends, I was always afraid of admitting I was defeated or less than perfect. You never make me feel ashamed for my faults."

"We all fail sometimes."

He shook his head. "Some people don't. Or, at least, they don't let on that they do."

"I find that hard to believe. Here, do you want to make your hamburger? I'm about to call everyone else over to eat."

After eating hamburgers, we played card games and dominoes on the outdoor furniture. The afternoon flew by with the breeze. After it was too dark to play any more, we decided to start a bonfire in the yard. Mom brought out the ingredients for s'mores, and as night settled in, it seemed all too soon that the evening would end. I didn't make many trips home to see friends, and when I did, it was usually a big gathering like a birthday. I knew I probably wouldn't be up again before the tour started, and it was anyone's guess when I would be back after all that was over.

They could be gone by the time I make it back here, I thought as we talked and ate dessert. These guys could have girlfriends and find themselves too busy for me, or have joined the military or something. Okay, maybe it would be far-fetched to expect they'd have girlfriends, but I guess anything else could happen in that time.

"If Selena had lived after getting shot in the 90s, she would have gone on to be even bigger than Shakira. You can fight me on it," said Robin.

"When that Yolanda chick gets out of prison, there's gonna be a bunch of people wanting to murder her," said Vi.

"Probably better if she stays in there," added Terrell. "If I were her, I sure as hell wouldn't want to leave. Who the hell would hire her? Hi, I'm the old fat chick who murdered a beautiful singer because the family found out I was stealing from them."

"I don't know what happens to people like that," said Robin. "Even if she managed to avoid getting caught in a drive-by, she could never leave her house. But who would take her in? I wouldn't want to be associated with her."

"I have no clue," said Terrell.

They pulled their marshmallows from the fire, sandwiching them between graham cracker and chocolate. Or, in Hayden's case, he just stuffed the roasted black puffs into his mouth before shoving graham crackers and chocolate inside.

"I'm gonna miss you guys," I found myself saying after a lull.

"What, after the party?" asked Terrell. "I never thought you loved us so much, Luke."

"No, I mean, after the tour starts. I'm not going to see any of you in a long time."

"Please," said Hayden, chewing down his mess of chocolate, white goop, and crumbs. "You really think you're gonna ditch us when you leave for the summer? I thought you cared about us!"

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Can't you score us jobs while you're touring?" he asked. "I have nothing better to do this summer. Like hell if I'm gonna be in a classroom the whole time!"

"Yeah, I thought that you could network us up with something like that," added Terrell.

"Oh. I don't know. I hadn't even considered anything like that."

Their faces fell, as if I'd announced that I was canceling the party.

"Maybe I can figure something out," I added. "There's got to be some leftover positions that haven't been filled yet. Like... ushers, or assistants or something."

"Thank God!" Hayden said. "Man, I thought you might have forgotten about us. I mean, you'd rather have us there with you, right? It'd probably be dull as hell without your friends around."

"Yeah, why wouldn't you want your friends around if you could help them," mused Terrell.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, you're right."

I couldn't tell if I had become some kind of self absorbed jerk, or if I had really neglected my friends over the past six months, but it had never occurred to me to score them jobs for the tour. I scrambled in my mind for a moment, trying to think of how exactly I was going to explain to the managers that I needed to staff my useless friends after all of the positions had been filled for practically everything. Maybe I could add on five or six tambourine players, or maybe a gaggle of personal assistants... I tried not to think too deeply about it, deciding to worry another day.

Not that I didn't want them around--because I did. Maybe I had just built up this idea in my head that everything changed after a certain point, and that it was expected that old friends would be left behind. I was looking forward to meeting new people, for sure, and making new friends, but it was nice to know that the old people wanted to tag along.

Throwing on more logs, we wondered about future memories and destinations.

"Well, you know, some of the places are in the middle of nowhere," I said. "They're not all London and Tokyo."

"So?" said Terrell. "I've never even left Washington before. This is gonna be amazing!"

"I am looking forward to seeing smaller town America, even if it's not glamorous," said Vi. "It's the less flashy places that are usually the ones that have the most character."

"Are you guys gonna be able to handle being on a bus for hours and hours every day?" I asked. "Even when I was just going on TV shows, the waiting took up about 80% of the appearances."

"I got a Switch for Christmas," said Hayden. "I think I can handle it."

Santos' face changed when he realized that he would be spending much of his time in the same space with my crazy friends. I prepared myself for a 'talk' after the party was over, though I smiled at the idea.

"You know, Santos is a Buddhist," I said. "He could teach you guys things about yoga and meditation."

He shied away, but everyone's eyes lit up at the mention.

"The most I know about yoga is yoga pants," mentioned Robin.

"Maybe he could teach you stooges how to sit down and shut up," said Vi.

"Hey, but that's awesome, though," said Terrell. "I've never been into religion, but if that works for you, that's cool."

"Thanks," said Santos weakly.

All the sudden, Terrell let out a big hoot, waving his hands. "Summer of 2019! This is the time of our lives. I say we give a toast to Luke and Santos!"

Everyone lifted their drinks, but seemed at a loss on where to go with it after that.

"To Santos and Luke," Robin stated. "Who through unlikely circumstances found each other, loved each other, and took two evil people off the streets. May they be together forever! And this summer tour better be amazing!"

Everyone yipped and cheered, banging plastic together before drinking up. Santos and I made eye contact in the light of the fire, both of us feeling the impulse to join for a kiss. The cheers and screams erupted to an even higher degree, with Hayden making suggestive whistles and kisses. We broke into big smiles after breaking apart, feeling like this night was the beginning to our new lives.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The tour started a lot sooner than I could process. I was too accustomed to hanging around with Santos every day, doing a whole lot of nothing together. At first it was pleasantly bizarre to have no expectations or obligations when we woke up every morning, but given time we learned how to fill our schedules with leisure. On a typical day, we'd make breakfast, play something like basketball or tennis, and then eat lunch. A movie might follow, or we'd go home and do our own thing. Santos was usually reading Buddhist texts, doing yoga, or meditating. I was always playing music.

That life was all over, though--at least for the summer. The first concert was taking place in Seattle, so while I didn't have to travel, I was still dizzy at the idea of performing live in front of 2,800 people. I wasn't completely on my own--there was a folk band to warm up the audience--but when the time came, it would be just me and my piano. I should have been backstage when they were doing their set, but instead I was pouring over my notes and cramming before I'd be on my own. Santos was there, trying to be a helpful cheerleader.

"You're gonna be great," he said, facing me in an old folding chair. "Just like you've been great every time you perform."

"Thanks," I stated, keeping my eyes on my papers as I read through the lyrics again, making sure I actually, for sure, knew them.

"Hey."

He took my hand and stared at me with a serene calm in his turquoise eyes. I softened and straightened towards him.

"You know, the Buddha says faith is nourishment. Part of what I love about you is you're grounded and humble, but there's this bit of you that doesn't believe in yourself."

I sighed. "I like being prepared. It would be hard to live with myself if I bombed my first night out."

"Have you ever bombed leading up to this?"

I couldn't help but smile nervously. "No. At least, not in a major way."

"I think, even if you forget the words, as long as you're speaking from your heart, sincerity is what translates to people. It's the amount of soul you put into your work that has drawn fans in. It's what drew me to you, almost from the beginning."

"It wasn't my boyish good looks?"

"Well, maybe that had something to do with it, too." He smiled, and I found that my smile became more at ease instead of a mask of dissimulation.

"You're right," I said. "I always do this to myself. It was probably good in the beginning that you never let on you were taking me to the recording studio. I'd probably still be in my room reworking songs instead of going out there and taking a chance on myself."

"I think we had a lot to learn from one another over the last year."

I felt the music above us, the fiddle and drums practically penetrating through the floorboards. They were beginning their last song--no more time to procrastinate.

"You ready to walk up and kick ass at this tour?" he asked.

"Hell yeah."

I walked onstage, waving as I surveyed a crowd that was much larger than any I'd performed before. I sat down at the bench, smiling as members of the audience began to stand up, one by one, to clap loudly for me. Among them, up in the box seats, were all the people in my life who mattered to me: my friends, Mom, Harriet, and Santos.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming tonight," I stated smoothly, the sound warm and penetrating as it filled the theater. "I'm going to start the night off with the song Comfort."

I placed my hands on the piano, and filled the air with life--my life. 
Thank you for reading Tangled up in Blue. I would love to read your feedback on the book, or any thoughts you may have. You can send me an email at Mari0n.Cast3lla@gmail.com or leave a review on Amazon. I also have a website you can visit.

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