“Is that what this is?” I teasingly ask back. “Pain and misery?”
“Yep. I’m in total agony with you.”
“Am I the worst boyfriend ever?”
Vann kisses the top of my head. “The worst,” he answers, and I smile against his chest. My phone sits on the nightstand, ignored. Doesn’t matter; I haven’t gotten a single text from my mom, or my stepdad or stepbrother, wondering where I am. They either know or don’t care. The only living being in that house who likely cares where I’m at is Winona, who I can imagine scratching at my shed door, or panting happily by the gate as she awaits my return, or sulking on the couch next to my stepdad while he guzzles beer.
Neither Carl nor Lee came to my Saturday or Sunday shows. I honestly didn’t expect them to. And why should I? The last actual interaction I’ve had with my stepdad was not pleasant or kind, admittedly, but what part of our relationship is healthy? It should be no surprise I’ve barely stepped foot in my own house but once or twice this week, if that. A part of me—a wild, completely crazy part of me—wonders if I could just take everything from my shed and move in here with Vann. We already spend so much time together. Is it such a radical idea, the notion of living with him? Then I wouldn’t have to worry at all about Carl or Lee.
That thought follows me to school Monday when we show up together on his bike, and Vann gives me that proud, smirking look of his when we take off our helmets in the parking lot. And on our way to our first periods, just before parting, he dares to kiss me in the hallway, right there in front of everyone. A distinctly dark bolt of pride surges through me as I feel the attention of so many eyes on us. I had once told Vann it would take “the next big thing” to happen for the school to stop talking about us. Yet somehow, we keep being that next big thing, over and over again. And yet I keep wondering: What if we lived together? What if that’s our next big thing?
I can’t sit still all throughout my first period, dreaming up the notion. Somehow, I picture a shack by a lake or a river—or maybe a beach, where Vann longs to be again. We could walk right on down to the sand if we wanted, kick back, and drink fancy drinks all day long, the taste of salt on our skin. I imagine us cuddling up together on cold winter nights in our shack, fireplace burning, hot cocoa in our mugs, and a soft blanket cocooning us together like conjoined caterpillars. I just can’t imagine a more perfect peace than that. “Well, well … you look absolutely glowin’, Toby!” chirps Becky as she hands me a note to take to a class across the school. “And I didn’t get to see you after the show, but I wanted to tell you, you were fantastic! I’m spoiled! Oh, I just wish that every dang play was a gay love story now!” And I have to smile, thinking of my real-life love story, and where Vann and I are headed.
When I meet my Vann outside the classroom door of second period English, I give him a kiss, feeling brave. He grins devilishly at me when we pull apart, says, “See you in chemistry,” and heads off down the hall. I’m still spinning happily from the kiss as I settle into a desk by the wall, pull out my notebook, and start to doodle in the margins, feeling just like Vann. Am I still floating? I wonder if my feet still haven’t touched the ground since Saturday.
Until a Hoyt-shaped shadow falls over my notebook.
I look up, feeling smug. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”
To my surprise, Hoyt isn’t his usual cocky self. His eyebrows are pulled together with irritation, and his eyes appear harsh. I’m about to repeat my question when Hoyt suddenly produces one of his own: “Did you say somethin’ to my coach?”
I stare at him hard. That was a week ago. Why is he bringing it up now? “No.”
“Nothin’ at all?”
“I said no, didn’t I?”
Hoyt squints at me dubiously. “I know you’re friends with his lil’ brother. I know you guys got some kinda … bromance goin’ on.” He spits out that word like a nasty vegetable, and he’s the petulant child who won’t eat them. “Is that what’s goin’ on? You’re talkin’ about me to my coach now? Trying to get me kicked off the team? He’ll never kick me off. I’m his star player, his number one.” Hoyt’s voice softens. “C’mon, I thought you were better than that.”
Imagine that: Hoyt acting like he’s taking the high road. “And why are you asking?” I challenge him, lifting my voice. “Did he put you in time-out? Did he give you a little spanking? Humiliate you in front of the team?”