“It’s just a month, Nate. I wouldn’t miss your birthday for anything. It’ll be here before you know it. I’ll feed you cake and then we’ll get you all tatted up.”
I nodded and blinked.
He cleared his throat and stepped in a little closer. When he spoke, his voice was low, conspiratorial, his breath warm against my ear. “And then I’ll let you do nasty things to me.”
“Promise?”
“Mr. Schaper. I. Am. Shocked,” he said with mock horror.
“You are not.”
He laughed, then pressed his mouth to mine. When he pulled away, I scanned the check-in area—a simple knee-jerk reaction I still couldn’t shake.
“Are we being watched?” he asked.
“Always the freak show.”
“Consider it a public service.”
I studied his face for a moment. “Is that what we are now? A flesh and blood PSA?”
He frowned, and a crease formed between his brows the way it did anytime he was worried or confused.
Adam glanced at the monitors hanging from the ceiling—Continental 1079, Houston to New York LaGuardia Airport, On Time—then at the passengers lining up at security. My stomach turned over, and again I thought I might throw up. My nose burned. I stared down at my feet.
Adam pressed his forehead to mine. “Don’t let that tramp Juliet steal you away from me.”
I laughed a little and blinked back tears, but one rolled down my cheek anyway.
“Oh, Nate.” Adam let his backpack slip to the floor and pulled me to him. I planted my face in his neck. “I’ll call and text and Skype every day,” he said. “You’re going to be sick of me before the month’s over. It’ll go fast. You’ll see.”
I sniffed, then he sniffed, and that made me sniff even harder, especially when he drew little circles on the base of my neck with his finger. “I don’t have to go, Nate,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s just too soon. If you need me to stay, I’ll stay. I can work at one of the community theaters and take classes at U of H and—”
“No.” I shook my head. “No. This is your dream. Broadway.”
“Off Broadway. Off off Broadway.”
“You’re going. And you’re going to be fabulous and amazing.” I swallowed hard. “I’ll be okay. I’ll start that blog or something.”
“Save the world for the queers?”
“Yeah, something like that. Maybe I’ll sleep with Juliet.”
“You’d never.”
I smiled weakly and blinked away fresh tears.
“I’ll stay, Nate.”
I shook my head, and when he asked if I was sure, I lied and said I was. He made me promise to write more songs for him. And then he pulled me to him one last time, kissed me, and let me go.
He held on to my fingers until he couldn’t anymore and took his place in line. I stayed there and watched him until he was lost in the crowd and the distance.
In the parking garage I turned the ignition key, ejected the CD, leaned it on a pencil behind my left back tire, and backed over it.
My hero was gone.
Chapter 4
Last March 14
Things that scared us
| ADAM: | Where r u? |
| ADAM: | Answer ur phone, dammit! Ur mom is worried sick. |
| ADAM: | Nate, pls call me. |
| ADAM: | Im coming to look for u. |
| NATE: | Im fine ok |
| ADAM: | Just tell me where u r. |
| ADAM: | Answer ur fucking phone! |
| ADAM: | Nate, pls, baby. Its 2 in the am. Tell me where u r. Ur scaring me. |
| NATE: | I HAV 2 GO! DAMN! IM FINE! |
| ADAM: | Im calling friends to help look for u. |
| NATE: | if u call... I will never forgive u. |
| ADAM: | If something happens 2 u I’ll never forgive myself. |
| NATE: | NO DO NOT CALL. I ND 2B ALONE FOR A REA SON! NOT TO WORRY THEM!!! DO NOT FUCKING CALL! PLEASE DON’T CALL. I DON’T WANNA WORRY ANYONE. |
| ADAM: | Then tell me where u r. |
| Long pause. | |
| NATE: | Football field. |
The moon was full and my eyes accustomed to the dim light, so I could see him when he climbed up into the bleachers and sat down, center field, six rows up. I hadn’t told him what football field. But he was here so quickly, it was obvious he’d guessed right. What other field would I have gone to but the one where I had suffered so many humiliations? The one where Coach Schaper, dear old Dad, had taunted me relentlessly—You’re throwing like a pussy. No son of mine is running like a homo. Don’t you dare cry. I didn’t raise a faggot—turning what might have been my field of dreams into his killing fields.
I dropkicked another football toward the goal. It veered to the right and dropped just a few feet inside the end zone. My bare toes stung from the impact. “I always wanted to be placekicker on the team,” I shouted. “Kickers have to have good form, nerves of steel. I would have been a good one too, you know. If I’d kicked, I might have even liked football. Maybe I’d still be on the team.” I sniffed and wiped at my dripping nose with my dirty, sweaty forearm. The pads on my shoulders were too small and pinched. I adjusted them again. “You wanna know why I wasn’t?” I picked up another ball from the six or seven lined up along the forty-yard line and dropkicked it cleanly through the goal posts. “Because my dad said placekickers aren’t real football players. And if you’re not a real football player, you’re not shit.
“Especially if you’re the coach’s son,” I muttered.
I picked up another ball and planted it on my hip and look at him through the darkness. “You want to play?”
Adam got up, slipped under the railing, and dropped to the ground.
I nudged the other footballs out of the way and met him at the fifty. “One on one,” I said. I showed him how to hold the ball, tuck it up snug in the crook of his arm where it was less apt to get loose, and then how to get in line position. Even in the semi-dark, it was obvious what a mess I was. He took it all in, but he did what I said without a word. When we broke, he dodged me and sprinted for the end zone, but I flung myself at him, just catching his left ankle with my outstretched arms. He went down with an umph.
“Shit, that hurts,” he muttered.
The next time, I carried the ball. I went down on my knuckles at the forty-five. When we broke, I faked right and easily slipped past him on the left and ran for a touchdown, then jogged back. “Let’s go,” I said, gutting him with the ball.
He planted the ball on his hip. “Nate, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Come on,” I said. “Again.”
I got down on my knuckles, but he didn’t budge. “This didn’t just happen to you,” he said. “This happened to me too.”
I scoffed. “Nobody yanked your pants down and shoved a wagon handle up your ass in front of a couple dozen people.”
“You know what I mean.”
I stormed back over to him, snatched the football from his hip, then stormed back and jabbed it down at the fifty again. “Let’s