I stumble forward, getting my bearings. I went in the general direction of my neighborhood, with one glaring, obvious difference. I’m not heading straight home. Without realizing it, I’d been swerving in a very specific direction.
“Shit,” I sigh, and turn. “Go fucking home, Tommy.”
“Tommy?”
I freeze, my shoulders hunching. My trembling fingers are hidden deep in my jacket pockets as I face Bruce, who’s standing there in his jogging gear, pulling his headphones out of his ears. He’s so put together, so normal and nice. He hasn’t changed at all. Tall, broad, and a little soft around the belly, which he always felt self-conscious about, hence the jogging. He was a man of habit and structure, and I came here knowing I’d probably run into him. Literally.
“Hey,” I say lamely. I know I look like a wreck: rumpled, sweaty from running, my shoulders hunched around my ears.
“Are you…okay?” He creeps forward slowly, so cautious and kind. “Were you…looking for me?”
“I don’t know.”
Bruce swallows hard, his eyes running over me, and I wonder how much I’ve changed. He’s stayed the same, but I’ve got new piercings and they’re all in gold now. I’m wearing new clothes, nice brands. New sneakers. I’ve got a fancy watch, and a new haircut. Maybe, besides the sweat and anxiety pouring off me, I look normal and nice, too.
“Do you want to come inside with me?” he asks, gesturing over his shoulder like his house is right behind him and not a mile and a half away. “I, I could make some breakfast. I still keep that coffee you like.”
My composure cracks, and I back up a step. “Nah, I–this isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here.”
“What’s wrong, sweethea–Tommy,” he corrects himself quickly. “Sorry, I meant Tommy.”
“I can’t be here,” I say again. I look over my shoulder, feeling like I’m being watched. When I face him again, the realization is clear on his face. It makes me take another step back because I’d forgotten how expressive he is, how easy to read. Compared to Young-gi, Bruce is an open book. And while my logical mind says that should be preferable, I’ve gotten used to Young-gi’s quiet, understated way of expressing himself. Bruce is being too loud without even saying a word.
“You got high last night?” He puts the pieces together, taking a step toward me. “Tommy, you know it makes you feel bad afterward. I can help, if you need me. Nothing scary, just a place for you to sleep that’s safe, alright? I don’t expect anything from you, don’t want anything but for you to sleep this off, okay?”
I stand my ground as he gets closer, until we’re almost chest to chest. The temptation is strong–what he’s offering is safe and easy, and I know how to take his kind of affection without breaking. I know how to be with him without exposing my horrible, deepest self. Being with him was never vulnerable or scary.
“No, I’m sorry, Bruce, I think coming here was a mistake,” I whisper. His eyes are so concerned, and I find myself relaxing a little, comforted by the familiarity. “I found–”
Someone newdies on my tongue before I can say it, because no, I fucking didn’t. Young-gi isn’t… We aren’t…and even if we could’ve been, we sure as fuck won’t be now. Not after I was so disgusting with him last night.
“You look…like you’re doing alright,” Bruce says carefully, brushing his knuckles across the shoulder of my jacket. “Did you…get a new job?”
I huff a laugh at his question, at his tight voice. “Why does everyone keep thinking I’m back to being a prostitute? Is that really the only way people think I can get anything good for myself? Is that all I can do well enough to get nice things?”
“No, no, of course not–”
“Is it because I’m a fucking slut or something?”
“No, Tommy, no–”
“Is it something I do?” I demand. “Is it written on my forehead that I’m one lost paycheck away from bending over for the first guy with cash in hand? What the fuck is everyone asking me that for?!”
“Tommy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just worry about you, I’m sorry.” His frantic tone, his need to appease me and comfort me, slaps me across the face and I swallow my anger as quickly as I spit it out.
“It’s not your fault,” I sigh. “No, this is all me. I’ve gotta, I-I’ve gotta go. But I wanted to see how you were doing, I guess. Check in, and say, like, say that I’m sorry for how things went down between us. I wasn’t who you were looking for, and instead of telling you that, I dumped you in a pretty shitty way, just leaving like that. No word, no explanation. Maggie told me you thought I was dead or in a hospital, that you looked for me for days. I was… It was fucked up for me to do that. I’m sorry.”
“Tommy,” he breathes my name, a little shocked. Maybe because I’ve never said I was sorry before. I was always shitty to him. “It’s–”
“Don’t say it’s okay,” I snap. “Because it wasn’t, and it isn’t. But I should’ve told you that a long time ago. I shouldn’t have done that to you. There are a lot of things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have.”
I back away, ready to leave.
“Do–do you still not have a phone?” he asks, his voice an emotional croak, and I pause.
“I had one. I left it at somebody’s house. Not sure if I’ll be getting it back.”
“Let me–” he sniffles, and I shuffle uncomfortably on my feet at the sight of his tears as he digs in his pockets. I laugh once, surprised and yet not, when he pulls a pen out of his pocket.
