“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
I considered.
“Maybe because I never asked you to pretend.”
He went quiet.
“You used to say you could breathe at the yard,” I continued. “That no one was waiting for you to make a mistake so they could use it against you.”
“Did you know right away?”
“That you were gay?”
He nodded.
“I suspected.”
“How?”
“You looked at me.”
A faint flush touched his face.
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It was flattering.”
“Did you look back?”
“Constantly.”
He almost smiled.
Then his brow tightened.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “But I keep waiting for you.”
My heart beat once, hard.
“What do you mean?”
“In the mornings.”
He rubbed his thumb over the blanket.
“I know when you come. The hallway sounds different. I hear the elevator, and I think it might be you.”
I could not speak.
“When I hurt, I want you there. When the words don’t work, you don’t hurry me. When I wake up and everything’s wrong…” He paused, searching. “You make it less.”
“Less frightening?”
He shook his head.
“Less loud?”
