Page 150 of These Secret Years

And every time one of those happens, I have to get more creative in how I reassure him that he’s not failing at our relationship. Every anxiety attack seems to unglue him a little more. A little longer. He’s angry with himself when he should be angry at the men who did this to him. The one thing I haven’t said is that he needs therapy because I feel like he’s gotta know that. It’s like someone telling a smoker—hey, you know that’s bad for you, and them being like, yeah, says so on the box, fuck off, asshole.

He knows these setbacks are bad for him, that trying to remake himself on his own is unsustainable, but I think he’s convinced that time, our amateur “exposure therapy,” and “freedom” are the cure. I think he’s only half right.

I also wonder if the secret we’re keeping between us bothers him or is holding him back in some way. Meaning, I think what if someone like Deandre knew about the two of us? From the bottom of my heart, I think D would be happy about it. And then, like magic, Sullivan could have someone he could talk to besides me. And I could tell Dillon and Derek, and they’d be happy for me, too, and we’d have people rooting for us. We could be real—and isn’t that what freedom is really about? Isn’t our secret part of what’s keeping him locked up and unable to heal?

The only reason Sullivan hasn’t told Deandre he’s gay is because he’s positive D would put it together about the two of us instantly. I don’t think the same thing, but my lack of a girlfriend or any female hook up at this point is probably a big rainbow flag hanging over my head. Still, I don’t think “Knight must be gay, too” would be the first thing popping into my roommate’s head.

What we’ve got right now is good. The secret is easy to keep in this apartment, especially in the off season when no one really expects to spend all that much time with anyone on the team. We’ll be back at it in July, around each other more hours of the day than not. This is our only chance to live our actual lives, whatever those look like for each of us.

For Dillon and Derek, they like to hike and camp with another group of friends, and Deandre is always seeing someone or trying to, so he goes out almost every night and sleeps half the day. Three full years into college, we’ve all got our own things going on, and when one of them asks me what I did last night, I give them my standard, “That’s between me and Jesus. How about your night?”

Sullivan, for his part, while he doesn’t hang out with many other people besides me and my roommates on occasion, has been hard at work composing what he’s thinking of as a ballet. His wrist is mostly back in working order, although he says it fatigues faster than it used to. I’ve noticed he’s sticking mostly with the cello and his oboe to score out the music for his obscure fairytale retelling, and I ask him one day in late April if there’s something wrong with the violin.

He gives me a sheepish look from the window seat and says, “No. It sounds amazing.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to discern where the bullshit is coming from because it’s definitely there. When I can’t easily come to a conclusion, I ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”

With a defeated drop of his shoulders, he says, “Actually, I might need your help with something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t agree so fast. It’s gonna be weird. You’re probably not gonna like it.”

“Will you like it?” I ask.

“No.”

A half dozen possibilities of things neither of us would like flit through my head, until one specific image settles. That man—Adrian—with his hands on him, correcting his form while he was playing the violin, and then making it sexual.

He’s right. If that’s what he’s referring to, I won’t like that at all.

Like he can read my face as quickly as I was able to figure out what he thinks he needs, he says, “Do you remember that last time we were in your truck in the woods?”

I remember it all the time. Too often, really. I also remember wishing I’d stopped him from leaving. I wished I’d claimed him right then. Brought him home with me. Come out. If I’d done that summer differently, we’d be in a much better place. A very different place, maybe. A place that doesn’t involve football—possibly, but Sullivan wouldn’t be traumatized. Or as traumatized, at least.

“I was using you, I think,” he says.

“How?”

“Well, without getting all emotional about it, in my head, I was like—if I have this memory—of you and me—then whatever happened when I went to Detroit, I could just block out. Or like—pretend. I could say to myself, I’m not theirs. I’m Knight’s.”

I don’t know how to process this. First—he thought of me as his even back then? But then there’s all the rest of what he’s saying. I sit down on the couch because my legs aren’t doing such a good job holding me up, but I don’t turn away from him. “Did it work?”

“It did that time. I made it through the summer.”

“We talked all during that summer,” I remind him.

“I remember that, too. And yeah, I also remember there were some dark spots.”

“I thought you were gonna…” I can’t say it. Don’t want those words in the universe.

“I know. But you were always there. And it’s probably a lot to put on someone to say hey—you saved my life—but, well…I can’t argue otherwise either.”

Jesus that fucking hurts to hear, even if it’s something that deep down, I already knew.

“Anyway, I think what I’ve been trying to do is replace a lot of what happened with better things that happen with you. Sort of retroactive instead of proactive, you know?”

“And is that working?” I ask.