Page 46 of Dead Boys Club

“Is this supposed to help?” Parker asks, dropping his hands.

“Yeah,” Zach breathes. He digs around in the dirt, pulling up another rock. He passes it to Parker, who takes it more enthusiastically this time. He wheels his arm back and chucks it, the lake swallowing it with a distinctive plop!

They dig in the mud until their hands are grimy and freezing. Zach tries to show Parker how to skip rocks, but Parker’s so bad at it that he gets frustrated and just ends up throwing them as far as he can.

They pick their way along the edge of the lake, walking further from the parking lot and deeper into the weeds. Parker finds a rock the size of his head. Zach watches the way he swings it around and throws it like a shot put, like it weighs nothing at all.

When the last of the almost-winter sun inches beneath the horizon, they make their way back to the Subaru, panting and shivering. Parker turns the heat all the way up as they sit in the dark car. Zach shoves his hands against the vents to try and get some feeling back into his fingers.

“That was so stupid,” Parker says, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah,” Zach says, breathless. “But it worked.”

Parker presses his lips together to try and hide a smile. He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”

They’re quiet, the only sound between them the rush of air from the vents. Zach sort of wishes that they were sitting somewhere else other than a car, so he could push his knee against Parker’s and feel him push back. A reminder that neither of them are really alone.

Eventually, Zach asks, “Was family therapy bad today?”

“Everything was bad today,” Parker says softly. He turns the air down a little so Zach can hear him. “I can, like, see my dad getting tired of sitting around for two hours every week while Paige and I cry.” He scratches absently at the steering wheel cover. “Mom is a little better about it, but… god, I know she wants all of this—wants me—to be fixed, you know?”

Zach does know. He’s seen his own mom’s anxious hope every time he comes home from his therapist, like each new session might be the one that gives her a normal son, like each new combination of pills might make all of Zach’s problems go away.

Zach suddenly wonders if maybe he should hold Parker’s hand. He shoves both palms against his thighs instead, bewildered by the errant thought. It’d probably just come to him because he’d thought of Paige, and the hill, and holding her hand in the dark, dewy grass. Zach had thought of all that and brought Parker here. His wires are getting crossed. That’s all.

“I don’t…” Zach swallows, clears his throat, tries again. “I don’t think you need to be fixed?”

Parker doesn’t say anything on the other side of the car. Zach wonders if anyone has ever told him that he’s not, like… broken, before. That he’s not some machine or toy with a defective part that needs replacing.

“Tell that to Rebecca and Henry,” Parker mutters, finally. Zach exhales a laugh.

“God—” Zach says, shaking his head. “Who… who cares? I think you’re great. I think you’re really great, actually. You’re really smart, and… and nice, sometimes. You’re nice to me, which—I think that’s the important part.” The words seem to come, for once, without Zach overthinking them. They spill out into the silence of the car, filling up the empty space of the cab.

“And Isaac is, like, obsessed with you. He doesn’t even let me copy his homework, and I’ve only ever asked, like, twice? And you ask every week, and he just does it. ’Cause he thinks you’re so cool. And Bea, I mean, she’s probably the nicest to you out of all of us. She lets you get away with doing nothing at play practice every day.” He sucks in a breath, then adds: “And your cat thinks you’re the best person in the world, probably. So, who freaking cares what your parents think? I don’t think you’re broken. None of us do.”

Zach clutches the hem of his jacket after he gets it all out. He stares forward instead of looking at Parker’s shadowy figure beside him. Everything is so quiet, and Zach goes back over what he said, frantic, terrified that he’d said something wrong or embarrassing or maybe rude; he’s not entirely sure.

Then Zach hears it—a wet little breath, followed by a sniffle.

“Oh my god,” Zach breathes. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. Oh my god, I’m so—I’m sorry, I—”

“Shut up,” Parker says, rubbing his face. “Shut up.”

“Okay. Right. Sorry.”

“Shut up.”

Zach does. The sound of the vents blowing hot air fills the car again until, eventually, Parker shifts into reverse and backs out of the parking space. He drives Zach home. No radio, just the two of them sitting in the silence following all the words that Zach had said. They pull up to Zach’s dark house, and Parker pulls into the driveway.

“Thanks,” Zach whispers. He gathers his backpack off the floor mat, pawing in the dark for the door handle.

“For the record,” Parker says, lolling his head in Zach’s direction. “I don’t think you need fixing either.”

The words pluck at some raw nerve in Zach’s chest and he stops moving. Suddenly he understands why Parker started crying before.

Zach swallows a lump in his throat. “Okay,” he says.

“I mean it,” Parker adds, fiercely. Zach looks at him, his face blueish in the glow of the dashboard lights. Parker’s lips part like he’s going to say something else. But then they close again and he looks away.