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Gray
When I finally meet Colson face to face, it’s at the urinals in the cramped second-floor bathroom of the courthouse. He looks over his shoulder mid-stream as I open the door and it’s all so absurd and so unlike a dramatic showdown in a movie that I almost laugh.
“Gray.” I watch him zip up, wash his hands, then offer a handshake. Even though I don't want to care, I immediately check and see that he doesn’t have a ring on his left hand.
“How have you been?”
His face and body have changed over the years, but that thick mass of curls and the intensity of his almost black eyes take me right back to the last day I saw him, when we had takeout and a movie together and he never hinted that he was planning to disappear the next morning. I don’t have any thoughts left, just urges. To hate him, to be afraid of him, to miss him terribly if only because the years with him were the least lonely of my life. “I’ve been well,” he replies. “You? I heard about the Lang case.”
It’s such a relief to talk to someone who will actually understand. “It was a nightmare.”
He nods. “Do you want to catch up? I was just going down the street for lunch.” It’s still there, after all this time. The tone in his voice that tells me I’ll never have his respect, but the light in his eyes that makes me want to try anyway.
“I already have a lunch,” I say automatically, because it’s true. There’s a Tupperware in the refrigerator downstairs with my name taped to it, and I can’t stand the thought of letting it go to waste.
“Sure.” He shrugs. “See you later, then.”
Lost in thought, I collect my lunch and take it to a table behind the courthouse, next to the smoking area. It’s so cold I can see traces of frost clinging to the deepest shadows, but I just pull on my wool hat and sit in a weak ray of sun. It’s almost quiet enough to hear the rustle of leaves over the car engines and horns and construction banging.
Peeling off the plastic lid, I study the beef and mustard sandwich and an egg Jonah must have hard-boiled on my stove. He even remembered to stuff a fistful of napkins in the bottom.
When I pick up the sandwich, there’s a note underneath in his blocky, labored handwriting, a scrap of paper torn from the pad on my desk.
I’m proud of you, too.
Jonah
I’m sitting on the floor of the Rockefeller Plaza mall, wedged in between a Banana Republic and a vending machine, staring at the photo Elliott sent me that morning of my date, Mason. He has olive skin and tousled hair, a cute smile.
A text from Mason pops up over the image.
M: No problem, I understand. Let me know if you change your mind.
Sliding down the wall, I examine my black jeans and tight, white t-shirt that shows off my build. Elliott and I argued for a long time about what a guy should wear on a date with another guy, since neither of us had any idea. Elliott ended up winning. Not that it matters.
I don’t know where to go or what to do now. Because I’m an idiot. Where do idiots go? Elliott will be pissed when I get home.
Me: Sorry again.
I lean my head on the vending machine and close my eyes.
My phone rings and I fumble to answer it, waiting for Elliott to yell at me or Mason to ask what the hell is wrong with me. “Hello?”
The person on the other end doesn’t say anything, so I check the screen. My heart claws its way up into my throat, blocking my airways. I put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, you.”
Gray takes a deep breath. “Don’t go on the date.”
“What?”
“Please don’t.”
I curl up into a ball against the warm hum of the vending machine and rest my forehead on my knees. “I didn’t. I canceled.”
He sighs so softly I almost don’t hear. “Good.”
“Gray, I—”
“Can you come home?”
