To end an odyssey of sleuthing with such an anti-climax
is to hoodwink the trusting and kind-hearted reader.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

-x-

14.

The next day, Shawn took out the Norton, blew the literal dust (and pollen) off, and revved his way to the hospital. Homer Bledsoe was none-too-thrilled to see psychic Shawn Spencer shadowing his hospital room's already dour doorway. Mrs. Glass, however, remained reluctantly pleased to see Mr. Spencer. She'd heard about the arrests that morning; it was in the paper and on the news.

Shawn, who hadn't slept well, an hour here and there, came to inform Homer that he wasn't going to be charged with anything. "Like the summer of 1987, Homer, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And even you couldn't quite figure out the secrets of the sea chests."

"Those are the Hayworths' sea chests," croaked the old man, in a very Tom Waits style.

Shawn gave him a small, uneven grin. The Hayworth sea chests. Yes, they were that. "I also know that you were convinced that one of the Hayworths—probably a bastard Hayworth—was going to claim those sea chests eventually. With the bodies found in two others, you had to do something with the third before it, too, ended up with a body in it."

"Relax, Homer," Rita said to her half-brother, who'd formed fists at Spencer's inglorious provocation.

"But I can't take listening to him talk about the Hayworths as though they were cheap and mean and—"

"You were only doing what the Hayworths asked you," Shawn said.

Homer's face lost its hostility. Instead, he became sad, forlorn, and tired of the old secrets of a nearly extinct clan. "But that last one was different. Always was."

Shawn picked up the clue. "Each sea chest has a special purchase code on the inside of its lid. A manufacturer's label. In the first two sea chests, dumped in 1987 and 1994 respectively, those manufacturer's labels were whole. In the third, though, it was not. Probably hasn't been in—what—forty years?"

Homer's tense, wrinkly face slackened slightly. He shifted uncomfortably. "I guess if anyone's got a right to know, it's you, Shawn Spencer. You gave your blood to them, too. Just like I did." He gave a look to Rita, then back to Shawn to finish his statement. "I knew after the first two chests were used like they were that I should do something to protect the third one. So I ripped out the label myself. I gave it to Westcott. Not—not the Westcott that's running around out there now. But his dad. But you really oughta ask your friend Westcott about that. He's probably got a pretty good idea of his pop's origins. And I bet that Westcott has that missing label. I don't know who killed those people and put them in the sea chests, and I never opened them. Just dumped them. Like I was asked by Mrs. Hayworth—Olivia, the last to live in that mansion. I was a good and loyal employee all those years. But I don't know anything about those dead bodies. Doubt Mrs. Hayworth did, either. Your Westcott friend doesn't know anything about the sea chest."

"When you knew you had to get rid of it, you dumped its debris into the fountain at the house."

Homer nodded meekly.

Which would explain how a tiny piece of old kelp got into Anabel Ingelow's lungs. Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow would have a hard time explaining themselves once Defense pointed out that Anabel had been dragged to the fountain and left there, to make it look like an accidental drowning.

Homer didn't want to get anyone else in trouble, let alone that decent boy Tim Westcott. "Just so you know, I dumped that chest on my own. Me and Rita. We did it."

Shawn had a pretty good idea of who'd shoved those bodies in there, who'd left them in the ocean to rot and decay. It didn't matter. Waylon Scobie was dead, as were those he'd killed to protect his secrets—including Rufus Waterstone. Shawn tried to explain to Rita and Homer how it didn't matter that they'd dumped the sea chest. "The hair in it didn't match Anabel Ingelow's, but it'd probably match yours, Rita."

"Am I going to be charged with something?"

"Maybe fined," Shawn said shortly. "A small fine for ocean-dumping. And speaking of Westcott—you know that he wants to buy the Hayworth house and turn it into a museum."

Rita looked interested. Homer brightened.

"Does he, now? That's a sensible idea. I'd love to see the place get all fixed up."

"He'll probably need a hand getting the grounds prepared," Shawn said, making no promises but tossing it out there. Homer would never be well again, though he might stay healthy and sober long enough to help Tim Westcott fix the mansion's gardens.

Homer appreciated the idea, smiling a little at the thought. It might give him something to fight for, seeing that house back to its original splendor. "But what happened to that lady they found dead there at the house? And her son? What happened to the boy?"

Shawn pretended that he had an appointment by checking the clock in the room and leaping toward the door. "Take care of him, Rita. And behave, Homer, or your sister will throw you out." He knew Rita would ask her lowly and injured half-brother to spend the rest of his days living at her comfortable home. His liver disease was so advanced, his time was limited. The brother and sister would be happy together during the months that remained. And Homer might have a chance to see Hayworth House glow like it had in his youth.

Turning through the familiar hospital corridors, Shawn ruminated on the progression of the case—and the end of it. He wasn't surprised about Tim Westcott turning out to be part Hayworth. Tim had probably guessed for years that his father's lineage was… questionable. As to what had really happened to Anabel—Shawn still couldn't think about it.

He had to think about it two evenings later, though, when Kat, Hank's case worker, came by. The situation involving Hank Ingelow was generally unsettled, and Kat saw no reason to remove him from his foster home—not at present. "No one in Missouri's shown an ounce of interest in him," Kat said, standing on the patio on a lustrous Santa Barbara evening. She still said the harrowing phrase as if it glistened with good news. "There's a second cousin that's older, but she's got a mighty brood of her own—four kids!—and not one of them speaks Hank's language."

"He can read lips a little," Shawn interpolated. It wasn't helpful, but it explained Hank's awareness of his mother's death, what'd happened, what he'd seen, and how he would be obliged to be a witness against his own grandmother and his own father at the upcoming trial. Shawn ached at the thought—and tried to change the subject. "Well, there's nothing Lassie and I want more than to keep Hank here—as long as Hank's happy about it. Right, Pooch?"

Carlton refilled Kat's glass of lemonade. "Of course. As long as Hank's okay with it. We're meeting with admissions at St. Francis on Friday."

"Oh! Good!" Kat was so pleased that she laughed. "He should be in school. He's pretty bright, isn't he?"

"Yeah," said Shawn, "that was part of his problem back in Missouri. After his parents separated, he threw himself into schoolwork to sort of keep himself out of their problems. He was supposed to skip the fifth grade, but his father wouldn't let him, and his grandmother wasn't really in favor of it, either. The only one who was, was Anabel."

"The ex take the opposite argument? That never happens," Kat said, clearly sarcastic. "I'm sure that just bred more contention among the family. So Mrs. Ingelow brought Hank out here so she could handle his education without the interference of her family."

"It was hard on her," Carlton said, who had an understanding of how family dynamics could go wrong, "when her own mother sided with Zack about Hank's education. But Anabel had second thoughts about the school when she found out that the jewelry store nearby suffered an armed robbery."

"And she wasn't too sure about St. Francis' diversity and their anti-bullying policy. She wanted Hank to feel safe."

This bewildered Kat. "Diversity?"

Shawn told her that Hank was gay.

"Gay?" echoed Kat. She couldn't quite realize that not everyone's coming-out story was the same. "I thought he was eleven."

Shawn pretended not to be amused. "Lassie, you wanna take this one?"

"Er," Carlton tried to look Kat in the eye, remembering her very loud lesbian wedding, "no, I don't think so. He has a boyfriend, though, back in Missouri. Leighton. Leighton—uh—Kellaway."

"We like Leighton, don't we?"

"We do." Carlton had seen the two boys communicating via sign language over Skype last night, and Leighton was very courteous to Hank's guardians. He called them "Mr. Spencer" and "Mr. Lassiter." He thanked them for letting him speak to Hank. "He has a slight hick accent."

"That accent's very comforting," Shawn added. "So, anyway, Kat, we'll call you after our meeting with the administrators at St. Frank's. After that, though, Hank will probably be in school."

Kat had scheduled appointments to talk to Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow, but those meetings would take place after their arraignment dates so that more information on Hank's time in Santa Barbara would be known. Kat knew only a little about the case, what she'd read in the paper and heard from Carlton and Shawn.

Kat talked to Hank a little before she left, just to see if he was telling the truth about his level of comfort with Carlton and Shawn. Not that she had any doubts about Hank's contentment. She wasn't even sure he would undo his father being in jail, but if he could have his mother back— Kat gave him a hearty smack on the shoulder as a means of farewell. Back on the patio with Shawn and Carlton, Kat poked Shawn's sternum so hard he had to rub the soreness out of it.

"If I ever find out that you misinterpreted—lied—about what Hank Ingelow just said to me, I will sew sandpaper into all your underwear—and don't you think I won't, Shawn Spencer! I might even sprinkle that sandpaper with a bit of cayenne pepper! Mmm-hmm! That's right! You heard me! I said cayenne pepper!"

Shawn stared, actually speechless for once in his life. Carlton, lounging at the picnic table, shoved a potato chip into a smiling mouth.

But Kat broke into a cackle. "I'm just messing with you, Shawn! Ah, ha! Got you! All right, I'm out! Bye, darlings." She smooched Shawn's cheek, left a pat at Carlton's shoulder, and told him to call her after the appointment Friday.

Exhausted, as he usually was after a visit from Kat, Shawn leveled his butt against Lassie's thighs. "I think it's going to be a rough couple of months, Pooch."

"We'll get through it. For a bunch of fags, we're kinda tough."

Shawn snickered. "You are our rock, though. And a very comfortable sofa when one isn't around. Is now a good time to mention that my uncle wants me to baby-sit the horses for a few days in December?"

"Now's probably a fine time to mention that. I'm having a good evening—it's always extremely peaceful when Kat leaves."

"I've noticed that, too." Shawn played with Lassie's ears, rubbing his thumbs over them, and noticing his sideburns. "Are you growing your sideburns out, or—what's going on with your sideburns? Is there an Elvis Impersonator Award up for grabs at the police station that I don't know about?"

Carlton grinned at him, caressed one of Shawn's forearms. "I didn't want to tell you about the impersonator contest because I didn't want you to beat me."

"Well, I'll let you have this one." Shawn couldn't resist stealing a kiss. "Do you think I'll be able to go?"

"Where? Oh, right, your uncle's. December's a long ways away, Shawn. Is this something you want me to do with you?"

"Oh, no—no. I'll only be gone three nights. It's not really worth you getting the time off. I mean, if you're going to go on vacation, it should be for more than three nights. Uncle Fenz just wants to go with some of his buddies out to Las Vegas. Gamble, drink, hit on the ladies. The usual."

"Yeah, because Uncle Fenz is such a ladies' man. Well, if you want to go," he patted the side of Shawn's rump, "then go. If Hank's still here and you want to take him with you—"

"No," Shawn hesitated, "I mean—no. Sorry, there's just not really a nice way to say the word 'no,' is there?"

Carlton smiled a little. "No."

"Yeah, exactly. I just mean that Hank and I already have our connection. We're all knotted up and stuff. We have a good father-son dyad going."

"And you want me to work on mine with him," Carlton interpreted. He tucked his hands against Shawn's waist and made them a bit cozier. "I don't have a problem with that. I hope that, by December, we have our own father-son dyad going. And I promise to work harder on my ASL."

"I know you will. Just remember: Nonmanual Signals and Sign Space are your friends. But you'll learn more, you will. You're a good man. And don't forget to water Brad for me. We might have another important person in our lives now, but that's no reason for Brad and his Xenophettes to get jealous." Shawn left a wet kiss on Lassie's forehead. "I love you in a sick, sick way, Pooch, and nothing will ever cure me."

Shawn left squeaky smooches across Carlton's face, a less facetious one at his mouth. They snapped apart with a throat clearing a few yards away. Shawn squinted at Gus, then remembered that they had an appointment. It was weird making appointments to see your best friend, but they did what they had to do now that they were both busy in ways that separated them.

In the Strawberry, Shawn resigned himself to Gus's explicit need for secrecy. It was kind of annoying. He didn't like not knowing where they were going. "Is our destination the new strip club over on Height? I hear they have really amazing food. Delicious buns."

Gus couldn't let that one go. "Bad pun, Shawn. Really bad."

"It would've been funnier if I'd said it in an Australian accent." Shawn repeated it in said accent, "Really amazing food and very delicious buns. Crikey."

Gus bobbed his head, not disagreeing that it did sound a bit funnier. "Just a bit, though. And, no, no strippers involved. No White Party. Nothing that's gay enough to be mentioned in a Queer as Folk episode, or a C. Jay Cox film."

In a couple of turns, they were at the edge of the world: right along the ocean. Gus parked the Strawberry with a practiced movement in a familiar parking space, in front of a recognizable building.

Out of the car, Shawn stood in front of the Psych office. His feelings churned. It didn't look like the deserted building it should've been, given that they'd let their lease expire once hearing the news that the whole building was for sale. Gus's elbow dug into his arm, and Shawn knew what'd happened.

"You kept this place?"

Gus was beside himself with excitement and joy. He bounced a little, smiling. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Yeah, Gus, that much is pretty clear. How hard can it be to say something like that—to me?"

"I didn't just keep this place, though, Shawn. I tapped into some equity, sold some stocks—and I bought it. Actually, I bought the whole building. The other shops, too. I. Own. It."

This was a surprise to Shawn, one that carried the warmth of pride and friendship. "Way to go, Landlord Guster! Real Estate Mogul Burton!" Shawn flung his gaze back to the Psych office. His heart thumped in the beat of nostalgia. "This was good of you, man. But what are you going to do with it?"

"Hang on to it for a bit. Just in case."

Shawn believed Gus would be waiting around for a while, if he thought the two of them would be solving mysteries anytime soon. But Gus made a placating gesture.

"I know what you're going to say. I know our lives have kind of blown up the last couple of years. But I don't want to give up on Psych just yet. I don't think you do, either. Those were some of the best times we ever had together. The bad stuff—yeah, it was pretty bad. I've a running tab on how many times I've had a gun pointed at me because of some case we were working."

"I still opine that it never happened to you more than three times."

"You're going to keep on believing that, aren't you?"

"Probably until the end of time, yes."

"Right."

Shawn looked at the building he'd once thought of as a home. He felt sad and hopeful at the same time. Maybe he wasn't ready to give up on it yet.

"So we'll just have it around for a while," Gus continued. "If we need it, it's there for us. If we don't need it, it won't matter, because I own it. You know what else I'm thinking of buying?"

"At the rate you're going, Gus, probably all of Malibu." Shawn's breath caught. "Please don't say you're going to buy the Hayworth place!"

"Heck no! If I never step within fifty yards of that house again, it'll be too soon! But I do want to make a generous donation to Westcott's worthy cause. I think it should be a museum. As crazy as they were, the Hayworths were one of the founding families of Santa Barbara. And the reason I nearly lost my best friend to a premature and startlingly violent death. I didn't, though." Gus swatted Shawn on the back. "Not yet, anyway. I'm thinking of buying the old Gypsy Car Service. I have my real estate guy trying to find out if the owner's willing to sell it. I might be able to get it pretty cheap. The buildings themselves are worthless, but that land sure isn't. I'm willing to let you get in on that with me, if you'd like. Might make us a tidy bit of profit."

"I'll think about it," Shawn replied dumbly. "Money's going to be a little tighter for us than it used to be. It's not like St. Frankie's is a public school alternative. And eventually he'll want to go to college, and we should try to help him pay for that—although it's not like Lassie and I had any help from either of our parents when it came to the college thing. But I always do that."

"Do what? Let's walk a bit, stop and get churros." Gus took them to the path along the waterfront. He asked his question over again. "Do what?"

"Talk about Hank like he's going to be with us forever."

"Why shouldn't you talk like that? You don't know that he won't always be with the two of you. If it's up to Hank, he'd rather stay with you and Carlton. You can tell he would. Well, I can tell he would. So can Juliet. But I hear you about money being tight. Kids are a financial investment, as well as an emotional one, and something that is not to be considered lightly. If you want to do it right, you have to be committed."

Shawn wasn't too interested in the churros Gus bought for him. His thoughts wandered. From where they were, the Psych office was still visible. "I'm pretty committed. So is Carlton. It's just that unsettled feeling—like he could walk away—or someone could take him away."

"That won't happen. And so what if it did?"

He and Gus swung into a park bench, then sat for a moment staring into the ocean, nibbling on churros. Shawn had a way to state what he'd been feeling. "It's not that I'm afraid that'll happen. It's that I fear the amount of fight in me, what I wouldn't do for him. That's—that's downright scary. Makes me feel all adult. And like I'm starting to understand my father. And how Carlton must've felt when he saw me wheeled into the hospital after Scobie tried doing away with me."

"That was pretty scary. Not just you being hurt—but Carlton. Chief Vick had him on homicide watch. Made him turn over his badge and gun for seventy-two hours. We all thought he was going to lose it. Even his attitude toward Juliet changed after that. She was the one who found you, the one who shot Scobie. I can't say that he respected her more. That's not it, not exactly. More like—like he loved her for what she'd done. You know, the kind of love that comes when someone does something you don't expect them to do. When they turn out to be your hero. Like you and Carlton are for Hank. And you know what, Shawn? You would fight for Hank. Maybe not in the same aggressive manner that Carlton would, but in your own way you would. When's your appointment at St. Frankie's?"

"Friday afternoon."

"The three of you still coming over to our place for dinner that night?"

Shawn nodded. The three of you. It still sounded strange, in a kind of wonderful way. "Yeah, we'll be there."

Gus looked relieved. "Good. Now let's head back to the car. I'll get you back to your family, and I need to get home to mine."

On the way back to Chez Sunberry, Shawn asked if he was supposed to bring anything Friday. "Is this an important event? Should I bring some wine?"

"Please, don't bring any wine. I know your taste in wine. And, you know, Juliet and I haven't had you guys over in a while, so we thought it was time."

Gus said it a little too casually. After grilling Lassiter about it, once they were tucked into bed for the night, Carlton admitted to knowing nothing about the dinner Friday being a Special Occasion. He advised Shawn not to be suspicious, and left a warm goodnight kiss to sail into dreamland on.

But the next day, Shawn and Hank went to their favorite quirky shops along State Street, and spent the rest of the afternoon wrapping up an assortment of baby-oriented gifts for Juliet and Gus. It turned out that the gifts were much appreciated. Shawn and Hank gave themselves a clandestine fist bump, solidifying their awesomeness.

-x-

With the months speeding by, very little changed for Shawn and Carlton. For Hank, things were not going to be like they were. As predicted, his grandmother and father pled guilty to the manslaughter charge. The IT team at the SBPD had recovered garbled and pixelated video from Anabel Ingelow's phone, the same one Shawn had dug out of the ground one night. The video was submitted as evidence against Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow. They hadn't killed Anabel; she'd died of a heart attack as ruled by the county ME. But they had intended to hit her with the car. Nina Grayson was revving the engine when Anabel collapsed on the street. And, after that, the video came to a chilling, abrupt end.

Guilt and remorse began wearing Hank's father into mental fragility. Hank never visited him, never saw him outside of the courtroom. He had the same attitude for his grandmother.

The only person in Missouri he still had ties to was Leighton, and their bond was as strong as ever. They met every other night on the computer, for exactly ten minutes (give or take a minute), just to keep their relationship going.

As December came on, it was pretty obvious to Hank's foster parents and Leighton's parents that Leighton would be spending his winter break in Santa Barbara. Leighton's parents wanted to go somewhere romantic for Christmas, anyway. They eventually settled on Aspen, Leighton traveling as far as the Denver airport with them before Carlton, Shawn and, most importantly, Hank met him at the Santa Barbara airport.

"Daw, look at that, Pooch," Shawn said, watching Hank and Leighton give a nice little kiss to one another before flinging themselves into a tight hug. The year-older Leighton, clearly at the beginnings of a growth spurt, was inches taller than Hank, and easily picked his boyfriend off the ground at the height of their embrace. "Cute, huh?"

Carlton groaned a little, but he was clouded in niceness when Leighton and he met.

Shawn signed to Leighton that Hank hadn't lied, that his hair really was nice.

Over the next week, Leighton grew more comfortable, and the boys grew more comfortable around one another after a long time apart. They even had little fights that Shawn smiled at and that Carlton took too seriously. The boys didn't. Obviously not strangers to tiffs, they fought, they made-up, they kissed, they were best friends again. "Their love is so epic it's a Katy Perry song," Shawn quipped when the boys got over one of their little spats.

Christmas Eve, when Leighton and Hank were getting ready for bed, and Carlton was about to head over to Juliet and Gus's to pick up the presents hidden there, Leighton tiptoed into the kitchen. He eyeballed the funky Swedish alphabet magnets while Shawn, drying dishes, and Carlton, washing dishes, noticed him. Leighton wasn't reserved, and had no trouble telling them what he wanted to tell them.

"I just want to say thanks for looking out for Hank so well. He's so different than he was in Missouri. Not in a bad way. A good way. He used to be shy. Afraid of himself. And me. He didn't like it when we held hands or even sat near each other when we were over at his dad's house. It's like he's more himself now. So," he halted to nod at them, "so thanks."

"We must be doing something right," Carlton said to Shawn when Leighton had gone from the kitchen. He pulled the stopper out of the sink and quickly dried his hands on the damp towel Shawn held. "All right, I'm off to get presents."

"What'd you get me?" Shawn teased, running his damp hand up Carlton's abdomen.

"Cold! Cold wet hand up my freakin' shirt! Shawn!" Carlton backed from Shawn, grabbed the towel and rubbed Shawn's face with it. Through with the roughhousing, Carlton kissed him. "I love you, sweetheart, and so I feel safe in telling you that I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

Oddly enough, that was almost true. Shawn had only one present from Carlton under their little four-foot tree: a new astrology ephemeris for the upcoming year. It wasn't a useless gift, as far as that went, but Shawn was a bit stymied. Carlton admitted that he'd run out of time and couldn't find anything else for Shawn before Santa Claus came to town.

And on the twenty-eighth, Shawn left for his uncle's, returning late New Year's Eve. Given that the weather was tolerable—it was in the middle fifties—Shawn's checked bag, a requirement for flying on those tiny biplanes to and from the Los Angeles airport—was anticipated at the open-sided baggage claim beside the terminal. Shawn met Hank and Leighton there, both boys hugging him within an inch of his life.

"Good grief, it's not like I was gone that long!" he shrieked, then signed it for Hank, who laughed in his quiet way and hugged him again. Shawn was pleased to have been missed so much. Now that Hank had his own phone, he could text Shawn whenever he liked. Having Leighton around, though, Hank's messages were kept to a minimum, usually "Good morning!" and "Goodnight!" Shawn appreciated their overtly enthusiastic greeting. Carlton's was more subtle, no less fantastic for its subtlety. Even in front of the thirteen other strangers that waited for their luggage, Carlton didn't mind giving his boyfriend a very thoroughly hello. Shawn didn't mind, either.

He was surprised to find that his dad was there, and a kind of strangeness in his father's hug.

But when Juliet and Gus appeared, then Dobson and Dobson's Mike, Mike B. and Mike C. from the Tanglevine Club—and Lady Olga and her spouse Theodore, Jefferson Roberts, Tina Athens and Atlanta Morrissey from the country club—Shawn knew something was going on. And the line of friends didn't end there. A whole mess of people Shawn knew started flooding into the baggage claim. Tim Westcott, Chief Vick, Kat and Kat's wife; his old friends Dennis and Morgan, security guards and TSA agents and employees from the airport, and every cop from the SBPD that could be spared that Wednesday night.

"All right," Shawn laughed lightly, speaking through a clamped jaw, "whats going on, Lassie?"

Then every light overhead went dead. It took Shawn a second to realize there was a growing illumination, and it spun around in a horizontal line. Every person surrounding him had a small flashlight that was turned on, person to person. And somewhere music started to play—a soft acoustic guitar. In the unusual light, full of high contrasts and deep shadows, Shawn saw a guitar hanging from Mike Alwin's shoulders. Mike started to sing, and even before all the small flashlights were lit, everyone was singing with him. They had little cards with the words to Queen's song "You're My Best Friend." And they were singing. Even his dad was singing. Even Hank and Leighton, with their flashlights, were singing. Lassie, emphatically, was not singing.

Shawn could feel his heart beating wildly against every bone in his body. It was very beautiful, and very sweet, but astonishing. Shawn had never been so surprised in his whole life. What was everyone doing there? It was just a short vacation. Hardly four days! Only three nights! So why the Queen song, the lights, the unprecedented amount of people they knew? The bewildering bit receded greatly when Shawn spotted Carlton getting down on his knees.

Shawn was shaking so hard he could barely concentrate on what Carlton was saying. It wasn't a bit like last time, when Shawn had been a few days removed from a coma and Lassie, messy with exhaustion and tears, had asked him why they hadn't gotten married in the two years they'd been together. They'd even argued about it a little, like one of Hank's and Leighton's semi-sweet, sorta bitter fights. But Shawn had said no, that it wasn't the time, that it wasn't fair to them to think about it after what'd happened.

Now he had another chance to say the right monosyllabic response. If he didn't screw it up. If he could just say it.

Say it, Shawn. Come on, you can do it.

Carlton blinked up at Shawn. What was happening? Was Shawn so flabbergasted that he couldn't talk, or so embarrassed that he couldn't bring himself to say yes? Carlton's nerves sent another shock through him. He tightened his fingers around Shawn's hands. "Shawn?"

Shawn's inner voice kept playing the same phrase over and over. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes. But he couldn't quite get there. He gazed around at the crowd, to Gus and Jules, his dad, the Mikes; Hank, who beamed at him; and Carlton, who shone with something only Shawn had kindled.

Life is ridiculously good.

Shawn inhaled, caught it in his throat against a splurge of happiness.

Say yes. Say yes. Say yes…

"Yes."

-x-