Hours…has it been hours? I don't know, I can't tell…later, I'm still cursing hindsight. I tried to shut off my brain, but the moments, the memories, keep coming back to back, perpetual, reminding me of my blindness…

I stare down at the jumble of numbers and letters on the page before me. I'm supposed to make sense of them, find the point where the two equations -- which, apparently, represent lines on a graph -- are equal.

What?

My mind is blank. I have no recollection of learning anything that might possibly be useful in helping me figure out these problems. And more importantly, I don' care. These are two lines floating somewhere in space, and someone with way too much time on his hands made up some mumbo-jumbo symbols to represent them. I am never going to need this anywhere for any reason.

I sigh heavily and throw down my pencil.

I look over to Adam's desk, where he is hunched over, scribbling intently. The tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he's concentrating really hard.

"What are you working on?" I can't help but ask.

He jerks his head in my direction. I've started him, I realize when it takes him a few moments to clear the cobwebs and answer.

"Calculus."

He's using a pen, I note. He's doing calculus, and he's using a pen. Brilliant bastard. But I think this fondly. I can't begrudge him his intelligence.

"Derivatives," he adds.

The word flies right over my head.

I must look like the word flies over my head, because he asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing…" I turn my attention back to the book and looseleaf papers in front of me. I pick up my pencil again and start idly tracing concentric circles in the margins.


Suddenly, his chin is resting on my shoulder. "Anything I can help you with?"

"No, don't' worry about it." His eyes are scanning the page already anyway. "Adam, seriously. Don't worry about it. You have your derives to worry about."

"Derivatives," he corrects, but it's not mocking, it's gentle. He understands that I don' know. "I really don't mind, Dwayne. I loved Algebra II. Finding the intersections of graphs?"

I nod. His chin is still on my shoulder, and my ear brushes his cheek. Said ear is suddenly hotter than the surface of the sun. I bump my pencil off my desk so that I have to bend to pick it up, and he must move.

Not that I mind Adam being in my personal space, but I just…frankly, I don't trust myself when he touches me. Adam's a very touchy-feely kind of guy -- but only with certain members of the team. Me, Charlie, the girls…we're who he's the most comfortable with. And when he's around me, when he's so close…I just want to take these moments as invitations, as little white gilded cards announcing that I'm welcome, that he wants me.

But I push these thoughts out of my head, and try to understand Adam, who's gesturing wildly with a pencil, talking a mile a minute, and pointing to various illustrations and equations in my book. I follow as best I can. Math is just not my thing. Basically, anything off the ice is not my thing. And, as I well know, everything is Adam's "thing." And he sits there next to me, shoulders touching, knees brushing, for two and a half hours, until I understand.

I don't know why I'm sitting here, insisting on torturing myself as if it's the only way I can cope with the situation. I rub my hands against my (dry) face and realize that I need to confide in someone. Now that I've lost Adam -- and I know I've lost him, things will never be the same, they can't -- I'm left basically alone. Aside from him, there's no one I really talk to. Russ and I are probably the next-closest, but…I don't know…I don't want to bother him, to burden him, with my problems. It might also have something to do with the fact that I am still in the closet to ninety-nine percent of the people I know, and I'm not quite sure he should be the next person I come out to. Plus, he's preoccupied with Julie…

I'm just making excuses, I know I am…and I really do feel that I should talk to someone…

I hear the heavy door of the room being shut behind me…whoever it is…

I turn. "Oh!" It's Connie. "Hey."

"Hey, Dwayne. I figured I'd check in here, see if anyone was here studying…a bunch of us are leaving the grounds to get some dinner. I know you were feeling sick earlier, but…you with?"

I shake my head slowly. "Naw, I don't think so."

"Something wrong?"

"Yes," I say before I chicken out.

She's a bit taken aback by my straightforwardness.

I continue hastily, "And I really think I need to talk to someone…"

"Well," she grabs my wrist, "you can always talk to me."

I sigh gratefully. "Right now?" Then I remember why she came to find me in the first place. "Oh, right -- dinner."

"No. Right now. Forget dinner, I'm not all that hungry anyway. The others can just go ahead." She must be able to tell that what's on my mind is serious and important. "Let's go to my room. Julie's definitely going, so we'll be alone and we won't be interrupted."

I mutely nod and follow her to the stairwell, then down one flight. We pass Julie on the way down the hall, and Connie tells her that she and I aren't going out with everyone else. Julie raises her eyebrows but doesn't ask any questions (thankfully) and agrees to pass on the message.

Connie unlocks her door, and we step inside. Soft music is playing.

"And not everything is gonna be the way you think it ougtta be. Seems like every time I try to make it right, it all comes down on me. Please say honestly, you won't give up on me. And I shall believe. I sh-"

Connie hit's a button on Julie's small, red beside CD player.

"Sorry. Jules always leaves her music playing. Sheryl Crow is her latest favorite."

I shrug, trying to look casual. "Not a problem."

There is awkward, deafening silence for a few moments. She sits on her neatly-made bed and gestures for me to sit next to her. I do, concentrating on the dark blue bedspread, then on the bright yellow pillows…anything but her, anything that means I don't have to acknowledge the fact that I'm going to have to start talking any minute now.

"You can trust me, Dwayne," she says.

"I know."

"You don't have to talk, you know. But you asked, and I'm here, I'm willing to listen."

I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and take a few deep breaths.

"Dwayne…" she puts her hand on my knee.

And suddenly everything comes spilling out. My mind doesn't censor anything that comes out of my mouth. And Connie listens.

When I tell her I'm gay, the smallest emotion -- startled, unsure, upset -- flickers across her face, and know she's thinking about that day, that kiss, and how I pushed her away. He cheeks color prettily, and even though I'm opening up to her, even though she's supposed to comfort me, I reach out and gently grasp her hand. She squeezes twice and smiles, and she doesn't say anything, she doesn't need to.

I press on, words tumbling out over each other, and I fumble a few times, getting tongue-tied and flustered. She hasn't let go of my hand, and she holds it still when it starts shaking, her thumb gently tracing circles in my palm.

And when I've finally finished, I turn to her, with wide, surprisingly-dry eyes and an earnest expression. There are long, drawn-out moments, where she sits clutching my hand and tracing those soothing circles. Her eyes are dark, clouded-over, and she starts to speak several times, but closes her mouth before any words come out.

I know I've unburdened so much, such heaviness…and maybe she doesn't know what to say.

But it doesn't matter. I feel better just knowing that someone else knows, that she knows, that I told her.

I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time, and I slump down a little, spent and relieved.

I don't need her advice, really, I just need her to be there. I tell her as much, and she smiles a little.

"Good," she says, "because I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to say. Although," she pauses for a minute, presses her hand to her mouth, like she does when she's trying to formulate the correct phrasing in her mind, "I want you to know first of all that I support you and that I don't think any less of you and that…you're still the same Dwayne."

I smile. I wasn't worried about what Connie would think of me, I knew her to be open-minded, but it's nice to hear the words.

She stops for a minute before adding, "Adam, too, of course." I am struck with a flash of guilt for outing Adam as well as myself, but it was necessary to have the healing conversation, and I think Connie can tell what I'm feeling, as she continues, "I'll tell no one, you know. As far as he is concerned, I don't know until he chooses to tell me."

"Thank you. You understand that I had to tell you…for things to make sense."

"Of course." Her hand is at her mouth again, for a few minutes, until she says, "I don't know what to say to you, Dwayne. I've never been in a situation like this - "

"It's okay, Connie. I feel better just having talked about it, just having voiced what's happened."

"But I want so badly to help you. I just," her voice cracks a little, like her heart is breaking for me, "can't. I think that if things are meant to work out, they will. I think that you both have some thing to work out in your minds before you can ever be happy…before you can ever be happy together. It's going to take some time, I can tell you that. I think you need to really examine your relationship with Adam, your reasons for your feelings, because I don't think they are what you think they are."

This, admittedly, comes as a shock. I've always been so sure of my feelings for Adam, always been so sure that I love him because of who he is, because he's so perfect. To hear her say that I love him for other reasons…gives me pause, and the wheels are suddenly turning, spinning. It's too much to process, and I abruptly stand.

She's still holding my hand, and she's pulled up with me. "Dwayne," she closes the distance between us and hugs me tightly. "I want you to be happy."

"I know. I want to be happy, too."

The hug, if possible, tightens. "I wish I knew what to say to make everything right for you."

"I just needed you to be my shoulder to cry on, the person I can count on."

"I am, I am. Come to me anytime, Dwayne. Day or night. I'll be here for you."

I know she sincerely means that, and I pull back, see that her eyelashes are glistening. "Don't worry about me, Connie. I didn't come here for you to worry about me."

"Oh, I know," she says, but her voice is clogged, like she suppressing the tears. "But you know I will anyway."

"Try not to."

I walk toward the door, with her in tow.

"Keep me posted, okay?" she requests.


"That I will." I lean down and kiss her cheek. "Thank you, Connie…so much. I needed you. Thank you."

"Anytime."

I leave her room, and she closes the door behind me.

I head back to my room; it's nearing midnight. Adam's packing. I panic, I don't understand, but then I remember that tomorrow after classes, Thanksgiving break starts. I should start packing, too, actually, now that I think of it -- I have a flight tomorrow at five -- but I have neither the desire nor the energy.

I flop back onto my bed with a heavy sigh. Adam's back stiffens, and he pauses in the middle of folding a white t-shirt. He doesn't say anything, thought, and after a moment, resumes packing, though noticeably more awkwardly and slowly than before.

When he's finished, he slings his book bag over his shoulder and picks up his small suitcase. I sit up and look over at him.

"I'm not staying here," he announces.

"Permanently?" I ask; I'm afraid to hear his answer.


He's silent for a beat. "I don't know."

Well. He may as well have just thrust his hand into my chest and ripped out my heart.

"Oh."

"I just…it's not you, Dwayne. After our talk, you should be able to realize this."

"Oh." I can't make my mouth form the words I want it to, although my brain is going full-speed, screaming out protests.

He sighs and sets down his suitcase.

"It's Tuesday, right? Thanksgiving break starts tomorrow. We'll be apart anyway. I just…I can't stay here tonight."

"Where will you be?"

He hesitates. "With Charlie and Guy."

"Oh."

He reaches out and rests his hand on my forearm. "Have a nice holiday, Dwayne."

"Yeah…you, too. See you Sunday, then."

He pauses in the doorway. "Maybe," he says without turning around.

I nod, although he cannot see me.

He leaves, and the door shuts softly behind him.

I flop back down again and kick the wall angrily. I am greeted with a retaliatory pound from my next-door neighbors, but I don't care. Things are even more destroyed that I initially realized.

I hated the use of the word "friend" when it cam to Adam, but I think we've lost even that. And now I'd do anything -- absolutely anything -- to have it back.

I can't do this now. I can't analyze everything, like before. My brain hurts, my heart hurts…I can't do this.


I distract myself with my history questions and then, when those are complete, with packing. When my duffel bag is full, I'm too exhausted -- mentally more than anything -- to do anything, so I collapse into bed.

And for the first time in a long time, sleep comes immediately.