Age Nineteen
Garrett got home late, close to 1:00 am. Shane pretended to be asleep.
He was tired. Work had been shit, his Joja shift running two hours overtime that he wouldn't even be paid for. They only scheduled him 38 hours a week, to avoid giving him full-time benefits. The ride home had also been shit. The late bus's route took twenty minutes longer than usual, Shane stuck next to a mother and her crying toddler. And coming home was definitely shit, because Garrett hadn't been there; he'd been on a date.
Rebecca. She'd lasted a month so far. One of the longer ones, though Shane had reason to suspect her time was over.
Shuffles interrupted the silence. Socks on carpet, and sighs in the dark. A body dropped onto a mattress. Then a pillow, hitting Shane in the back of the head.
Of course Garrett knew he was pretending. He always fucking knew.
"Sleeping," said Shane, not moving.
"Yeah, okay, that's great. But I can't."
"Try closing your eyes."
"Shane!" Another pillow smacked him. "I'm coming over."
He'd never tell Garrett—egotistical bastard didn't need anymore fuel—but those were Shane's three favorite words. They meant attention. Focused attention, attention usually spread between too many people, until moments like this when it zeroed in on Shane like a homing device.
Because that's what he was. Garrett's home, the center of gravity that all his social circles orbited. Through parties with the jocks. Chilling in parking lots with the misfit crowd. The girlfriends now buried on the wheel of his relationship rolodex. Through everybody, Garrett came home to Shane, and that was the best part of each day.
He plopped down at the top of Shane's bed, reeking of pot. "Dude, it's cold up here. Make some room."
Shane slid over, letting him under the blankets.
"I broke it off with Rebecca," he said, settling in.
Shane's heart gave a tiny, smug skip. "Yeah," he said softly, trying to ignore the satisfaction. "Figured as much."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You wore your Tunnelers jersey. You always wear it when you're about to dump their ass."
"That's…that's bullshit?"
"Past year, at least."
"That's—" he paused. "That's fucking obnoxious."
"Yep."
"Holy fuck, I'm a tool."
"Yep."
Garrett stretched his arms. One came to rest behind his neck and the other reached over, petting Shane's head. They were silent a long time.
"You okay?" Shane asked.
"Yeah." Garrett sighed. "Always okay, aren't I? That's why I fucking do it. If it's not gonna bother me if we break up, what's the point of being with them?"
Shane quietly agreed, but only said, "What was wrong with her?"
"Nothing."
They looked at each other through the dark.
"Liar," said Shane.
"Not lying." Garrett turned his head to face the ceiling. "Nothing was wrong with her. Wholesome hot chick, right? Objectively beautiful, into all that outdoorsy and girly shit at the same time. I mean, the hobby resume was fucking proper. And she was super cool. And sweet." A pause. "Like a popsicle."
"So?"
"So nothing was fucking wrong with her! Fucking nightmare, Shane. If a mild sunny day was a person…"
"But she lasted a month."
"Well, she's a crier. They're always tricky."
"Right," Shane said. "Way better to wait till they're attached and shit."
"Started trying to tell her at like, nine-thirty. Took me till now to get away, man." Another pause. "I did feel bad."
"Felt bad she cried, or felt bad you had to stick around so long?"
"Little column A, little column B. Fuck it though, right? You and me, we're good without 'em."
As if his girl-crazy eyes wouldn't be peeled come Monday.
"Big talker," Shane said.
"For real this time. You and me. No drama, just the good shit." Garrett's fingers moved over his scalp. "What'd you do tonight?"
Shane closed his eyes, absorbing the touch. "Waited on the edge of my fucking seat to hear about you and popsicle girl."
"Dude, boring."
They dropped into silence. It was comfortable, but didn't last long.
"My classes suck this semester," Garrett said. "You wanna go somewhere? I cut class, you cut work. We could go to the desert. Be fucking cool to camp in the desert."
Shane snorted.
"What?" asked Garrett. "Sensitive to sand in the boxers?"
"Yes."
"Guess that's a no-go on Bora Bora too."
"The hell is a Bora Bora?"
"Tropical island. So nice, they named it twice."
"Garrett, go the fuck to sleep."
"And miss out on what a grumpy shit you are at one in the morning? No way, man. Gimme more of that sweet talk."
Grumpy shit or not, Shane loved this and they both knew it.
Garrett pulled him in, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Sorry for waking you up. Remind me to burn that jersey tomorrow, okay?"
But I like that jersey.
"Done," said Shane quietly.
Garrett reached over to the nightstand for his stereo remote. Lights blinked electric blue in the black room when he clicked it on, and warm, jazzy hip-hop flooded the air. He set the remote down and his hand found its way back to Shane's head, softly petting once more.
Shane had never listened to much music growing up, but Garrett was obsessed. His collection lined one full wall of his bedroom, floor-to-ceiling, and the top-of-the-line stereo had cost more than Shane's last six paychecks combined. No matter what they were doing Garrett provided a soundtrack, and the song playing now was one of Shane's favorites; one he'd fallen asleep to dozens of times since moving in.
He tucked the blanket to his neck, focused on the fingers massaging his scalp in rhythm to the music. The sweet smell of pot mingled with Garrett's aqua cologne, as familiar and comforting to Shane as the head-rubbing and hip-hop.
But he didn't sleep. Tiring as his day had been, and good as that hand felt in his hair, Shane was no closer to sleep than before.
He was officially one month sober. It was his longest stretch since fifteen, when he'd started drinking hard. Since sixteen, when his best friend told him he had a problem. Since seventeen, when he tried but never made it more than a week, and eighteen—when Garrett had freaked to find him passed out cold on the bathroom floor.
He was nineteen now, and dealing with night after night of sobriety-induced insomnia. Hours of lying there, miserable, craving a drink.
Thinking.
Imagining.
The body next to him, sliding closer. Garrett winding an arm under Shane's to hold him around the waist. Pressing his kiss first to Shane's cheek, then his lips.
That hand on his waist sliding down. Slipping into his pants.
Rubbing him, the way those fingers did on his scalp.
Shane couldn't stop the thoughts when Garrett touched him like this. He only waited until Garrett was asleep, then rolled to his side and tried to think of anything but the ache. Because it was never going to mean anything. Garrett had always been affectionate and touchy-feely, but he was straight—and constantly hunting down girls.
So many girls.
None of them understood him. Those girls hadn't been his best friends for the past four years. They hadn't lived in his house and slept in his room for the past three. They didn't know that if Garrett showed up in a Tunneler's jersey it was fucking over, or how afterwards he crawled into Shane's bed to pet his head, kiss his cheek, and talk about it just being the two of them. They didn't know what it meant to be Garrett's person.
Which he was. Shane was confident about little in life, but knew to the bottom of his soul he was Garrett's person.
An extremely extroverted child who'd grown up in a huge empty house with workaholic parents, Garrett craved attention like Shane craved alcohol. He reached for it everywhere, and because he was a charming fucker, he got it. But it was never enough, flitting from group to group, from girl to girl. He was never satisfied, except with Shane. Four years of being with each other every damn day, and Garrett showed no sign of tiring of him.
"Me and you, Shane. That's all that matters."
Early in their friendship Shane had been skeptical of those words, watching others come and go through the revolving door of Garrett's life. But it wasn't long before he realized the truth: Garrett had claimed him. Pulled him to the other side of the glass, letting Shane watch the rotation as his right-hand man.
It was the best feeling in the world.
Sometimes it fucking sucked.
Shane always rolled over at this point. If his dick was hard, he did the courtesy of turning away to face the wall.
He didn't know what possessed him that night. Maybe it was the sobriety. Sobriety had always fucked with him, and maybe if he was drunk he would've kept his head on straight. Because instead of turning to the wall, he stayed right where he was, and without stopping to consider the four years of intense friendship being put on the line, he placed his hand on Garrett's stomach.
Garrett murmured softly, half asleep. Not thinking—only hearing that murmur, and the approval that seemed to go with it—Shane drew closer. He hugged his best friend's side, feeling his warmth, and god, he couldn't help it. That warmth made him harder; he'd been dreaming of this for years and it was actually happening, he was actually holding him like this…
"Hey."
It was said in a whisper and for a moment Shane's heart leapt.
Then Garrett lifted the hand, pulling it off his stomach and gently giving it back to Shane.
No…
"Shane."
No, no, no.
Shane's limbs snapped back out of pure reflex. He rolled over, his stomach doing flips.
Garrett spoke softly. "Hey, man. Come on."
The bed moved, and Garrett reached over to flip on the lamp. Pale yellow light flooded over Shane's face as he lay there, frozen and staring at the wall.
"Shane. Sit up. I wanna talk to you."
No, no, no.
"Fuck off," said Shane, switching the lamp off, heart thumping so hard he felt sick.
Garrett turned it back on. His voice was firm now. "I said sit up."
"And I said fuck off."
"And I said sit up. So sit the fuck up."
Shane wanted an errant bullet to bite through the wall. Take him right between the eyes. When it didn't come, he did sit up, dropping his feet to the floor.
"C'mon dude, stay here—"
"What's your problem?" said Shane, standing, his words scathing over the soft music.
"My problem is my best friend is about to run away rather than tell me what the fuck is up."
"Nothing's up."
"Is that right? So like, not even your dick two seconds ago?" Garrett rubbed a hand over his face, murmuring, "God, I wondered if this would happen…"
It felt like a slap, hard and raw across the cheek.
"Fuck you, dude." Shane, hands shaking, grabbed his hoodie off the back of the computer chair. "Just fuck you."
"Shane!" Garrett was up now too. His fingers clasped Shane's wrist, yanking him back. "Stay here and talk to me!"
"About fucking what?"
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that I was pretty sure you were gay, but didn't exactly have proof until you rubbed up against me just now?"
"I didn't—that's not—" Shane jerked his wrist from Garrett's grip, stammering, "You're fucking MENTAL!"
"Well, one of us is!"
They were the only ones home, like usual. It didn't matter that they were shouting, and now Garrett hauled up too, flipping the wall switch to illuminate the whole room. "Don't fucking lie to me, man! I know you. This doesn't have to be a big deal, okay? Nothing's gonna change, but don't freeze me ou—"
"Garrett," said Shane through a tense jaw, slipping the shirt over his head. "For once, just shut your fat fucking mouth. You have no idea what you're talking about. Fucking none. So shut the fuck up."
"But what're you thinking?" Garrett sounded desperate now. "Are you like, confused? Or do you know?"
"Maybe," said Shane, tugging down the torso of the hoodie, "you should get some sleep, because your stoned ass is fucking delusional."
He yanked a pair of loose jeans over top his flannel pajamas, feeling in the pocket for his wallet. It was too late for buses, but six blocks away was a 24/7 party store, one Shane knew had a night shift filled with young cashiers who never looked too closely at his fake ID.
"Shane!"
He ignored Garrett's repeated calls, storming down the stairs, through the living room, kitchen, and hall. Once out the door he slipped to the side of the house, and stopped in the shadows to wait.
Garrett banged through the front door moments later, still calling his name. Shane kept hidden while he searched the lit parts near the house. Waited as he padded barefoot across the driveway, looking both directions down the street. Watched him pull hands through his thick hair and give a noise of pure vehement frustration, then re-enter his house, slamming the door so hard the glass panes rattled.
Less than an hour later, Shane sat on the bench of a long-abandoned bus stop near the party store. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from its brown paper sleeve, and stared down at it through the dark.
It's only been a month, he thought, unscrewing the cap. Not all that much to throw away, in the grand scheme of things.
Not like throwing away four years.
Age Seven
It was dark, just a sliver of light shining through the crack below the door.
It was uncomfortable. There was nothing in here but clothes and dusty shoeboxes. Maybe a few cobwebs in the corner. A dingy piece of brown carpet to sit on, with no padding beneath.
It was lonely. Dad had said thirty minutes, but it felt like a hundred.
Why were minutes so long?
Shane's eyes flickered to the shelf above him, to the box where the masks lived. He couldn't see them, but knew they were there. The gorilla mask. The hockey mask. The ghost one with drippy red liquid like blood. The werewolf one, all wild eyes and predatory teeth. Dad wore them on Spirit's Eve while passing out chocolate bars; a mask of generosity. Like he hadn't worn one the night before, hiding under Shane's bed and waiting until he was asleep to grab his ankles. As if he hadn't laughed at Shane's terror, or gotten angry when he cried after.
"Don't be such a little bitch. Your old man was just having a laugh."
Shane didn't go out on Spirit's Eve. He sat around and watched his dad get steadily drunker, answering the doorbell with werewolf growls that left the trick-or-treaters squealing rather than traumatized.
He drew his knees to his chest, balling against them. He wanted to cry, but crying wasn't allowed. Crying was what got him here in the first place. Nobody wanted to listen to his goddamn crybaby tears.
More time passed. Whenever there was a noise—a creak in the floorboards, a sigh from the pipes—Shane's heart took off in a gallop and he pulled tighter to his knees. He forced himself not to look at the shelf, but the masks' evil eyes bored through the box anyway.
The house settled, the noises eventually falling quiet. Though the dark was still scary, Shane's terror was replaced inch by inch with boredom. The evening wore on, the strip of light under the door going dim.
He was hungry.
It was cold.
He had to pee.
Reaching above him, he pulled a sweatshirt off its hanger and slipped it on. Tears burned behind his eyes; tears that were not allowed, and only brought more fear. Because if Dad finally remembered and opened the door to see him crying again, how much longer would he have to stay here? Thirty minutes was always the initial punishment, but he was usually forgotten for at least a few hours, depending how much Dad drank.
Tonight he must be very drunk.
Shane pulled down several more articles of clothing, bunching some under his head as a pillow, using others as blankets. The minutes dripped by like time had stopped working. He stared at the strip of light below the door, watching it fade until extinguished.
Nighttime.
Sleep wouldn't come, no matter how long he closed his eyes. Every time he started to drift off, a noise would jerk him awake with the same panic as when Dad popped out from under his bed in that mask. Each time, a horrible sense of dread swooped over him. The pee burned too. Finally he couldn't take it anymore, and standing in the far corner where he could hide it best, he peed on the carpet.
If Mom were home she'd have looked for him, but she hadn't been home for three days.
Tears bubbled once more. He kept them quiet, though. Eventually he must've fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew was waking, needing to pee all over again.
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he went back to the corner of the carpet. For a moment, he pretended he was a cat, and that corner was his litter box. It made him feel the smallest bit better. Like Aunt Marnie's cat. He'd visited her for the first time last summer, a week in the country. Her barn cats lived outside, but during Shane's stay, she'd been trying to teach a young one to do its business in the house. The kitten had really liked Shane, and Shane had really liked the kitten.
It didn't cross his mind to bang on the door, remind someone he was in there. Banging on the door would've been too scary. His dad liked when he was quiet, when he was invisible, when he stayed out of the way.
Age Twelve
The Daniels' house was low on entertainment. They had one TV with minimal stations; a TV Shane wasn't allowed to touch when Corey was home. It was always playing sports, and if his dad was not in a terrible mood, Shane sat down to watch with him.
There were rules, of course. You stayed silent. You never asked to have the volume turned down, even when it hurt your ears. You never brought up stupid questions. If Corey chuckled at something it was safe to laugh with him, but if he didn't, you kept quiet no matter what.
Sometimes it wasn't so bad.
"You see that kick, son?"
"Yeah."
"You ever gonna be a kicker like that? Play on the team like your old man?"
"I dunno."
"Wrong answer, Shane."
"Yeah, I'll be on the team."
A chuckle. If he was sitting close enough, a hand gripping his shoulder. "Good boy."
Shane liked sports. Gridball and soccer were his favorites. Sitting with his dad, he soaked in the coaches, stats, and trades. He learned what made a good play or sloppy one, and to think critically about strategy. As long as he caught Corey in a good mood and stuck to the rules, those were some of Shane's favorite times.
While they lasted.
The most crucial rule of all: always plan your exit. Get out of there before either the sixth beer or five fingers of whiskey were gone. Any longer and risk the 'You're in the fucking way' zone, which never ended well.
Mom said their neighborhood was dangerous and didn't like Shane to play outside by himself, but she wasn't around enough to enforce this rule. When she was home, she was too tired to care. She took pills that Shane was once screamed at for touching, and they made her fall asleep early, usually right around the time Dad was having his exit-beer. She'd catch him on the way to her room. With not-quite-focused eyes, she'd cover his cheeks with kisses, tell him he was a good boy, and that she was going to have a lie-down for a few minutes.
With the TV loud and Dad drunk, it was easy to slip out of the house unnoticed. All he needed was the spare key from the tin above the stove, and Dad's old watch, which he'd given to Shane when he got a new one. It'd become invaluable. Shane needed to be back and inside his room before 9:00 pm, or else wait until after 10:00. The hour between was the most dangerous of the danger zones—being in Corey's way when he was getting ready for bed.
Once outside, Shane had free reign for hours.
The neighborhood was rough. He avoided going past the bridge at the end of the street. When police cars drove down his road with their sirens on—when that pop-pop-pop came in the distance—it was always past the bridge. But he learned the shortcuts. Straight up two blocks, take a left. Slip through the set of bushes at the gas station. Cross the empty lot and stick to the sides. If he made himself quiet and unassuming, he was invisible, just like at home.
Shane liked exploring. It was so much better than being stuck in the house. He snuck into empty buildings, and warehouses that looked like they'd been abandoned during an apocalypse. He liked the colorful graffiti inside, the rats that skittered around. He found things, too: rusty spikes, broken tools, old clothing. His favorite find was a pocketknife. It folded in half, with a black-gripped handle and a dull blade, and Shane started carrying it with him on all his adventures.
Several blocks beyond the abandoned sector was a residential area, a neighborhood much nicer than his. A shallow ravine wound through the middle of it, with paved paths where elderly folks took their evening walks. Shane preferred going off trail. The woods were steep and exciting. He could hide in the trees. One time he discovered an old soccer ball—a little flat, hurting his shins when he kicked it—and brought it home with him.
But sneaking out wasn't always an option, and it was harder to entertain himself in the house. A few board games in broken boxes gathered dust on the living room shelf. The TV was off limits, and while Shane had a few old toys, they didn't excite him like exploring.
He wished they had more books. The ones at school were nice, but he wasn't allowed to bring them home anymore. In third grade he'd spilled water all over a library book, which Corey had to pay for after. It hadn't gone over well.
Shane read what he could. Magazines tucked into the wooden rack beside their couch. Instruction manuals from the junk drawer, learning how to operate electronics he didn't have permission to touch. He liked the comics and sports section of the newspaper, and flipped through the junk mail when no one was looking.
Catalogs were the best. It wasn't even reading. Just pictures of all the cool things he'd never have.
Sometimes, Shane thought, imagining he had those things was probably as much fun as actually having them. They excited him, the remote control cars, the deer blinds and whistles, the foam-dart guns and air hockey tables. And something else excited him, too.
He snuck those catalogs into his room. He closed his door and flipped through the pages, past the ladies in bras, slowing at the section of shirtless men. Men in boxers. Men in briefs. Men showing the shape of their bulges.
It started just like all the other times.
The quarterly catalog came in the mail. He waited patiently for two days, until his mom and dad had a chance to look through it and throw it on the junk pile. That night he sat with Corey until halfway through the fourth beer. When the announcers on TV grew loud in amazement over the kick-off— "Once in a lifetime, Chuck, won't ever see the likes of that in his career again!" —Shane got up, quietly slipped the catalog off the stack and into his shirt, and went upstairs.
He walked by his parents' room. Mom was passed out on her stomach, one arm dangling off the side of the bed, a lock of hair over her face. It fluttered with each slow breath. Shane kept going toward his room, and closed the door once inside.
First he pulled out the new catalog from under his shirt, then one from under his mattress. He opened the old one, the creased spine falling open to pages he'd dog-eared. With careful precision he tore them out, slowly, so as not to make noise. Those were his favorites, and he placed them on a stack of other torn favorites from the past.
After everyone was asleep, he'd sneak back downstairs and swap the old catalog where the new one had been. No one ever noticed when he did that.
Figuring he had at least twenty minutes before Corey went to bed, Shane settled on the floor, flipping through fresh, glossy pages. He started at the front with the outdoor toys—trampolines, collapsible pools, sprinklers—and worked his way to the back.
Furniture.
Kitchen goods.
Clothing.
Then his door slammed opened.
"Shane, if I told you once, I told you a hundred goddamn times," growled Corey. "You shut that goddamn kitchen light off when you come up here, we ain't made of fuckin' mon—"
He stopped in his tracks.
He'd caught his son with his hand down his pants, the catalog open to the male models.
It made Shane dizzy, what happened next. Corey stomped on the magazine and kicked it backwards, ripping the page. In one motion he lifted his son by the shoulder of his t-shirt and shoved him against the wall.
"That's how it is?" he spat, hot breath coming down on Shane's face, reeking of beer. "That's how it fucking is?"
Terrified, Shane closed his eyes, wishing harder than he'd ever wished in his life that he could disappear through the carpet. He was in so much trouble. He was going to be sick.
"Look at me!"
He tried to. The tone in his dad's voice; it was so dangerous not to do what it told. But he was too scared to make his eyelids work.
"Fucking LOOK at me!" Corey screamed.
Shane's whole body flinched. With great effort, he opened his eyes.
He'd seen his dad mad. Seen him furious, impatient, or pissed off. But this—this look of disgust, of absolute revulsion—was new.
"Know what happens," he whispered, slurring, "to little fag boys?"
There was nothing to do but stay quiet, to accept whatever was coming.
He didn't have to wait long. Corey yanked him up, and still holding the shoulder of his shirt, dragged him across the room; he opened Shane's closet and shoved him inside before slamming it shut. Shane stumbled back, flattening against the wall as Corey began to kick the closed door. He closed his eyes and covered his ears, flinching with each shock that pounded and rattled the old wood.
Then silence.
Shane, too petrified to move, waited. Several minutes passed and it remained silent.
He sank to the floor.
It'd been almost a year since he last sat on this dingy brown carpet. Having learned the basic rules of survival—don't talk back, don't get in the way, don't fucking cry—Shane's closet punishments had grown fewer and further between.
It was dark and he couldn't see the face of his watch, but it had to be close to midnight when he finally pulled clothes down from the hangers, wadding them into a bed.
Must've been after two when he couldn't hold it anymore and pissed in the corner, like he'd been doing since the age of seven. Mom once said it smelled like old cat pee in his room, but Shane was too ashamed to tell her the truth.
Possibly around three, he took off his watch; Corey's hand-me-down.
He pressed on the surface with his thumbs.
Nothing happened.
He pressed harder, wanting to crack that stupid fucking watch, but the glass was thick and remained infuriatingly intact.
Eyes burning, he threw it in the pee corner.
He could never do anything right. Not break the watch. Not turn off the kitchen light. Not even remember to lock his bedroom door, when he did the gross things that had caused that look of disgust to drip from his dad's face.
His eyes kept stinging, but he hadn't cried in ages and wasn't about to ruin his streak. He wiped them over and over, catching every tear before it could roll. Before it counted.
At some point he must've fallen asleep, because he woke to the click of the lock, followed by footsteps. It was brighter now, too.
Morning.
He waited several minutes before venturing into the room. The closet door was splintered. His floor was empty, the ripped catalog gone, along with the clippings of Shane's favorites. And there on the wall above his bed, stuck in the drywall with tacks: a dozen new pages, the girls in bras he'd always passed over.
Age Fifteen
He didn't know why Garrett followed him home that first day.
Shane in his faded t-shirt and dirty backpack, walking with his head down. Garrett in his designer jeans and messenger bag, looking like a preppy mannequin from the mall.
Shane with bloodshot eyes and messy hair. Garrett with good lips and freckles.
Shane suspended from being drunk in class. Garrett jogging to catch up, telling him he was so cool.
Yup. Showing up trashed to chemistry, and breaking beakers. The coolest Shane had ever been.
When they'd arrived at his house together—because Garrett, the weirdo, insisted on talking to him the whole way—Corey's truck was parked outside. Shane's insides had iced over. The first thing Corey liked to do after work was check the answering machine. He'd press play, crack a beer, and shake his head at the annoyingly long intros to each message. If he was home that meant he already had the news. He'd get mad about the suspension, but Shane knew he'd be pissed about the liquor, which was stolen from his stash.
Garrett had freaked when he came out with a black eye.
Shane just shrugged. It didn't happen often. He only got hit a few times a year, and bruises like this were rare.
"Come to my house," Garrett had insisted after. And Shane, who'd tried to get this guy to buzz off the entire way home, said okay.
It was the decision that changed his whole life.
Garrett lived in a ritzy neighborhood. Manicured lawns. Long twisting driveways, with two or three cars to a family. His house was spacious and modern, his room eight times the size of Shane's. He had a widescreen TV, a sleek computer, and a music collection worth thousands of dollars.
"Stay the night," he'd said, after they hung out and played video games all evening. So Shane did, and it became a common phrase; so common that within a month they'd dragged the bed from the spare room into Garrett's.
Garrett's parents didn't care. They were gone so often for work, they didn't seem to notice they'd sprouted a second son. As for Shane—his mom had left months ago without so much as goodbye, and there was no resistance from Corey either. It worked out well for both father and son, keeping out of each other's hair most days.
At first.
Corey began to suspect Garrett was more than Shane's friend, and refusing to have an openly gay son under his roof, he delivered an ultimatum in the summer before 11th grade: cut the guy off, or don't bother coming home.
Shane never told Garrett why he moved in. His dad being a generally abusive piece of shit was reason enough, and Garrett's only regret was not making it official sooner.
Then came the pillows, the late conversations, the music.
The arm hooked around Shane's neck while he waited for the microwave to beep, and the kiss planted on his cheek while locked in that hold.
The movies on the futon, when Garrett pulled Shane to lean against him while they watched. When he'd hook his fingers through Shane's, lifting them to kiss the back of his hand, saying, "You're my best fucking friend, you know that?"
Then "Don't know what I'd do without you."
And "Let the world fucking burn. It's just you and me."
Then the girls, the dating, the sex.
The frustration, the complaints, the sadness.
Why can't I find her, Shane? Why do none of them fucking do it for me?
More quiet conversations late at night, now crawling into Shane's bed. Talking about joining the gridball team together. About Shane's schoolwork. His drinking. Over and over, until graduation. Garrett became a freshman in college, while Shane kept working at Joja. And he was officially one month sober when he made the fantastic fucking decision to throw a grenade on everything they'd built.
Except Garrett did not accept the terms and conditions that Shane had silently laid out in termination of their friendship.
"You fucking live here, man. Good luck avoiding me forever."
He did still live with the Prevosts. Shane had not talked to his dad in three years, and what was he going to do? Have a heart-to-heart with Corey about how he'd finally cut Garrett off, because the queerbaiting motherfucker wouldn't make Shane his boyfriend?
Shane moved his bed back to the guest bedroom. When Garrett returned home from class, he'd paused in the doorway, staring at the four grooves in the carpet where the bed frame had flattened it.
For a few weeks, nights were quiet. Garrett stayed in his room, the only signs of life the sound of music and smell of pot. Shane stayed down the hall, listening to the muffled songs, catching the faint whiffs of smoke, drinking until he was tired enough to fall asleep. In the mornings, if Garrett entered the bathroom while Shane was brushing his teeth, Shane would leave with a mouthful of toothpaste to spit in a downstairs sink. He avoided talking to him. Avoided looking at him. Avoided thinking about him whenever he could, by disappearing into that bottle.
Then one night, the bottle was empty. Taped to the outside was a note:
I'm done with this bullshit, Shane. If you ever wanna see your booze again, get your ass to my room with a signed payment of We're Fucking Over This.
Age Nineteen
There were boundaries now, and Shane hated them.
They were laid out that same night, when Garrett poured them each a glass of Shane's whiskey, sat them down on his futon, and told Shane that the only way he'd get rid of him was to kill him.
"Can't kill you," Shane muttered.
"Then thank Christ, we're on the same fucking page," Garrett replied.
Shane continued to share a room with him. But there were no more late night visits to Shane's bed. The handholding during movies stopped. And while Garrett continued to tell Shane when he was going on a date, he left out the details.
And yet, the next seven months were hell.
Dozens of wasted Shanes, stumbling home, snapping at Garretts to fuck the hell off with their judgment. Dozens of frustrated Garretts, shouting after Shanes about the depth of their denial.
Seven months before a constantly relapsing Shane found sobriety again.
Seven months before Garrett forced him to acknowledge—out loud, to his face—that he was gay.
Seven months before Shane was able to wrangle his feelings back into that Pandora's box he'd foolishly opened all those nights ago.
He ached to have it back. The kisses and petting; the handholding and bed-sharing. He ached for it with all his heart. But it was never going to happen, and so Shane closed that box. Wrapped his belt around it. Stuck it in a garbage bag. Shoved it into the back of his childhood closet, and this time locked the door himself.
Sobriety, well. It was fucking thrilling. Who wouldn't want to wake each morning to stock shelves at Joja? To come home to a person he had to pretend not to love, and crawl into an empty bed of insomnia after?
Then something happened: something that consisted of three words Shane had never heard before.
"Shane," Garrett said, effortlessly shooting Shane's assassin with his PP7. "I met someone."
The assassin crumpled to a heap on the bunker floor. Shane stared resolutely at the screen.
Garrett dated. Garrett fucked. Garrett sometimes had girlfriends.
Garrett never met someone.
He watched the dead body of his player on the screen, waiting for the pixels to disintegrate into nothingness.
Samantha was not like his usual picks. She was quiet. Not a partier. The first time she met Shane, she was at least as nervous as him. And then this shy girl—she was the one with staying power.
"She's like you, Shane," Garrett had said after the first week. "She's got this whole world in her head that you can't see from the outside."
As if telling Shane that Samantha was like him softened the blow. Deep down, the box of feelings rattled.
She became the third spoke of their relationship, in a way no previous girlfriend ever had, and Garrett announced—one month after dating—that they were getting an apartment near the university, and of course Shane would be their roomie.
Fast as this seemed, Shane reminded himself that he'd moved in with Garrett practically overnight. His best friend always went lightning fast, with everything.
Still, the box rattled. Shane waited for the day it would be a death rattle, but it never came. Not when Garrett and Sam went on dates. Not when they spent the evening in the apartment, cuddling on the couch while Shane was in the armchair. Not when Garrett held Samantha's hand or stroked her hair; nor when the two of them closed the door to their bedroom, while Shane watched TV and tried to forget anyone else was home.
They didn't stop when Samantha became unexpectedly pregnant at twenty-one, and decided to keep the baby.
They didn't stop at twenty-two, when Jas was born; when Shane fell a little bit in love with her himself. When Sam went to work in the evenings, and Garrett and Shane sat on the living room floor with Jas crawling between them. Garrett scooping her up, delivering her to Shane's arms and saying, "Bet she doesn't even know which one of us is her real dad."
And the feelings were still there at twenty-three, when the disillusionment began.
"We weren't fucking ready," mumbled Garrett, sitting on the edge of Shane's bed, his head in his hands. "It's too fucking much, and now Sam's telling me I'm not pulling my weight? Like I'm sitting on my fucking ass all the time. She's the one who told me to go for my Masters! Said she could handle nights without me, and now she's giving me so much shit, and I know she's tired as hell, and I know she resents dropping out, but fuck…"
They were still there at twenty-four, when Shane noticed he never petted her hair anymore. When Sam stopped looking at Garrett with soft eyes that said she was in love, and turned them to her daughter 24/7 instead. When Shane passed by their bedroom door, and it was never closed anymore. Instead—
"Tunnelers vs. Hornets," said Garrett, slamming two tickets into Shane's chest. "Tonight. Drop whatever shit you're doing and get ready to blow your load over a Hennessey starting lineup, because we're there at seven."
He was returning to Shane.
It started simple enough. The gridball match, followed by grabbing a booth at AJ's Bar & Grill. Their restaurant, a tradition after the games. But then on weekends—rather than spend them as a family—Sam took Jas, and Garrett dragged Shane all over town, to the places Shane used to grumble about.
Hole-in-the-wall music shops, Garrett pouring over old vinyl and rare EPs like they were catnip, while Shane browsed the display of colorful pipes under the glass counter, wondering which one to buy him for his birthday.
Shopping at the mall, Garrett searching for a jacket in stores that blasted trendy music and smelled of cologne behind their tiki-hut entrances. Shane hanging around fountains, buying sodas and pizza slices to pass the time.
The skate park, sitting on concrete bumpers overlooking the ramps, sharing a pack of hot tamales and doing fail-commentary for all the amateur wipe-outs. Shane's comments making Garrett snort so hard, he choked on a candy and almost threw up. Afterward, Garrett pelting him with the tamales one by one for laughing when he'd nearly died.
The annual Zuzu City Knife Show, because Garrett knew Shane liked knives. Nudging Shane with his shoulder when they stopped to watch a knife-throwing contest, asking seriously if that's something he wanted to learn.
On weekends that Samantha had to work, Garrett and Shane watched Jas together. In good weather they took her to the park. In bad weather, they stayed inside and played video games: winner got to feed her the bottle, loser had to change her diaper. When she was sleeping, they had challenges to see who could stack the most pieces of cereal on her head without toppling them.
One afternoon, when Shane lost and was changing her diaper, Garrett leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom.
"God Shane," he said quietly. "You're so fucking good with her."
At twenty-five, they all still shared the same apartment. Garrett and Sam, however, were no longer together.
He hadn't just returned to Shane. He'd made Shane his person again.
Those previous boundaries, they'd shoved them in place so long ago. But they were older now, more mature. The barriers began to feel silly to Shane. So when Garrett walked behind him and rubbed his shoulders while he cooked, he said nothing. When Garrett hooked his arm around Shane during a movie, Shane didn't protest. And when Garrett laid next to him in bed one night, in near-tears from the stress of his course load, Shane didn't stop the hand that pet his head.
It was soothing for both of them. This was just how his best friend operated. He needed to give that affection, those touches, and whoever was his person would receive them.
Shane had missed being his person so fucking bad, it almost hurt to have it back. The deep-down feelings were gathering mass. They no longer rattled, but threatened to burst out of the box entirely.
Twenty-five was feeling like a good year.
"You and Sam…you're seriously done?" Shane took a pull off the glass pipe before handing it to Garrett. Aquamarine and black swirls; the one Shane had bought him for his birthday.
"Yep," said Garrett, and though not often a man of few words, he left it at that.
They were in the bedroom at his old house, digging through the boxes of his music collection that he'd never had room for in the apartment. A cool, east coast beat began to play through the room and Garrett leaned back, holding in the smoke. He blew it out the side of his mouth and looked up at Shane, his usually playful eyes solemn.
"Don't know what I'd do without you, Shane."
Shane stared back, and Garrett didn't look away.
There was a day at twenty-six when Shane dug for that box of feelings. He opened the closet. Took it out, and slid it from the garbage bag. He undid the belt. He sat with his hands on the edges of that box, heart hammering, both excited and afraid.
Jas and Samantha were gone for an evening, to the birthday party of another little girl from her daycare. Shane had just gotten out of the shower after his Joja shift when Garrett slammed his textbook shut, then chucked it at the wall for good measure.
He glanced over at the thud. "How's the studying?"
"Studying," Garrett said, "can suck my dropped nuts. No more room in my head. Everything that goes in pushes something else out." He scooped up an invisible pile of something in his hands, and held it out to Shane. "You see this shit? That's all the shit I'll never fucking remember tomorrow."
"Wanna play a game instead?" Shane asked.
A half hour later, Garrett's bad mood had melted in the face of whooping Shane's ass at Gridlock: Death Match. And, as usual, he stopped paying attention to gloat.
"What's the matter? Thumbs get tired after that fifty-yard dash? Or just hard to run when you're tripping over the body of your own starting forward? Christ, what the fuck did that poor guy ever do for you to make him a fucking speed bum—"
Shane landed a goal, cutting him off smack in the middle of his shit talk.
"Fuck you, man!" Garrett laughed, snatching his controller. "You know I can't talk and play at the same time."
He tried to snag it back, but Garrett was too quick for him.
"Well, you finally got the walking and talking thing down after two decades," Shane said, making another swipe for it. "So, you know. Hope for you yet."
Garrett pulled it out of reach a second time. When Shane swiped for a third, Garrett threw the controller to the side and tackled him against the couch. Shane laughed and fought back, sweeping his arm around, trying to get him in a headlock. It wasn't easy; Garrett knew more fancy wrestling moves, but after struggling against the pillows for a moment, Shane managed to hook Garrett's neck and flip himself around. They were both breathing hard from the struggle, and still holding Garrett's neck in the crook of his arm—a split second decision, his brain shutting down—Shane leaned in, kissing him on the lips.
The laughter, the wrestling, all movement died.
Shane wasn't sure how long it lasted.
Maybe one second. Maybe five.
Garrett didn't shove him off. Nor did he kiss back. But whenever those seconds were done, he slowly pulled away, his expression somber.
"Shane…" he said gently.
Shane released his neck, and it was like a damn busting open—the old shame, fear, and anger, rolling through his chest.
"No," he said.
Garrett sank back helplessly against the cushions. "Shane, come on…you know it can't be like that…"
Shane was shaking when he repeated, "No."
Garrett rubbed both hands over his face, and after dragging them all the way down he looked at Shane, and in the same quiet voice: "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean," said Shane, standing up, kicking the cord from the controller. "Stop fucking lying to yourself."
Confusion washed over Garrett's face. It was a pitiful sight, and Shane hated it.
"What," Garrett said, "are you on about?"
"This fucking act!" shouted Shane, the flood bursting up from his chest, pouring out of his mouth now. "This fucking bullshit!"
Garrett closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice shook. "You know that's not—"
"Do I? Do I know? What about you? Do you fucking know? Because I don't think you do!"
"Shane, I'm not—"
"Wake. The fuck. Up! No fucking straight boy acts like you, Garrett!"
"Shane," Garrett pleaded, "just stop it, man, just sto—"
"You're fucking scared," said Shane, shaking, his words still a downpour. "All these years, you were fucking scared to admit you'd rather be with me than Samantha—"
"Will you just fucking liste—"
"And will you just take a look in the goddamn mirror?" Shane's heart slammed through his whole body. "You've spent more time in my bed than any of your so-called girlfriend's. Ever since you ended it with Sam, you've been all fucking over me again. And yeah, again! Because it's just like before, just like you were all fucking over me before she ever came around."
Garrett's hands were on his face again, and this time when he pulled them down his eyes glistened.
"I'm not," he whispered.
"No fucking straight boy," Shane repeated, voice trembling. "And if you fucking care about me like you always say you do, you'd try fucking harder. You would. You'd try harder. And if you can't do that—if you can't even fucking kiss me—then don't ever touch me again."
Garrett began to cry.
Heart racing, head engulfed in the fire of everything that had just exploded, Shane left. It was the last time they ever spoke.
Age Thirty-One
This closet was clean and softly-carpeted. There was an air freshener in one corner, a little white plastic container with gelled beads that smelled of wildflowers. Instead of scary masks, the box on the highest shelf contained his knife collection.
It had never occurred to Shane as a little boy, visiting Marnie for the first time, that one day he would disappear into one of her closets—or that getting drunk would happen on the inside, rather than the out. His vision swam, swirling patterns on the carpet. The whiskey was almost gone.
God, I wondered if this would happen.
Then…I've been wanting to do this since that first night.
What're you thinking? Are you like, confused? Or do you know?
Look, I get it. You didn't know before. I know you're scared, but you don't need to be.
This doesn't have to be a big deal.
Daniels! Jesusfuck, dude, breathe for a minute.
Don't fucking lie to me, man! I know you.
Fine. Go. Fucking run. But you can't hide from me, Shane Daniels.
For real this time. You and me.
Hey, Shane?
No drama, just the good shit.
Do you trust me?
Nothing's gonna change.
…
It'd only been a month. Not all that much to throw away, in the grand scheme of things.