After packing Ma into her car with her peon and a box full of preserves, William took down his grange. He'd just finished stacking the wooden booth into the truck when his cell rang. It was his dad.
"Y'ello," he said, punctuating the word by slamming the tailgate.
"William, congratulations on your win!"
"Thanks, Dad. How was work?"
"Exhausting." He heard his dad's leather chair creak and the click of a lighter. "Is your mother still there?"
"Nope, on her way home with that wind-up doll of a lawyer she thought I needed in my life."
"I told her you wouldn't like it. Son, you keep huffing. What are you up to?"
"Loading up and heading home."
William grunted, satisfied as he took one last look around. He shrugged off his jacket and hat, putting them on the passenger side, then fastened his seatbelt and started the truck.
"Hate that I couldn't make it," David said as he joined the line of cars leaving the fair.
"You couldn't help it," said William, repeating familiar forgiveness. "I know how it goes."
"When I retire, I won't have to choose between the job and family any more."
"It's fine, Dad." William kept his eyes on the tiny sedan in front of the line.
"Any developments with that fella who you know is a bad idea?"
William swallowed.
"Yeah. You know. It's a disaster waiting to happen. He's avoiding me. You're right, and I need to get over it."
David was quiet and William braced. He knew he was snapping, but all his fucks were on backorder.
"Will, yesterday when we talked I gave a lot of good reasons why you two should keep things professional. But I got to thinking about something."
"About how disappointed you were to have to talk about it in the first place?" William asked, sarcasm dripping.
"No. I got to thinking that if you got this fellow another job, the conflict of interest disappears."
"Tried that. He doesn't want another job," William said, as three more cars crept out of the lot.
Silence on the other end.
"Well, you should at least make it clear—"
"Dad, you don't want to know how deep this rabbit hole goes. This isn't some cut-and-dry harassment seminar. Facts are, he likes me back. We could be amazing together. But he's scared and has got something else going on that he won't fucking open his mouth and tell me about, so I'm playing blind man's bluff in a mine field here."
Dad blew out a breath. "Why didn't you say so yesterday?"
Someone tried to cut William off at the entrance. He blasted his horn, gunning his truck a little faster, then slammed on the brakes to keep from colliding with a minivan covered in stick-figure stickers.
"Because Dad, I know how stupid it sounds."
"Son, do you care about this?"
William sank back in his seat, phone tight between his fingers. If this had been Ma, he'd front the answer. Caring about things around her could be dangerous. But Dad was safer and more patient, and he'd also not tried to shove an unasked-for boyfriend on William this afternoon.
"Yeah. It's sort of been taking over my life."
"Then it's not stupid. And even though you've made bad calls, I believe you if you say that what's between you two is…somewhat consensual."
William snorted. Dad wasn't done.
"So what I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Wait him out, I guess," William said, flipping on his blinker.
"How's that been treating you?"
"Sucks."
"Talk to him. Open up. Lay it all out so he knows how you feel. And William, no relationship with you is easy, so be patient and control that temper of yours."
The advice stung.
"I'm patient!"
Dad's chuckle rumbled and William shoved his phone against his shoulder as he made the turn towards home.
"Sure," David teased. "This coming from the boy who'd swing his bat four times before the ball was even shot out of the cages."
"Fine. Point made. Patience. Talking. Control. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Be proud of yourself for winning that award. Your mom sent me the pictures. The grange was stunning."
Something burned behind his eyes at the praise. "Thanks, Dad."
"I love you, son. Your mother and I are always here for you, okay?"
"Yeah, love you too. Listen, almost home and I need to do some evening chores before bed."
"Of course. Goodnight. See you next Sunday."
William hung up and dropped his cell phone on top of the jacket and hat. It was late when he pulled in, and after staring at the load in the back he decided it was a two-man job and headed inside. As he got ready for bed, he felt nervous. Tomorrow, he and Shane had a lot to talk about. He'd given him space but now that the fair was over, it had to be dealt with. And he had to be patient. Not push. Be firm. In control.
Simple.
First thing in the morning, William set the stage. Extra coffee sat on the edge of the crate for Shane, a silent peace offering. He began to work, one eye on the clock. Five minutes passed. Then ten. At 6:13 he paused, nearly done with the first row of heifers. Shane was usually early. Had he ghosted?
Two minutes later—right as he'd finished his line and made the decision to call Marnie—Shane walked in.
His hair looked like a straw nest, his clothes wrinkled. Dark bags rested under sunken eyes, finishing the apathetic chic look he seemed to be going for today. He ignored the coffee and headed straight towards the cows, knocking over a step stool along the way.
Silent treatment: property destruction edition.
"Morning," William said, waiting for Shane to realize all the lines were in use, and that the cow he was patting had half her reservoir full.
It was as though the clue gods had finally knocked him between the eyes. Shane blinked, and after standing stupidly for another few seconds he turned to the wall of tools and made an uncoordinated grab for a pitchfork.
Irritated, William followed, snagging the hose to spray down the clumps that fell off the fork when Shane walked to the stall.
"Good morning," he repeated as he rinsed the pieces of debris into the drains.
Shane dribbled a forkful of manure into the wheelbarrow. "Hey," he muttered.
After watching three more clumsy dumps into the barrow William rolled his eyes and turned off the water. Marnie must have been working Shane stupid for him to be this careless.
Nothing some coffee wouldn't fix, he decided while hanging the hose. He snagged the thermos and crossed over, plucking the pitchfork out of Shane's hands and pressing the java into his empty fingers.
"You look like shit, Shane. How late did Marnie keep you out last night?"
"Course I look like shit," Shane grumbled. "You finally get your eyes checked or something?"
Without any further acknowledgment he walked off. He set the coffee back down on the upturned crate without opening it, then reached for a second pitchfork off the wall.
William stared at the abandoned coffee.
"What crawled up your ass and died?"
The tines of Shane's fork scraped across the wooden floor. "Nothing."
"Yeah, uh huh. Nothing. Right."
Apparently today was backwards day, where they cleaned before getting all of the herd through the milkers. William glanced once more at the coffee and then at Shane. Whatever. If Shane wanted more work in the long run, he could have it.
William released the first cow into the pasture. He took his time, letting Shane get through the mucking while he alternated between freeing and milking the herd. The pattern of changing hoses and re-hooking the pumps was meditative and when he was on the last cow, he broke the silence.
"You were running later than usual. Everything okay?"
Shane jammed his fork into the manure. "So I'll stay ten minutes late," he said, tossing a scoop into the full barrow. Half of it slipped over the edge and splatted to the floor.
"Ten more minutes of that?" William deadpanned. "How could I ever refuse."
Like the stubborn pig he was, Shane grunted.
Frustration welled and patience died.
"Right. Okay. Well, clearly you're PMSing, so." William finished the cow he was working on and stepped back. "I'm going to leave you and your pissy attitude for the other women in the room. Got a fence to finish today. Come see me when you're done to help unload the truck.
He left the barn to predictable silence. Figured. Shane was so busy playing with shit, he'd decided his attitude should match.
It took William thirty minutes to prep the fence, and another thirty to rearrange four of his work tables while Shane dragged ass. It was one thing for Shane to avoid him on their personal time, but why the fuck had he suddenly lost the sharp, professional worth ethic that had carried them through the end of summer and first half of harvest?
When Shane rolled in, William bit back the 'finally' that threatened to escape his lips.
"Done," Shane said, slumping against the work table.
"You eat molasses for breakfast this morning, Daniels?"
"Yep."
"Then no wonder you're slow as fucking Wintersday."
William jerked a thumb towards the truck and all its fair contents. Shane crossed his arms and stared, as though this was the first fucking time in his life he'd seen a truck, and that he needed a map and neon light to figure out what to do. Snapping his fingers, William pointed at a stack, then where he wanted them moved. While Shane did that he sliced off the zip ties holding The Bowery's banner to the side of the truck. As he cut, he listed all the things that could be contributing to this shitty energy between them.
"For the fucking record, I didn't know that Ma was going to bring Henry with her."
Shane snorted. "Not my fucking business."
William whipped his head around, hand tight on his knife. "The hell it's not your business! Unless last week wasn't your business either and I jacked myself off?"
He dropped the banner onto the ground, letting the vinyl flag crumble in a heap.
Shane's ears turned cranberry red.
"On your own. With me. With him." He dropped one box of preserves on top of another, jars rattling. "You're a grown-ass man, do whoever the fuck you want."
The words stung. Whoever he wanted? Couldn't the stupid fucker see that he'd been tying himself in knots because he wanted him?
William stepped off the ramp and touched Shane shoulder. "It wasn't like that," he said, needing him to understand. "Look, I never met him before yesterday. Remember the other week? Ma was talking about trying to get me to go out? Hey, look at me. I'm serious. I'm not like that, Shane."
At first, William thought maybe he was getting through. Shane was accepting the touch; he stared at the boxes with confliction in his brow, on the verge of giving in to the comfort. If William could wait out this stubborn denial, maybe he could earn a glimpse of that guarded mind.
"Doesn't matter," Shane mumbled.
Finally he looked up, and William was surprised to see how runny his eyes were. Not like he'd been crying. Like he'd been drinking. Sure enough, the tangy scent of whiskey hit his nose.
Guilt swirled.
"Did you...drink?" William asked. "Before you came in? Because of yesterday...?"
"I said it didn't matter, okay?" Shane aggressively rolled his shoulder to slide the hand off, then stormed back to the boxes, grabbing another.
There was lead in William's stomach.
"Maybe not to you. But it fucking matters to me. I like you. I don't want to piss you off or hurt you. But you're not out, remember? I'm trying to respect your boundaries."
"Boundaries," Shane repeated as he dropped the box on the stack. He leaned against it, rubbing his forehead and giving a cold, unhappy laugh.
"I promised, didn't I?" William snapped.
He closed and opened his hands, each icy chuckle making him feel like he'd run them along a splintered board. If Shane wanted this too, why was he being such a shithead about it? Did he not believe him?
"Look," William said, dragging calm into his voice, "I get it. I'm not you're favorite person today. I dunno, I just thought you'd fucking see that Henry isn't my type." He rubbed his head, his velvet trimmed scalp a reminder that he'd wanted to look good yesterday for Shane, only to have received unasked-for attention.
Shane jerked up, erupting in a noise of frustration.
"Okay! So Henry's not your type. You weren't together. Fucking noted, man. But this—whatever the fuck this is…" He trembled, dragging the final box from the truck. "Can't we just get back to work? Just…wanna get back to work."
Resigned, William stepped back.
"I'll make it easy on you," he said. "You finish up here and then come to the fence when you're done."
Shane would have a chance to sober up by then. It was a long walk, and maybe with the air cleared they'd be able to find better footing. William wasn't in the habit of lying to himself, but why not? Today was a day of mistakes.
He mounted the ATV and drove out of the barn towards his rotten fence, shoving away the unease about how things stood between them. He focused on the wins instead. Shane had softened under his hand. He wasn't writing him off. William had to trust that maybe, just maybe, they'd end this day as more than enemies.
He had to think positively. After all, they'd already endured their worst fight, right?
Right.
For most of his life, Shane's thoughts were an anchor: at rest while he slept, launched into murky waters upon wakening. A dense, heavy, plummeting hook, landing with a thunk to embed in the sea floor.
Except recently, some fucker had started sneaking in at night to replace Shane's anchor with a buoy—some fucker who did not understand how disconcerting it was to wake up, chuck the familiar object in a lake, and watch it float.
Shane carried a box from the truck and dropped it atop one of the storage shelves. He stared through a dirty smear on the barn window.
God, this would be so much easier if William liked Henry. If he'd admitted to boning them both; if he'd told Shane he was one of many, and that settling on 'secret' had never meant they'd settled on 'exclusive.' Then the anchor could go thunk. Shane could swallow the juvenile heartache of seeing his crush win another man a teddy bear, and shove all these stupid feelings back to the bottom of the ocean.
And he could do that. He could work under William for years, watching men come and go from his life. Shane knew that road of silent suffering better than anyone. It hurt in ways he understood, being invisible, being nobody.
William? William was somebody. Yesterday, his name had reverberated like a shockwave through the town square, starting in Lewis's microphone and pulsing through the crowd. Bossman William Bauer: farmer of farms, drinker of beers, winner of granges.
Destroyer of anchors.
Because no, William hadn't just won a bear for another man. He'd won a bear for a man he had zero-fucking-interest in.
Shane was reminded of the day he'd met Angie—the discovery of that tight leash on her son. She'd been at the fair. She'd set William up, and he'd not done any of those things for Henry's sake, but his mother's. Because he didn't like Henry, he liked Shane.
Dumbass.
Shane pulled out his whiskey and chugged.
William had deserved to win that ribbon. He was an asset to the town, improving the lives of people around him. The regular business he gave Marnie was a substantial boon to the ranch. Because of the community center he'd helped build, Jas had a new schoolroom. Hell, even Pierre had benefited—grange competition or not, William's part in driving out Jojamart could only mean good things for the general store. He was a Midas who turned all he touched to gold.
Even pieces of shit like Shane. For a hot minute, William had shined him enough to fool them both.
He took another swallow of whiskey; gave another gasp. Blinking wet eyes at the window smear, he tugged his hoodie sleeve over a hand, clumsily rubbing the glass to clean it.
What was his contribution to people's lives? Crashing on Marnie's couch like a leech? Bringing in a kid he couldn't support on his own?
Well, he'd padded Gus's pockets too. Pat on the back for that.
Dropping his hand, Shane stared at the fields through the still-streaky window.
William was a fucking idiot. Did he get off on chasing someone fucked in the head? Enjoy having his nuts crushed? Henry was a thirsty tart, but at least he wasn't ashamed and afraid, and if the public hadn't been around yesterday William could've gotten his dick sucked right in the square. They could've kissed without the guy going through an existential crisis.
Fistfights notwithstanding, he'd failed to show William what he'd gotten into bed with. It was like the fucker was immune to being scared off, Shane straining against an immovable boulder while his feet slipped in the dirt.
He pried a splinter from the window pane, flicking it to the floor, then pushed off the shelf. His steps were a slow zig-zag as he walked out of the barn and toward the fence.
William didn't believe he was a walking disaster? Fine. Let the fucker think whatever he wanted. Shane knew the truth.
When William spotted Shane walking an unsteady line across the fields, any confidence he had in the two of them getting back to normal died. Based on the sway to his step, he was even more drunk than he'd been in the barns. Dread mingled with exasperation. Did Shane think William could ignore open intoxication?
When he got closer, the air stank of whiskey. It was like an olfactory sign: Too Drunk To Give A Fuck.
"Are you fucking for real right now?" William asked.
Shane reached for the extra shovel on the back of the fence. When William tried to block him, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, a silent reassurance of, 'Don't worry about it. I'm cone sold stober.'
William shook his head and jerked off his gloves. Before Shane could make use of the shovel, he snagged him by the shoulder, forcing him to sit on the open back of his wagon.
"Listen here, you drunk piece of shit. You're too fucked up to work."
Shane absently swatted at him, only making contact with the air. "I'm fine."
Fine? In what world was being this drunk fine? It was one thing to loosen up with a few shots before going home, but this was beyond the pale.
"Fine," William said, grabbing his wrists to hold him still, "stands for Fucked up, Insane, Nuts, and Egotistical. If that's what you mean, then sure. You're real fucking fine. C'mon. Don't pull this fine shit on me. Your family might be blind, but I know you, dumbass. We've spent how many days drinking after work? You're not fine. You're fucking drunk, and you're lying to me about it."
He stared down at him, heart aching with the mess he'd somehow triggered. God, he couldn't keep anything he touched from turning into shit, could he? But damn it, he hadn't been trying to set off another brain bomb. He'd wanted to be honest, to bridge this gap that kept widening between them.
Shane was a flimsy pole underneath his fingers, his eyes unfocused.
"Can still do my damn job," he mumbled. If William hadn't been practiced in deciphering the lower register of his voice, it would have been a garbled mash of syllables.
He moved his hands off Shane's wrists and onto his legs, gripping the muscles with conviction.
"Bullshit."
He began tapping fingers in order on Shane's thigh.
"You were late today."
Tap.
"You've taken double the time to get anything done."
Tap.
"You've dropped literal cow shit on yourself."
Tap.
"You are walking like you're on a fucking boat."
His fingers stilled.
"You wanna drink? Fine. You do that shit off the clock with me. You don't get fucked up when I need you steady. Otherwise we're going to have issues."
William's heart thudded but he forced his face to remain neutral. One of them had to be a goddamned adult today. Shane's head tilted woozily from side to side, so slight that William was sure he had no clue he was reenacting his best impression of a dashboard bobblehead.
"So fire me," Shane slurred, rubbing a fist into his eye.
"For having issues?" William pulled the fist down, staring into his ruddy face. "I'd have to fucking fire myself."
He pressed Shane's hand to his inner arm, against the pocked skin covered by bright ink. His pulse was pounding into the fingers, but he didn't care.
"Shane, you've got your issues inside. You think I don't know how that feels? I know what it's like to have fucked up days. Lemme repeat it in case whatever you drank washed it out—you ever need an ear, babe, and I'm fucking here. I ain't scared. My house is made of glass and I'm all out of stones."
William released his hold, but Shane didn't pull his hand away. His fingers rested on rose vines that bound William's skin in blackish green and bloody red, slowly tracing the leaves and thorns inked over blown veins. The longer his touch remained, the more hope swelled. William let himself breathe; he was gaining ground.
Shane might be shitfaced, but that didn't erase desperate kisses under a setting sun. It didn't negate the vulnerable cries they'd shared between his sheets. It didn't take away the fact that neither of them wanted to be alone on this dirtball, and if they could just reach together, they could have something real.
"William, what are we?" Shane blurted, the words tumbling out like rocks against a mirror.
"A fucking dumpsterfire," William replied.
It was, he discovered, the wrong thing to say. Shane jerked his hand away.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
Without waiting for an answer he pushed off the back of the wagon and stumbled toward the fence posts, almost tripping on a stack of nearby tools. William glared.
"It means that you're fucking drunk and we shouldn't be talking about labels when you're like this," he snapped, dogging Shane's heels so he could catch him before he ran into something dangerous. "It means that I'm tired of you making me feel amazing one day and treating me like shit the next. Things are all fine and dandy when we have drunk talks, but then you sober up and turn into an asshole."
Shane grabbed the top of the nearest fencepost with both hands, kneading the old wood like it was dough.
"You do this on purpose," he murmured, dropping his head on top of his hands. He nuzzled the post, rocking from side to side. "You just, you fuck me in the head, and then I just…you don't fucking get it, Will. You don't." He pushed back, stretching against the post like a runner before a race. "Can't fucking do this."
It was as if William's hands were full of sand and the harder he tried to hold on the faster it slid through his fingers, yet he was so desperate he didn't know how to stop clinging.
"What can't you do?" he asked.
Shane rocked in his stance.
"This. I don't know how this all fucking happened, William. I'm just supposed to work here, you know? It's not like...I don't..." He struggled, battling each word, his slurred voice almost pleading.
If you think that a relationship between you and an employee could end in any way other than disaster, you are of course welcome to walk that thin line. But remember, whatever ends up happening? You're responsible.
Each drop of Shane's denial blended with his guilt, which blended with his bone-deep knowledge that they'd been so much more than just fooling around. William closed his eyes, his back a taut wire.
"So. You want it to stop? Want me to back off completely? Because if that's how you feel..." He swallowed back bile. "I can button it up."
Shane's knuckles went white in his grip.
"I want...to WANT it to stop."
He straightened and pushed hard off the wood. Digging a hand in his hair he stomped away, following the row of rotting fence posts.
Panic added a shot to William's guilt-frustration cocktail. What did that mean? Did that mean he wanted to quit working? Did that mean he wanted William to never speak to him again? Never touch him? Did he just want to be friends? Did he want to go blow his head off?
"Hey!" he called, following after him.
Shane didn't stop.
"THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER, DAMN YOU!"
Still tugging his head down, Shane clumsily bumped the top of each post with a hand as he passed them. William stared, shaking.
He should just let him go. It wasn't like he was going to make him understand this way. After all, he'd just committed the heinous sin of trying to be the person he'd wanted when he was going through his own spiral of destruction. The only option was to let Shane take his toxicity elsewhere. Give up and write it all off as a bad experience. Take the lick and lie the fuck down.
Did he really need him?
Yes. And fuck if it's not like watching my goddamn heart walk away.
Much as he'd tried to keep it casual, Shane ending it before it could start? That shit felt worse than a broken bone.
William wasn't thinking when he stalked after him. Ignoring the sane part of his brain that said not to, he grabbed Shane by the arm, whipping him around until they faced each other. He took him by the collar, letting his fury, anger, and hurt shine down so that Shane was forced to see what he'd done.
"You tell me to fuck off then," he snarled. "If you want me to leave you alone, you tell me to my face to fuck off."
For the first time all day, Shane finally met his gaze. He glared back, hatred beaming through his red, sunken eyes.
"Fuck. Off."
William felt struck by frostbite. He closed his eyes and dropped his hold, the walls in his mind slamming up hard. When he opened them, he hoped they reflected the icy chill in his chest.
"Understood," he said, voice cold. "If you come back tomorrow, it better be fucking sober. Otherwise? You are fucking fired."
He waited, wanting to make sure the ultimatum sank into the pickled asshole's drunk brain.
"Fine," Shane spat.
Then he stormed off, leaving William alone under a blue sky next to a rotted fence.
Shane didn't follow the dirt road home. He went through Cindersap forest instead, head down, temples throbbing. He stumbled over poison ivy and brambles, swatting a low-hanging tree branch, which retaliated in a sharp lash against his shoulder.
Tears sprang instantly to his eyes.
He stopped in his tracks and looked up, vision blurring as the forest spun around him, a breeze spangling the leaves like autumn glitter in the sunlight. Inside his mind words danced too, fluttering from one side to the other in a chorus of echoes: What are we, William?
He'd sounded pitiful, like he was twelve, not a grown-ass man in his thirties. God, this was all so fucking wrong. Shane was supposed to get drunk, go to work, and pull a curtain on this whole goddamn nightmare. He'd wanted William to tell him this was it. No more drinking on his dime, no more stupid teenager games of hot and cold, no more putting up with his piss-ass attitude. He was supposed to get fucking angry. Fire him.
He wasn't supposed to answer with empathy and understanding, or put his hands on Shane's thighs and call him 'babe' all over again. Now Shane didn't know where to go. Instead of pulling the curtain, he'd brought the whole bullshit rod crashing down.
And it was bullshit.
Not wanting to be with William was bullshit. Trying to push him away? Bullshit. This wasn't one-sided. Whatever their label, this wasn't casual and they both fucking knew it. Except William had been trying to tell him that, and Shane had been too fucking scared to listen.
At the edge of the forest was a fork in the road, leading west to the dock and east to the ranch. He went east, but instead of going home, stuck to the river on the opposite side of the road, keeping close to the bank. It was heavily shrubbed and hid him from the residential area. When he finally emerged on cobblestone, a footbridge led him to the far side of town, a place so abandoned Shane could be invisible in broad daylight. Just the library, Clint's currently closed blacksmith shop, and the big slab of concrete under Shane's feet.
He lifted his gaze, staring at his old place of employment.
JojaMart was boarded up from the front, splashed in black graffiti. Shane crossed the lot where the delivery trucks had parked, walked around the side of the building, and paused in front of a heavy door. Trash blew over the cracked pavement and except for the seagulls circling above, it was deserted. He fumbled in his pockets, feeling around the empty liquor bottle for his wallet.
Coming down from drunkenness always made him uncoordinated and weak, but when he managed to dig out his lockpicks, the lock melted like butter in his practiced hands. There was a tiny click, and when he pulled the silver handle it creaked open. Sunlight streamed through the door, dust particles floating in its pale beams between washed-out darkness.
Shane stepped inside and closed the door into black silence.
The first thing he noticed was the bitter smell of old metal: pipes, carts, forklifts. Then came the mustiness of concrete and dusty cardboard boxes. The air was stale, like it'd been ages since it was swirled by a human presence.
The store had been closed a month. While it seemed like a lifetime ago to Shane, being here was uncomfortably familiar, like slipping on an ugly old coat. How many times had he been in this back room, the depression creeping in as his morning buzz faded? Shots in his coffee had been a ritual long before he'd worked on the farm. With their help he could arrive on time and punch in like a good employee, even greeting a few early shoppers. While buzzing, people felt more real to Shane—there was a vague sense he shared an actual reality with those customers and coworkers.
Yet once he started sobering up…
Some days, the walls had closed in while he sank deeper into his head, until he was drowning and couldn't see anyone else, like he was the only person alive. Other days, he drifted. Detached. Floated toward the ceiling, watching himself work, unable to feel any of it. Like no one existed.
The room of solid black fizzled into a shadowbox of dark shapes as his eyes adjusted. He could see enough to take a few steps forward, hands connecting with shelves, softly groping his way around. Muscle memory helped him find the door that led to the back hallway and he pushed it open.
The hall was brighter, windows near the rafters letting in trickles of light. Shane followed it past abandoned mop buckets, giant drains, and the trash compactor, then ran his hand along the inside ledge of the cardboard baler. Were the store operating, he'd be written up for safety violations. They'd worry about him losing a finger, not knowing that Shane used to imagine crawling inside to be crushed out of his misery.
He passed ladders, with their ridged metal rungs fixed right to the wall. Those rungs disappeared into a gated storage above the coolers, near the ceiling. How many times had Shane considered hanging himself there?
At the end of the hall he rounded the corner, stopping before a door that led to the store's interior. For as many hours as he'd logged on the sales floor maybe he ought to have some memories attached to it, but he'd blocked out those times the hardest. The colors, the people, the cart traffic. The non-stop music interrupted by Joja jingles. It'd been so fucking overstimulating he'd shut down until his body functioned by automaton.
Shane turned with his back against the door, sinking to the cold concrete. Elbows on knees, he dropped his head and rubbed soft circles on his neck.
For better or worse, it was these back rooms that defined half his waking life. Getting a job had been the first decision he'd made on his own. Garrett helped him with the paperwork, but it'd been Shane's choice to start working the summer after 10th grade, and Garret hadn't understood why he was so eager. After all, he'd unofficially adopted Shane into his lifestyle, providing him with everything a guy could need.
Except alcohol.
Shane had brought a fistful of bills from his first paycheck to Jerry's porch; Jerry, who'd mopped up his nose that day when he was fifteen. Jerry, who'd warned him off things like meth, heroin, and joining gangs, but who'd been more than happy to be the middle-man between a sixteen year old boy and his liquor. It's just what kids did. What they'd always done.
Youse a good kid, son, he used to say, shaking his head with a smile while handing over the cheapest whiskey money could buy.
Shane pulled the bottle from his pocket. Sunlight from the rafters shifted, a blinding strip darting over the glass; it stung his eyes as hard and fast as the branch that'd whipped him on the trail.
He began to cry.
Today, the whole building was his closet. Nobody was around to hear his stifled sobs, or him sucking in his runny nose. He cried until he was hiccuping. Their echoes bounced off the concrete walls, and he pressed his fingertips into the bottle again and again, as if he could squeeze out whatever was inside him.
"I can't do it," Shane choked, the words garbled. "I can't. I can't do it again."
Maybe…he was listening. If there was anything worth a damn in the world, maybe he was here.
"I can't," he repeated, loud and wet. "I can't fucking do it again. Will can't be here, and then not be here. He can't fucking do what you did, Garrett. And he fucking wants me?"
The last sentence came out like something dislodged from his throat; Shane choked and dropped his head, rubbing more circles on his neck.
William circles.
Slow and self-soothing, his thumbs worked with the same pressure William used when gripping Shane's neck, chasing back the fear.
"He wants me," he whispered, a lone tear splatting to the cold floor. "He does. I'm a fucking idiot, and he wants me, and what do I fucking do with that? How do I just…"
Shane sucked more snot into his nose, wiping the drips with the back of his hand that held the bottle.
"It's a joke, right? It's a sick fucking joke. They aren't gonna let him stay. Not that I believe in some higher power, but he's too goddamn good to be true and they're gonna let me get attached, and—and then they're gonna fucking rip him away from me. It's what they do. Whoever or whatever the fuck is in charge, it's what they do."
Shane cried all over again.
It was different than it'd been with Garrett. He and William had known each other months, not years. Yet Shane knew in his heart they weren't some fling. They weren't fucking casual. Whatever had grown between them in this short time, it'd started with fireworks and ended in roots. People weren't meant to plant themselves in your lives so damn fast, but like always, William hadn't played by the rules. He was already a voice in Shane's conscience like he'd lived there all along, and Shane didn't have to know him for years to realize he was irreplaceable. Just like Garrett; there were no more Williams in the world.
From the moment he'd opened his eyes in the steamy spa and met William's gaze back, all Shane had known was fear of losing that. He couldn't do it again. He'd go mad, and not in some self-loathing drunken spiral. He'd go truly, deeply insane.
The second wave of tears began to slow, the water drying on his cheeks. Shane gently gulped air, still rubbing his neck with those circles.
Those slow, soothing, William circles.
"I'm so tired," he whispered. His thumb pressed harder, voice cracking as he said, "I'm so fucking tired, William."
It felt like a prayer—something that couldn't be taken back once it was put into the universe. But Shane didn't want to take it back. He grew quiet and still, except for the thumb rubbing circles. They slowed his pattering heart, into that drop of time and space after tears when everything felt softer.
There was nothing left in him to fight this. William, and everything he was doing to Shane's heart, had won.
William stalked towards the four-wheeler and snagged the first tool that came to his hand: a claw hammer.
Yeah. That felt about right. A fucking hammer. What a wonderful tool to break things.
Just like you.
He squeezed the handle and then whirled on the fence, slamming it down, cracking a rotten board.
God, that felt fucking good.
He did it again, then again. The process became rote: slam hammer down, break board, and jerk nails to the side. He found a rhythm, pounding with steady focus.
Three slams. Crash. Dig out the post. Replace. Nail the fresh board. Repeat.
Five boards.
Fifteen.
Forty-Five.
Posts piled behind him. His hands were blistering, competing with the pain in his heart. It didn't matter. If his muscles were screaming, then he wasn't able to think.
One hundred.
He was sweating now, sheets of the awful stuff coming down his skin, stinging his eyes, gluing fabric to his back like a damn t-shirt tattoo. He ripped it off. It tore in the process and he stared at the damp cloth, then at his bloody palms. Two more rips and he had the shirt wrapped over his hands.
He went back to work; it was another hour before he started to feel the pain, which gave him something real to focus on.
Nothing else about the last few months had been real.
As the shadows lengthened, he replayed those false weeks through his mind, letting the tempo of the repetitive work act like a drum, keeping beat to the story in his head.
That first fight should have told him all he needed to know. He should have recognized that he was a violent sociopath fixating on someone to bully. Why wouldn't Shane run from that? And then later by the lake, Shane had been desperate, so of course he'd taken the job. He'd even told him, hadn't he? It wasn't because he was doing William a favor.
But William hadn't wanted a favor. He'd wanted to explore what had been between them on that porch. His entire life he'd been throwing himself into relationships that were wrong. Telling himself over and over again to ignore warning signs. Why? Because he was lonely, and Shane made him feel like someone was sitting in his corner.
He slammed the next board into place, his thumbnail cracking to the quick, blood beading up around the ragged edge. Pain erased the thoughts in his mind, leaving behind only throbbing clarity.
You knew it was too good to be true. You knew no one could want you. No one who knows the real you.
Because even if it had been real, even if it was still real, William wasn't good enough to make it worth it. He wasn't stronger than what drove Shane to drink.
He ran out of fence posts after midnight. His hands were throbbing balls of agony; skin raw and throbbing when he gripped the ATV handles. He drove his four-wheeler back along the perfectly straight and new fence, stopping to throw rotten boards into the back of the wagon.
Shit where you eat.
He threw another board.
Pushed too hard.
Each clunk echoed in the loneliness of doing this alone, each board another reminder of his mistakes. All the times that he'd ruined what he'd touched. Disappointed his parents. Let down people who'd trusted him with their lives.
He was on the last set of boards when his grip slipped and he ripped his knuckles across exposed nails. He hissed, dropping the wood and folding his arm against his chest. Tears sprang.
God. When was the last time he'd cried over physical pain?
His physical therapy, he remembered, swaying as he held his ruined hands. Every physical therapy, he'd cried. Sobbed while trying to learn to walk again. He flashed to how it'd felt, arms shaking on metal rails, two therapists holding him steady, his twisted vine of a spine screaming against the pins and screws that held it straight.
Those had been good tears. Cleansing. He'd screamed as he fought for his legs again, each leaky tear a release giving him room to heal.
Now, each tear was a barb. Salt in a raw wound of loss, because once more, he was alone.
Back at the house he parked his four-wheeler akimbo, and on the porch kicked off his shoes and struggled with the door handle. Ingrid fled when he crashed onto the guest bed.
"Fuck you, too," he muttered, intoxicated from exertion. Exhaustion came over him like a wave and he turned his head, peeking at the clock.
2:00 am.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.