The days leading up to Thanksgiving are some of the busiest at the deli, and next week will be even worse. I work every day, which is good news for a few reasons:
1. I can use the money.
2. I get very little attention at home as long as I’m working.
3. I have zero time for a social life.
The few moments of free time I do have are spent at the monastery.
Being surrounded by the statues gives me the illusion of not being alone, while not having to deal with actual conversations. Plus—no surprises. And it’s still nice enough out to ride my bike. Going past Henry’s neighborhood on the way is also an added bonus. I’ve tried to avoid major contact since the lunchroom incident. He understands. Right now, neither of us can risk too much drama. But my mind plays tricks and I think I see and hear him everywhere I go. I can definitely still smell him, and that makes me miss Henry even more. I pull out my journal and start to sketch him. I sketch Henry the way he looked when we were in his room. When we kissed. How his eyes looked at me as if they needed to see me in order to continue to shine.
I ride down Henry’s street on my way back home. This is my fourth time riding past. I’m hoping he’ll appear but at the same time I’m hoping he won’t.
When he shows up, I stop, blinking my eyes, trying to make sure it’s really him. I turn my bike around and ride back toward his house. We meet at the curb. I’m out of breath. He’s wide-dimpled smiling.
“What are you doing?”
“Stalking.”
“You can come in, you know. Claire’s home. My parents are . . .”
“Have to get back home before it gets too late.”
“Want to go for a drive tomorrow?”
“I have a family party to go to at my uncle’s. You know. Every year.”
Henry has both hands deep in his front pockets and he mumbles his words. “I think I’m going to go away for a few days. To one of those places. On our list.”
“What?” I’m trying to make eye contact. Does he need to get away—from me?
“I just need a little break.”
“Right.” I’m not convinced.
We’re both silent.
“You’re doing your avoiding thing again.” I don’t say anything. “And I get it. I’m starting to figure you out. Push. Pull.” He messes my already windblown hair. “It’s only taken me years. Claire’s going to go with me. I didn’t want to go alone. I want to figure some stuff out.”
“Okay. Um.”
“What?”
I blurt out, “I want to go with you. So bad.”
“Ev, I want you to. I didn’t ask ’cause I know the situation at home.”
“I hate being left out.” I laugh uncomfortably at myself. “You know I’m not avoiding us ’cause I want to.”
“I get. Like I said, I’m figuring you out.” He smiles.
“Where are you going?”
“To see the albino squirrels of Olney, Illinois. It’s about three hours away.”
I chuckle. “Well, that sounds pretty perfect. I think I wrote that one down.”
He nods. “I’ll take pictures.”
“And your parents are okay with this?”
“They said they were. It helps that Claire’s coming.”
“Right. She is their favorite.” I smile.
“Asshole.” He gently bumps his right shoulder into me.
“I’m glad you’re going.”
“You have the monastery, your drawings. I need something.” His voice drifts off. “Maybe now more than ever.”
I look right at him and say, “What’s it like? Being out to your family?”
“Some days it’s like nothing. Everyone’s just the same. Grumpy, loud, happy, stupid. You know. Other days, it’s a thing.”
“Bad thing?”
With a low voice and his eyes avoiding mine he says, “No. Just . . . I just want it to be like before. I don’t want to be the gay son. The one everybody is trying so hard with. You know?”
I want to hug him right now and make him feel okay, but instead I say, “I don’t. I mean, I think I do, but you know.”
“Yeah. How is it? How has she been?” I can hear the nervousness in his voice.
“Okay. No major incidents. I’m keeping a low profile. Following the rules. Being a . . .”
“A good little soldier?” His eyes are dark. “You know I want to go over there, right? Go over there and talk to her. Tell her never to touch you again. Actually, I don’t think I’d talk that much.”
A part of me feels warm, in a good way, at what Henry is saying. No one has ever stood up for me like that. “You can never get involved. Henry? Look at me.”
He stares at the sky, the ground. Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are wet. “I think about you in that apartment, and I get so fucking mad.”
“You are not getting involved.”
“I already am. I want to make it stop.”
“I can take care of myself.” He sighs. Finally, he leans his head in and touches his forehead to mine. We’re outside. At the curb. In front of his house, and I don’t flinch.