THE WAREHOUSE WAS DIFFERENT AT night, the exterior washed in sudden floodlights that sparked to life at the approach of Paul’s car. He’d banished Connor to the back seat, insisted I ride shotgun, and the two of them had immediately started giving each other endless amounts of shit. By the time we pulled into the warehouse lot, I was laughing too hard to breathe.
The change in their demeanor was instantaneous as we walked inside—both spines straightened, both sets of shoulders squared. Both smiles flipped as they flanked me and bulldozed down the hallway, scanning each room for any sign of disarray or shady behavior. The place was calm, though, the artists quiet and hard at work.
Their living space was enormous, a shadowy expanse of concrete and brick and scattered wood shavings. A half-carved sculpture dominated what was clearly Paul’s side; a low, padded stool stood beside it, next to a wheeled cart loaded with tools and bins. His bed was large and cozy-looking, covered in pillows and a zebra-print spread. A set of metal shelves bracketed the bed, each stacked to capacity with carvings and statues, trinkets and blown-glass sculptures. A mini fridge and a small safe squatted beneath a glass-topped table, on which rested a laptop and speaker system, a Keurig brewer, and a high-end work lamp. Two rolling garment racks, hung to capacity with clothes grouped by color, stretched along the wall. Everything was spread out and comfortable and casually pretty.
The other side of the room, Connor’s side, smacked of austerity—the involuntary kind that sprouts from need rather than want. A plain drafting table and metal stool. A dilapidated, folded-out futon, messy with blankets and mismatched throw pillows. A wooden crate, overflowing with paperbacks. A small wheeled cart that held his bathroom caddy and a coffeepot, an electric hot pot and an oversize mug. The stacks of plastic bins that held his clothing, half-covered by a tired canvas tarp. A smaller plastic bin filled with ramen packets, granola bars, and loose pouches of instant oatmeal. All of it scrunched and stacked and starkly visible from where I stood, reluctant to encroach upon the side of the room he’d once shared. Something wrenched in me at the sight—a surge of pity for a boy whose whole life fit into a warehouse corner. A boy who considered a corner an improvement over what he’d had.
They divided and stored their groceries as I edged into the room, unsure where to put my feet. Nervous for no reason, clumsy out of nowhere—I nearly fell over my own grocery tote bags, which Connor had set just inside the doorway.
“Is there a bathroom I could use?” My voice was a small echo that drew both their gazes.
“Nah,” Paul drawled, stretching languidly across his bed. “You can pee out back by the river’s edge, like everyone else. Unless you think you’re too good for the way we live.”
“The bathroom is the next door down to your right.” Connor sat cross-legged on his futon, grinned at my hesitant blink. “It’s minuscule, but it’s indoors. Grain of salt, right, Paul?”
“Y’all know you love me.” Paul threw me a wink. “Go on, girl. Don’t leave the seat down.”
The word “minuscule” was a generous descriptor—my bedroom closet boasted more floor space. There was no tub or shower, just a toilet and a pedestal sink, and enough room to stand in front of each. A toilet brush and plunger skulked in the corner behind a tiny wastebasket. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling abstract mural of black, blue, and purple paint, a weird contrast to the olive green of the floor tiles and graffiti-laden industrial gray of the other walls. There was a mirror above the sink and a wall-mounted soap dispenser, but no medicine cabinet or shelving or other storage space. A roll of paper towels sat on the lid of the toilet tank next to a spray bottle. The seat was up, of course, but the toilet itself was surprisingly clean, and I saw why as soon as I sat down. A metal picture frame that screamed Connor’s handwork hung on the door, a handwritten list secured behind the glass:
ALL USING THIS BATHROOM MUST ADHERE TO THE FOLLOWING:
I was still giggling when I returned to their room. Both of them were absorbed in their respective sketchbooks, their faces identically focused and intense. Paul’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth; Connor’s lower lip was anchored between his teeth.
“There you are,” Connor said, looking up from his sketchbook as I closed the door. “Sorry about the lack of seating options—we’re not too fancy around here.”
“This is fine. This is great, actually. I’d kill for a setup like this.”
He smirked at that, bumping my shoulder with his as I settled next to him on the futon. “You just want a turn on that spinning wheel. Don’t lie.”
“You spin?” Paul poked his head up, interest sparked. “She spins?”
“Not yet. I plan on teaching her once I dig out that wool, but we didn’t get the chance last time, because my hand got the shit cut out of it by this one girl.”
“Shut up,” I moaned, returning his playful shove. “You’re the worst, Connor.”
“So I’m told. But yeah, Lane’s a fiber artist.”
“I knit and crochet. Scarves and hats, mostly.” I ducked behind my hair to dodge Paul’s approving grin. “My stuff sells, but I don’t think anyone sees me as an artist. Not the way you guys are artists.”
“Whatever with all that,” Paul scoffed. “Art is art. Envision, attempt, create. And then, hopefully fucking profit. If you make money off your work, you’re ahead of most of the folks who hang out here.”
“And some of the folks who live here,” Connor sighed. “This month, at least. So, speaking of living here …”
“Please. When I tire of your indentured servitude, I’ll let you know. Find you a nice girl. Toss her some bribe money to take you off my hands.”
“Girl?”
The word leaped out of my mouth, my brain loping along half a mile behind it. I blinked back and forth between their quizzical glances.
“Assuming there exists one who can deal with his bullshit,” Paul said, “so odds are I’m stuck with him for life.”
“But—” I turned to Connor. “A girl?”
“Yeah? Why is that—” Connor went silent all at once, then red, and then a gasp and a high-pitched cackle burst out of Paul and shrieked their way across the room. Connor’s hands hit his face, and his back hit the mattress, sending a jolt through the futon. “Jesus. No. Oh my God, Lane, I’m not gay.”
“You’re—what? You’re not? But I thought you two—” My head swiveled between him and Paul, who had tipped over and was hanging halfway off his own bed, literally screaming with laughter. “You and Paul—”
“ ‘Him and Paul’ not a goddamn thing,” Paul bellowed. “Hard pass on the ‘him and Paul,’ if it’s all the same to you.”
“Yeah, definitely not so much.” Connor sat up and rubbed his eyes, fixed them solidly on the floor between his feet. “Lane, I think we need to back up a few steps. Where, exactly, did you hear this?”
“From everyone. I mean, they said—” I blew out a frustrated breath, refocused my thoughts into coherent words. “Your youth group friends went around to the whole school with it. Years ago, back when you got exiled. They said that’s the reason you left home.”
“Wow. That makes sense, I guess, in a fucked-up way—explains why every last one of those so-called friends forgot my name overnight.”
“Wait—are you saying they made it up? Why? That actually doesn’t make sense.”
“Punishment, Lane. The prize sheep ghosted the flock—can’t have that, or the other kids might start thinking for themselves. I’m just surprised this shit didn’t make it back to me sooner.”
“What the fuck.” I stared at his barely perturbed face, shook my head at his casual shrug. “Seriously, that’s the worst they could do—say you like guys? Like that’s even a bad thing?”
“That congregation is wall-to-wall bigots stacked on assholes, and yes—to them it is the worst, if their endgame was to shut me out for good. Looks like it worked.”
Paul’s laughter trailed into silence. A self-conscious heat swarmed up my neck, danced its way over my cheeks. Stupid. So, so stupid.
“I am so sorry, Connor. I am.” When he didn’t answer, I plowed on, raking my hands through my hair, working it into a mess of tangles. “I’m sorry that happened to you, and I’m sorry I never knew, or thought to question it. I know how much shit goes around that school, and—”
“Whoa, careful.” His hand stilled mine, and he leaned closer, all business, unwinding a snarl of hair from my fingers. “It’s fine, Lane. ‘Gay’ isn’t an insult in my world.”
“Of course it’s not,” I muttered, looking everywhere but at him. My gaze leaped over Paul, then returned. He watched us silently, head to one side. “Sorry, Paul.”
“Sorry? I’m not bothered by those bitches. Anyway, the look on his face when you broke the news? That was the funniest shit I’ve seen in ages.” He glanced at his phone, then rolled off the bed, grabbed his car keys off the glass tabletop. “I need to go shower. You guys coming?”
“To the shower? With you?” I peered at him, but he seemed perfectly serious. “Um.”
“To the gym,” Connor said. He tucked the now-smooth length of hair behind my ear and sat back, satisfied. “No shower here, as you might have noticed. You go on, Paul. I’ll head over in the morning.”
“Damn right you will. Go early, do some squats. Keep that ass looking how you know I like it.” Paul cracked up at himself, waving off Connor’s raised middle finger. “You need a ride, Laney?”
“Oh. No, Grey is expecting my text. But if I’m in your way, Connor …”
“Well, I was planning to finally make my move on Paul, but the moment appears to have passed.”
“Like I even would with you,” Paul sniffed. “You take him, Laney—get this boy set up at your place and out of my hair, and you can have that spinning wheel.”
“Oh, okay,” I scoffed. “I’m sure my dad won’t mind that at all.”
“Yeah, because your dad’s the problem.” Connor slid toward me and leaned in, sending a whisper into my ear. “Elaine.”
“Shut up.” I jerked backward, everything burning in my cheeks. His face was bright and flushed, mouth pulled into an impish smirk. “It is not like that. It’s—fuck. Fuck. Connor, I swear—”
“Sure it’s not. Like he wouldn’t if he thought he could.” He shook his head at my glare, settling back on the futon. “What? He’s a good kid, but come on—he’s no saint. And neither are you.”
We stared at each other. His words reached through my skin, flicked at the raw hollow behind my heart where I’d buried so many things I’d tried to ignore regarding Grey—things Connor casually dropped between us like innards on a butcher’s block, gross and disposable. Unavoidable.
I lowered my eyes, focused on the white-knuckle clench of my fingers. Bit down on my tongue to still the tremble of my chin.
“I don’t want to talk about it. And you shouldn’t either.”
“That’s fine.” He leaned backward and reached behind me, snagged his sketchbook from a fold in the blankets. “It’s above my pay grade, anyway.”
“Meaning?”
“Lane, you’re pining for my sister’s boyfriend. Even if he weren’t your brother, that’s some high school drama that’ll do its thing without my input.”
“He’s not my brother,” I hissed. “And I am not pining.”
“Oh, look at this mess.” Paul leaned against the doorframe, grinning at me with all his teeth. Enjoying himself way too much to leave. “The lady doth protest, right?”
“Don’t you start,” I snarled, face catching fire as they both fully lost their shit. I glowered at Connor as he doubled over, laughing too hard to breathe. “Wow. Thanks for your support, asshole.”
“I’m sorry,” he howled. “It’s just so fucked up. Your life. Your poor life.”
I didn’t bother arguing with that one.
Paul cackled his way out the door as I slid off the futon and rummaged through my bag, seeking the needles and skein attached to my current hat-in-progress. Might as well get some work done while stewing in said ridiculous life.
Connor’s laughter slowed to gasps, then trailed to chuckles, as he bent over the sketchbook. The hush was sudden and obvious; the only sounds were the rustling of pages, the scratch of his pencil, his quiet breathing. I stood there with my yarn, unsure where to sit. Wondering if it was too late to chase down Paul and dive into his car, peel out of the parking lot in a hot-cold cloud of adrenaline and skin-crawling shame. Why did every visit to the warehouse seem to culminate in an excruciating silence? This was even more awkward than the dead-mom conversation.
“I should go.” He didn’t respond. I swallowed hard, voice catching in my throat with a tiny click. “Connor.”
“What?”
I’d startled him out of his trance. He blinked at me through a stray lock of hair, then swiped at it until it settled behind his ear with the rest, and I was back in the metal room, blade poised, voice caught in the spaces between each impossible breath. The last time his eyes looked like that, things had ended in blood. An eternal pause hung between us, as if the awkward moment in the Trader Joe’s parking lot had sniffed out our trail, followed us and found us, engulfed us once more in its thickening silence.
“Don’t.” My voice was little more than a whisper. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I wasn’t looking at you at all, until you said my name. But I’ll stop, if it bothers you.” He tilted his head to the side, considering, then let his eyes slide from mine to the floor, and all the way back up. The corner of his mouth curled into a slow, wicked smirk. “Hmm. Or should I look at you more often?”
“God, will you not?” I glared at him, cheeks sparking and flaring all over again as he refocused on his work, not bothering to stifle a laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just, eye contact wasn’t a problem when I was gay.” He made a show of peeping through his hair, ducking back behind it when he glimpsed my scowl. “Ah, shit. Busted.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
He burst out laughing, deflecting the flying skein. It bounced off his arm and landed behind him on the futon. I gave him a halfhearted scowl, wishing it was possible to fade a blush by sheer force of will.
“Okay, Connor, you made your point. Any chance we could never speak of this again?”
“Hell no. This is forever our thing.”
“But you won’t—” Even thinking the words made me cringe, but I forced them out. I had to. “You won’t speak of—anything—to anyone else either, right? Please?”
“Wait—what exactly are you asking me to hide?” His eyes darkened; his mouth pulled into something just short of a snarl. “I was borderline joking earlier, but if he’s messing around on Sadie—”
“No, God—nothing like that. It’s not about her—it goes so far back, way before them, but I would never—” I stumbled over my own protests, pressed my palms over my eyes to block his judgment. He was going to tell Sadie. He’d tell her, and she’d rip the world off its hinges, and I would deserve every last bit of the resulting fallout. “I’m the worst and I know it, okay? But it’s all on me—he hasn’t done anything. He doesn’t even know.”
The silence that followed was damn near eternal, building and buzzing in my quaking limbs. His sudden laugh, when it happened, nearly sent me out of my skin.
“Lane, if you can maybe locate your chill, that would be great. So, you have a crush—so what. As long as my sister isn’t getting screwed over, I honestly don’t give a shit.”
“You—don’t?” I peeked out through my fingers. Connor gazed at me, unblinking, mouth quirked, eyes in neutral. “So you won’t tell them?”
“Like I’d do that to you.” His conspiratorial wink sent a sharp burst of relief through my bones. He shook his head at my sigh and gestured to the space beside him. “Jesus, you’re a mess. Sit down, knock out some rows. Grab something to read or whatever, and calm the fuck down before you pass out.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Connor? If I’m in your way—”
“Never stopped you before.”
“You’re such an asshole.” I climbed onto the futon and retrieved my yarn, stretched out beside him on my stomach. Leaned against his knee, determined to bulldoze my way back to normal. “I’ll show you ‘in the way.’ Move over.”
He grinned at the fading flush of my cheeks and resumed work on his sketch, shifting sideways. Making room for me.