Six years ago.
His father found Lance’s new hiding spot.
It’s been a long time since he’s used floorboards, as his father has long since learned all of the small signs that lead him to those underfoot spaces. So, Lance has found other spots, most of them outside. But those are dangerous, too, because he has to mark them somehow. He can’t exactly draw himself a map—then, he’d have to hide that. That means he’s ended up using little stone towers, like cairns, marking each place. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before his father found one of them, and apparently that time has come.
There’s a broken glass jar on the kitchen table, a crumpled piece of black fabric amidst the shards. There’s only one thing it could be: the lace panties Lance took last spring from the department store downtown. Sure enough, as he looks for another moment, a ridge of lace catches the light and Lance can even see the shiny pink tag, still attached.
When Lance takes things from stores, he always leaves the tags on. In his mind, that means that he could still return the items, one day. That makes it taking, not stealing. Certainly not shoplifting.
It’s not the first time his father has gotten angry at Lance for taking. But Lance knows that, this time, what Lance took is the detail that has thrown his father completely out of orbit. He’s yelling at Lance so loudly, and his words are all slurring together. That’s partially because Lance’s ears are ringing and partially because his father has already emptied a bottle of whiskey. It’s lying on its side next to the kitchen sink.
He’s still steady enough to cross the kitchen, pick up the bottle by the neck, and raise it in Lance’s direction. That’s when Lance runs.
He runs out into the summer starlight. And he runs to the only place he ever runs, really—the Chases’ farmhouse. The porch light motion sensor comes on as he crosses the yard, and a relieved breath rushes out of him. He quiets his steps out of habit, though he knows that even if he wakes them all, they won’t ask him why he’s there or turn him away. Still, it’s better to sneak in. It’s better to reach the empty side of Danny’s bed without having to talk to anyone, not until morning. Everything always seems more bearable in the mornings.
Lance avoids all of the creaky places in the floors of this house he loves and knows so well, until he’s upstairs and halfway down the hall to Danny’s door.
But he doesn’t make it there in the end, because Robbie’s light is on and his door is half-open. He calls out as Lance passes.
“Lance, is that you?”
Today.
Lance doesn’t sleep. He stares out the window at the piling snow and the moonlight, until the marbled silver wall of clouds passes over the moon and there’s only darkness.
Robbie wasn’t kidding about how noisy the air compressor is. He scared all three cats into hiding under the sofa while he ran it. Under any other circumstances, Lance would have laughed until his stomach ached. But in the aftermath of his conversation with Robbie, he found no humor in the situation. He just lay still with his back to Robbie and pretended the noise was nothing, watching the window.
Before he laid down himself, Robbie explained he was leaving his phone where Lance could use it if he needed it. He wrote down the password on a slip of paper in case Lance forgot. Then, he got down on the air mattress, in the dark near the bathroom door outside the span of the moonlight. Even when Lance snuck glances over his shoulder, he couldn’t see Robbie. He could hear the blankets rustling, though, for a while—quite a while. He wondered if either of them would sleep at all. But then, eventually, Robbie’s breaths grew deep and even, leaving Lance alone as if he were the only person awake in the world.
He thinks of his father’s house across the creek. He thinks of his younger self in his room, facing the window framed by curtains laced by a mother he can’t remember. So many years have been spent thinking of his inability to sleep the way he’s imagined everyone else in the world does, slipping under and out with the lights…another thing that’s made him different. Another aspect of himself that’s separated him from other people. It wasn’t until he was almost through college that he got his sleeping pills. He thinks of the little bottle tucked into his luggage in the trunk of his—or rather, Niall’s—car, which would solve his sleeping problem in just fifteen to twenty minutes. Then, he thinks about those dreamless nights on the pills, veiling a deeper problem with a surface remedy, but not letting himself consider it too carefully. Focusing instead on the way he could lie down next to Niall and not have to spend the whole night staring at him and hearing his snores.
He tries not to think about how soundly he slept, unmedicated and nestled in Robbie’s arms. He fails.
To torture himself a little more, he thinks about how he chased Robbie out of the bed they were sharing and across the hayloft, for reasons he can’t even untangle in his own mind, let alone hope to explain to Robbie. Shouldn’t he have been relieved when Robbie heard the truth about Niall and wasn’t angry or disgusted?
Maybe he was angry and disgusted, and just didn’t say so.
Yet, Lance doesn’t think Robbie could have hidden his real feelings so well. There’d been no trace of condemnation on his face.
Maybe I’m the one who’s angry and disgusted.
That thought is the one that lingers in Lance’s head until sunup.
When the sun rises, Robbie wakes. He doesn’t say anything to Lance; maybe he thinks Lance is sleeping. He runs water in the sink; Lance hears the now-familiar sounds of the pat of a scoop of powdered milk against the surface of the warm water, and then the tinny call of the swirling whisk against the thick plastic mixing bowl. When he’s finished, Robbie opens and closes the door, and for a few minutes at least, Lance is really alone.
Lance slides out of bed immediately, gets the clothes he dug out of the odds and ends of Johnny’s old wardrobe just for the occasion of today, and walks fast for the bathroom, trying not to look at the air mattress and its single pillow and blanket as he dodges it. He shuts the door and turns on the shower, getting cleaned up as fast as possible and hoping the steam might take a few of the wrinkles out of Johnny’s khakis and button-down.
Under the stream of water, Lance remembers running from his father’s house to Riverside for the last time six years ago, and offering his heart to Robbie, knowing Robbie would never take it. For some reason, there’s an echo of that same feeling in the visceral reaction he had last night when Robbie calmly reminded him that there was nothing Lance could do which would change the way Robbie feels about him.
You’re family. It’s all Lance ever wanted, until he began to want more.
Lance can’t quite puzzle through the feelings, as there’s too much white noise. And he knows that if he says anything to Robbie, Lance will break down. He’ll sob. He’ll act like the broken child he was at sixteen.
Maybe he already ruined everything last night, but maybe, if he can get through the next few days…if the case could somehow just go away—
There’s an audible click in his mind.
That’s it.
If he’s going to have a shot with Robbie, he has to get rid of the criminal case. He’ll fix things with Niall for long enough to make it all go away. It’s a half-formed idea, but he knows immediately that it’s the course he has to take. Pulling on yet another ill-fitting set of Johnny’s clothes, he dares to emerge from the bathroom, pretty sure Robbie isn’t back yet, and he’s right. Lance lopes across the hayloft to the dresser where he’s been rummaging for all of his borrowed clothes, but this time, he opens the top drawer, where he put the plastic bag of stuff from the jail. He hasn’t bothered with the phone since he realized it was disconnected, but if it still has enough battery to turn on, he can pull up Niall’s number and call him from Robbie’s cell.
He worries that the battery might be dead even as he reaches for the slim leather case at the bottom of the bag, but the screen lights with a touch. And then, to his surprise, he realizes the phone not only has a third of its battery left, but it’s been reactivated. He has three missed calls from Niall himself, all dated the night before.
Six years ago.
“Lance, is that you?” Robbie’s voice is soft but clear. Not like the voice of someone who’s just woken, but the voice of someone who hasn’t been to bed. He appears in the shred of lamplight that fills the part of the doorway that’s cracked open. Lance just sees a slice of him, a vertical line—the center of his face, his mussed dark hair, and a soft t-shirt so large and with its collar so stretched that Lance can see a glimpse of Robbie’s bare chest and its covering of dark hair.
Lance’s throat is suddenly dry. He swallows, but doesn’t answer Robbie. After all, it’s a rhetorical question, especially now that Robbie is looking at him, with his smile of cautious welcome fading to one of concern. Cautious—that’s how Robbie always is with him. He takes care in their every interaction, and Lance usually doesn’t know if he likes it or hates it. Right now, though, he hates it.
“My dad knows I’m queer,” he says, his voice ragged with the effort of keeping it quiet, as well as the strain of running here. And all of the other strains on top of that, which feel far greater than the burn of exertion in his legs and his chest.
“Did he hurt you?” It’s not the first time Robbie has asked this question, but it’s the first time that there’s been a sense of—danger, almost, in his voice. Like he could do violence against someone who was violent toward Lance.
“No.” It’s not exactly the right answer. Lance thinks of the bottle, the words. All of the nights when his father wasn’t there, and the nights when he was. He’s never been sure which are worse.
“If you don’t feel safe there, then you shouldn’t go back. You know you’re welcome here.” Robbie pulls open the door. “Do you want to sit down?”
Lance’s gaze flicks past Robbie and into his room. He’s only been in Robbie’s room the few times he’s snuck in over the years, looking at all of Robbie’s things in their places with greedy fascination. He’s never been in Robbie’s room with Robbie in it.
Robbie hesitates, as though he means to close the door. “Why don’t we go down—”
“No,” Lance interrupts. “I mean, yes, I want to sit down.” He walks toward Robbie and Robbie moves out of his way, still looking like he might protest, might send Lance down to the kitchen table instead. But it’s too late; Lance is in the room with him, and Robbie is slowly closing the door behind them.
Today.
Lance calls Niall back, heart pounding with worry that Robbie will return and overhear. So, he sits on the toilet in the bathroom, the door closed, and keeps his voice quiet. He can make this quick. He may have miscalculated the extent to which Niall could overreact to Lance leaving him, but at least that means he knows exactly how badly Niall wants him back. He can use that.
The phone only rings once before Niall answers. “Lance? Is that you, Angel?”
The endearment has always grated, but it’s nauseating now, in Robbie’s home that smells of Robbie; looking at Robbie’s toothbrush on the bathroom counter, next to the one he took out of a new box for Lance.
For a moment, Lance isn’t sure he can do it. A couple of days ago, Lance’s whole sense of self rearranged; the man who knew how to play Niall like an instrument stepped aside for the guileless, artless boy who ran barefoot in these meadows and waded in this creek.
But he can shift back, and he will. It’s the only way he can give whatever is beginning with Robbie a real chance.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I’ve been calling and calling. I was worried sick. What were you thinking?”
Lance makes his voice low and apologetic, or maybe even afraid. It’s not hard to feign those feelings when they’re all part of the tumult of conflict in his head. “I didn’t realize the phone was working. When I looked at it a few days ago, it was disconnected.” He tries to tamp down the accusation in his tone when he adds, “And then I got arrested—for stealing your car.”
“Well, I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?” Niall sounds put out, like Lance is a petulant child and Niall’s a reasonable adult. “If I just let you have your tantrum without consequences, how would you ever learn?”
Lance closes his eyes. “You’re right. I messed up. I was being…immature.” He swallows and tastes acid. “But, honey,” he adds, his voice low and wavering, “I’m in really big trouble now. They put me in jail. And today I’m supposed to go back to court.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Niall says with calm condescension. “If you’ll behave yourself, we can work everything out.”
“You mean you’ll call the police here and explain?”
“I won’t have to call them. I can speak to them in person. I arrived last night.”
Six years ago.
Lance stares at Robbie’s throat as he turns away from the door and faces Lance, right arm crossing his chest to hold his left elbow in a posture Lance recognizes from years of observation: Robbie’s flustered.
Lance sits on the edge of Robbie’s bed, which is neatly made, as though Robbie hasn’t slept in it. The room is built into a curved sort of turret of the house, creating a small, semicircular area that Robbie uses as an office. The desk lamp is on. There’s an open book on the surface, as well as a notepad.
“Were you busy?”
Robbie walks slowly toward him, following the direction of his glance into the office space. “No. Just reading.” Their eyes meet and Robbie smiles. “Sometimes, I can’t sleep.”
The thought that he’s not the only person along the creek who lies awake at night makes Lance uncharacteristically bold. “I love you, Robbie,” he murmurs, and the admission seems to open the dam on his tears. His cheeks are wet in a flash, his vision blurred.
Robbie unfolds his arms and quickly sits next to him on the edge of the bed. A warm arm encircles him. “I love you, too, buddy.”
Lance winces and hunches his shoulders even as he helplessly leans into the strong, warm presence of Robbie next to him.
“That’s not what I mean. I love you.”
Robbie’s hand was making circles on his bicep, but now it freezes. “Lance,” he whispers.
What was I thinking?
He jerks away from Robbie and dashes at his tears. “I know you don’t want me back.”
“Lance, I care about you so much. I love you, so much.” Robbie’s voice is pleading, but he’s clenched his hands on his lap like he thinks he’ll infect himself with something if he touches Lance.
Suddenly furious, Lance leaps to his feet and spins around. “I don’t want you to love me!” Robbie stands, too, and steps toward him, but Lance shoves him back with all his strength. Robbie staggers, eyes wide with alarm, and then a sound from the hallway makes him turn away from Lance for just a moment. In that moment, Lance backpedals and collides with Robbie’s nightstand. He catches himself on it, knocking a paperback to the floor as his hand lands on top of something else. Something soft and cool.
There’s bunched silk against his palm. Lance knows at once what he’s touching without even looking; he closes his hand instinctively over the prize before Robbie turns back to him. It’s like muscle memory, instinct, the same impulse that has seized him so many times before, and yet this feels so much more forbidden than taking something with a price tag.
He puts the faded paisley scarf in his pocket, and then he runs.
Johnny is in the hallway, shirtless and squinting, obviously waking up to their shouts. And past him, standing in his darkened doorway and draped in a full set of pajamas, Danny is putting on his glasses.
“Lance?” Johnny asks, blinking.
“Lance!” Robbie calls from behind him.
But Lance is already down the stairs, and then he’s out the door, what he took weighing like lead in his pocket, and what he said like lead in his chest. He’s set fire to the only place of refuge he’s ever had with those words—he knows it. And he can’t go back to his father’s house. So, when he reaches the woods, instead of crossing the creek, he walks down the bank and sits on a stone at the mouth of the stream, where it pours its muddy heart into the river. And when the sun rises, he digs his cell phone from his pocket and calls his aunt.
Today.
Lance is dressed when Robbie comes back.
The look on Robbie’s face is hard for Lance to meet. It’s questioning, uncertain…maybe even afraid. Lance wants to wipe the look away—and he will. But first he has to clear the path between them. That’s more important than ever now that he knows Niall is here, in Trace County. If Lance isn’t careful, his worlds will collide and implode. He has to convince Niall to get rid of the criminal charges—and then, somehow, get rid of Niall, as well—before the fragile thing he has with Robbie crumbles.
“I know you said you could take me to town, but I got a ride,” he says, not quite meeting Robbie’s eye, and then he tugs on the lapel of the heavy corduroy shirt he chose from Johnny’s cast-offs because it looked like the warmest option. “Is it okay if I borrow this stuff? I’ll give it all back as soon as I have my things.”
There’s a long moment of silence, which forces Lance to meet Robbie’s stare. He looks miserable. Lance’s resolve almost falters, but he hangs on by a thread.
“You can take whatever you want to. I already told you, whatever you need is yours.” He grasps his right elbow with his left hand.
Lance blinks and looks at the floor. “I’ll give it all back,” he repeats.
“Who’s—” Robbie clears his throat. “Who’s giving you a ride?”
Lance shrugs. “I still know people around here.” It’s not exactly a lie, he thinks, while at the same time knowing that Robbie wouldn’t appreciate the technicality.
“Yeah, of course.”
“I said I’d meet him out at the road. I don’t want him to get stuck halfway down the driveway.”
“I’ll drive you up there. The snow’s deep.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Lance—”
Lance forces his feet still against the urge to run. He’s not a child now. “I’ll walk,” he says firmly, still without looking at Robbie, and goes for the door.