Sunday 12:45 A.M.
At home he found Brian still in his baseball uniform. The boy was asleep on the couch, his shoes on the floor, headphones attached to his iPod, listening to music, a book open, spine up, on his chest. Turner noted the readout on the iPod. Brian was listening to a classic blues compilation. Paul remembered that Brian liked to listen to that set when he was depressed.
He touched the boy’s shoulder. Brian wakened. Paul said, “Time to go to bed.”
Brian nodded.
Paul asked, “You okay?”
“Sure, Dad.”
Paul wasn’t sure, but until the boy was ready to talk, there wasn’t much he could do. The son-or-suspect-being-ready-to-talk rule didn’t readily apply to reluctant or recalcitrant teenagers. If he could solve the communicating-with-your-teenager conundrum, Paul figured he could write a book and get very, very rich. No one else had yet solved that problem, so he didn’t hold out much hope.
Quiet as he was when he came in from a late shift, Ben always wakened when he crawled into bed.
He gave his husband a light kiss. “The boys okay?”
“No blood, no broken bones.”
Paul smiled. It was their shorthand for the world was right.