Chapter Nine

Trevor Ford enjoyed his mornings alone on the way to work, the ability to sing along to his playlists and dance with abandon in his own driver’s seat. Other drivers on the highway would stare at him as he bounced along to whatever song came up. He bounced even when a ballad came up. He could lip synch “Ode to Billie Joe” and, in fact, he did so frequently. The song made him laugh, even. Every day there was someone new who didn’t understand him or care to connect with his vibe. Trevor didn’t concern himself with them anymore, or he tried not to.

His moments of joy were hard-earned, and he was going to take them and appreciate them whenever they presented themselves. He was 20. He was healthy. He had a good job. He wasn’t drinking anymore. He didn’t live with his parents anymore. And yesterday, he’d met a cute, weird boy and gotten his number. And he’d gotten the boy to smile back at him.

When Whitney Houston came over the speakers to announce there was a boy she knew, the one she dreamed of, the lyrics connected with Trevor’s spirit, and he made a promise to himself to acknowledge that a higher power—Whitney herself—was speaking to him and wanted him happy. She wanted him alive and silly and joyous.

Today, he vowed to call the boy. Today, Trevor would ask out that Wade, and their lives would start. And the weirdness would make sense.

Life was good. Life was romantic. Life was beautiful and epic. All you had to do was look for the colors, the light, the music, the humor. And it was all around. Trevor felt nice and cheery, for he was a guy named Ford driving a Chevy.

Δ

A couple months ago, Trevor had deleted his Facebook account, and that one small act had improved his mood so damn much that it surprised him. So, he deleted Instagram and Twitter too. And he only used YouTube for music. And not even new music. He used YouTube to find music that was at least a decade old, otherwise he wouldn’t bother with it. Now, he filled his ears with songs that told stories and had messages. And none of the songs he found had a “(Feat. Blah Blah Blah)” credit on it. When Dolly Parton sang with Kenny Rogers, neither one of them was a guest on the track. They were both islands in the stream. That is what they were.

Things were almost immediately better. Like, he had no idea that it would be so much of a sea change in his attitude, but it was like night and day. He was even smiling sometimes. Trevor used to think it was a good practice for every person to be connected and informed about the news and their fellow man. But, nope, ignorance was bliss.

On top of not getting constant reminders of how his red-state home was failing him and intentionally screwing over people and causes that he held close to his heart, on top of not having to hear the President’s name—except from those asshole Republican dipshits at work that avoided him mostly anyway, Trevor found another benefit to avoiding social media. He no longer envied others as acutely. It made his brain less noisy. It was incredible.

Every morning like this was a gift, Trevor thought. It made every chore and struggle in his workday worth it.

He’d made the mistake of coming out to one of them during his first week there, assuming that people who worked with trendy furniture would be open-minded and culturally forward. But though the furniture was Norwegian, the drivers were red-state Americans.

Δ

By 9:30 a.m., when the manager had paired up all the drivers and crew for the day, Trevor knew that the entire workday would be something of a struggle. His partner was wearing a Confederate flag hat. Trevor’s thoughts turned into words. In reply, there was a fist to his head right as the manager just happened to exit. And at 9:45 a.m., when Trevor was face down on the asphalt outside of Truck 22, with his entire crew standing over him and not one of them offering to help him up, his bright demeanor was a little dimmed. But only a little. He wouldn’t let these bastards get him down. Another old song echoed through his head after he got knocked down, telling him to get back up again and never let them get him down.

He lifted himself first on to his elbows and knees, then staggered to his feet. Blood ran down his cheek like a slow drip from a leaky bathroom faucet. He smiled, huffing in and out to make sure he hadn’t lost any teeth. Thankfully, he hadn’t. So, Trevor raised his head in the direction of the dude who’d knocked him down, keeping the smile plastered across it. A crowd was gathered around them, none of them cheering for Trevor.

“So that’s a ‘no’ from Mike,” he said cheerily, acknowledging the man behind the fists who was supposed to be his partner today.

“Does no one else want to ride shotgun with me on deliveries today?” Trevor asked the men.

Trevor was resolute, so they walked away, back to their assigned rides. He went to the bathroom to clean up the blood. He’d be alone again today. Yesterday, he was paired with Julio, a reluctant, quiet guy who would ride with him for a while and then abandon him mid-shift, which is how he met Wade, so Trevor couldn’t be all mad.

Today, his manager would probably assign him to move boxes around the warehouse, just to give him something to do and to avoid the tensions.

Trevor appreciated the opportunity to stay in the comfortable warehouse. And he hoped—for one second, before his positivity returned—that Mike would have a heart attack and die.

Δ

Trevor had no recourse about the harassment. No one had expected him to stay in this job, not even him. The mean ones treated him like he was a faggot. The nice ones acted like he was a kid on a gap year regarding them the way an anthropologist studies a strange tribe. Since Trevor worked like a man biding his time, no one wanted to treat him like he belonged. Trevor didn’t belong there.

He had expected this job to be more tolerant and open-minded, since the furniture company prided itself on open-minded Norwegian values and pronunciations, but the delivery guys were rather alpha and tribal and didn’t take to him at all. Trevor wanted shiny, happy people instead of these belligerent dolts from hell.

“I wish this was Norway,” Trevor said to himself in the bathroom mirror.

Then he smiled and realized aloud, “Oh well, you’re still pretty, from the soul on up.”

Trevor was pretty. It used to get him into trouble, all kinds of kinky, illegal trouble that you find when you don’t want to go home to your parents but don’t have anywhere else to go. But those days were gone. He had a better life now, even if it still meant that people were going to bloody his face a little.

He put on his earbuds and went about shuffling furniture on to other delivery men’s trucks, paying the men themselves no mind at all.

At 11:30 a.m., on his lunch break, Trevor placed the call to Wade, even though he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t very well tell the kid that there was no delivery partner last night, that Trevor had texted himself just so that he could keep Wade’s number. He couldn’t think of any way of admitting that wherein he wouldn’t sound completely nuts. So, Trevor didn’t leave the boy a message.

He did listen to the kid’s outgoing message, though, just to hear the boy’s lovely tenor voice again.

“Hi, this is Wade Harrell! Leave a message after the beep.”

It was a lovely voice. But such an odd name. And so weird. Trevor hung up before the beep.

Wait, the delivery last night went to Dr. Emmett’s office. What kind of son doesn’t have his father’s last name? It was possible, of course, but it still struck Trevor as puzzling. He’d have to ask Wade about it whenever they had their date. And they would have a date, Trevor assured himself. The world was beautiful. Things were working out for Trevor from now on. It was destined. It was fate. Today was a good day.