Now all Loren could think about was how creepy and scary that possessed girl in the movie was. Was that what Eliot was talking about, a demon who lived inside him and some freaky church guy would have to do stuff to him to get it out? Loren lay there, watching and waiting for Eliot to maybe float above his bed or do some whacked-out demon stuff, but of course he never did.
He did get weirder, though. In Loren’s opinion the medicine that was supposed to
help
him made him way, way worse. He didn’t calm down; he talked faster and crazier, losing weight and getting even skinnier. He didn’t sleep better; he hardly slept at all. And when he did sleep, he sometimes had horrible nightmares. Loren couldn’t count the number of times he’d woken up in the night to find Eliot huddled in a corner of the bedroom, shaking, rocking, afraid to go back to sleep.
When that happened, Loren would get up, dragging his comforter off the bed with him, and just sit on the floor next to Eliot, listening to his crazy talk about the moon. Eliot seemed to like it best when he could see the moon after a nightmare, so Loren would make sure the blinds were open. If they were super lucky and it was a clear night, the moonlight would flood in and bathe them both in soft brightness. Loren would often fall back to sleep, curled up on the floor next to him, Eliot’s rapid-fire slurred speech, about anything and nothing, a white noise in the background.
But sometimes, very rarely, Eliot would lean his head on Loren’s shoulder and drift off into an exhausted sleep himself, sitting up. Loren would wrap them both up in his blanket and get comfortable against the wall as best he could, and let Eliot sleep. He didn’t mind giving up a night’s slumber here and there if it would help him get some rest. It was one of the very few ways—pretty much the
only
way—Loren knew how to make it better.
He wished with all his heart he could do more.
Freshman Year
“THIS IS
it, Loren!”
Loren grinned at Eliot, adjusting his shoulder pads one more time and grabbing his helmet from the locker-room bench. The coach was calling for all the football players to get their butts out to the field for pregame warmups on the double.
Eliot followed him out, chattering with excitement. “Your first game as starting lineup, Loren! That’s so cool! And I made some signs: one for me, your mom, and your dad.”
“You’ll save seats for them too, right, El? They might be a little late, but they said they’d be here.”
Loren could barely contain his own excitement. After spending almost his entire eighth-grade year as second string or on the bench, during summer training camp he’d worked hard, tried out, and been selected to start as a freshman. Tonight was the first home game of the season.
“I’ll get seats right down front for all of us,” Eliot promised. “You’ll hear us cheering louder than anyone!”
Loren grinned, then jogged after the rest of the team, leaving Eliot to make his way to the stands. As he warmed up, Loren could see him front and center, jiggling his leg, holding some large poster boards on his lap.
Loren felt a wave of pure affection sweep over him. Eliot came to all of Loren’s after-school practices, sometimes hanging out and talking to their friends, sometimes sitting alone, busily drawing in his notebook or doing homework. After practice they’d walk home together, every now and then stopping for a burger if one of them happened to have a little money in his pocket.
Loren was for all intents and purposes living at Eliot’s house by now, and neither set of parents seemed to mind. It was like having a brother, only—more. Loren didn’t feel like a brother toward Eliot at all; in fact, he had found himself surreptitiously watching his friend change clothes a time or two, feeling guilty and ashamed at the way his groin tightened when he looked at Eliot’s body.
It wasn’t the same as watching the cheerleaders’ bouncing breasts in their brief little tops, although he enjoyed that too. That was a very pleasant sight indeed, but glimpsing Eliot’s bare stomach or maybe a hint of wiry blond hair peeking out over the waistband of his low-slung underwear—well, it was a different kind of pleasure, deeper, sharper.
Loren tried not to think about it.
“All right, Warriors! Let’s huddle up!”
The coach’s shout broke Loren’s train of thought, and he looked toward the stands, seeing Eliot waving to him, holding up one of the signs he’d made. Loren shook his head in rueful amusement and gave him a thumbs-up. As usual Eliot had gone way over the top. No simple sign for him, no, sir, but an elaborate thing covered with fancy letters and puff paint. Loren would bet he’d stayed up all night making them while Loren snored nearby in peaceful oblivion.
He didn’t see his parents yet, and he craned his neck toward the crowd shuffling to the bleachers, looking for them. No sign of them, and he tried not to worry; they’d said they might be a little late, but they’d be here. They knew how important this night was to him.
The coin toss, the decision, and it was time for the game to begin. Loren was immediately swept up in the exertion of play, focused, concentrated, the roar of the crowd and rhythmic chants of the cheerleaders fading into the distance. Grunts and shouts, along with the crash of helmets and pads ramming together, rang out into the crisp night air.
Before Loren knew it, it was halftime, and he ran off the field with the rest of the team, all of them high-fiving each other while grabbing bottles of Gatorade, enjoying the adrenaline rush and the high of competition.
As Loren took off his helmet and slung back his sweat-soaked hair, he looked with eagerness up into the stands, searching the faces. His heart fell to his toes.
His parents still weren’t there.
Eliot was, and when he saw Loren looking, he waved his sign high above his head, Loren’s jersey number and “Go Warriors” drawn out with painstaking care and glittering under the spotlights in school-colors puff paint. He grinned at Loren brilliantly, proudly, but his eyes were filled with an understanding sympathy. Loren tried to smile and couldn’t, the waves of disappointment and hurt punching him right in the gut.
He turned away, watching but not really seeing the marching band and dance team’s halftime show, and just before he took the field of play again for the second half, he looked once again toward the stands, trying not to hope.
No Mom and Dad, but Eliot had switched his signs out, and he held up the one he’d made for Loren’s mom to wave. It had a big red puffy heart painted in the middle with Loren’s jersey number underneath, some smaller hearts shooting off from it. The message was clear: I love you.
Eliot faced him and lifted it high, his eyes steadily holding Loren’s, and Loren’s own eyes filled. He blinked the tears back with determination and slammed his helmet onto his head, running back onto the field.
The second half flew by, and when the game was over, Loren jumped around on the field with the rest of his teammates in an impromptu victory dance, punching his helmet up high, shouting the school song. He was caught up in the moment, whooping and hollering as he ran into the locker room, but as he stood for a long time under the spray of a hot shower, he couldn’t stop his disappointment from overwhelming him again.
They’d promised to be here.
When Loren emerged from the locker room, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, he saw Eliot slouched against the outside wall, arms crossed, one leg drawn up. He didn’t move as Loren approached him, just watched him, and Loren dropped his bag and sagged back against the wall next to him.
“Good game,” Eliot ventured, and Loren just shrugged.
“You made some great plays,” Eliot tried again, and Loren turned his head away, muttering, “Let’s just get the fuck outta here, man.”
Loren grabbed his duffle again, and they made their way toward the parking lot, both of them realizing at the same time they didn’t have a ride home. It wasn’t all that far to walk, but it had been a long day, and Loren was exhausted. Since he had taken so long in the shower, most of the other spectators had already gone, and the parking lot was empty.
With resigned sighs, they started walking until Loren sank onto a bench at a deserted bus stop and dropped his head into his hands. After a moment he felt the heat of Eliot’s body as he perched on the bench next to him.
“I’m sorry, Loren,” Eliot whispered, resting one hand tentatively on Loren’s back.
Loren shrugged. “I just wanted them to be here, that’s all.” Even he could hear how ragged and hoarse his voice sounded, and he cleared his throat with defiance. He was too old to cry.
“And they would have been if they could, Loren. I know they would have,” Eliot said, his voice gentle. “Murders ain’t scheduled around football games.”
Loren gave an unwilling snort of laughter. As a homicide detective, his father was at the whims of how his cases ebbed and flowed. There could have been a key witness successfully located who had to be interviewed right away, for instance. Loren had grown up with this, and he knew in his head that or something similar had happened.
Still. “For once I just wish I mattered more than a stupid fucking job does,” Loren said with bitterness. “That I could come first.”
There was a moment of silence.
“My dad had a friend in the Marines once,” Eliot said at last, “and he always used to say, ‘If the Marines wanted you to have a family, they would have issued you one.’”
Loren gave another subdued snort.
“I bet it’s the same way with cops,” Eliot continued. “When he’s gotta work, he’s gotta work, Loren. It sucks, dude, in a big way, but what can he do?”
“I know all this, El. But it was such a big night for me, and I wanted them here.”
“I’m here.”
At that Loren lifted his head from his hands and looked at Eliot, whispering hoarsely, “Yeah, you are. And I’m so glad you were, stupid signs and all.”
Eliot’s lips quirked in a half smile, his green eyes shining with sympathy and affection. Loren gazed at him, noticing for the first time how beautiful Eliot looked in the moonlight. His thick blond hair was haloed around his almost delicate face, his mouth pink and full. A shivery sort of heat tightened Loren’s belly, and he drew in a swift breath.
Eliot’s look grew questioning, and Loren dropped his eyes to Eliot’s lips again, watching them part a little as he licked them almost nervously. Eliot swayed toward Loren, and Loren thought,
Jesus fuck, I’m going to kiss him
. He wanted to. He wanted to kiss Eliot, feel those moist lips against his own.
Just then a horn honked and a sleek SUV pulled up to the curb. Loren’s mom jumped out and rushed to them, distress written all over her face.
“Oh, honey,” she cried. “Oh, Loren, I’m so sorry.”
Eliot stood up and moved out of the way so she could sit down next to Loren. She put her arm around him, and Loren hunched his shoulders, drawing in on himself, trying to get her to stop touching him.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I missed your game,” she whispered, leaving her arm where it was despite Loren’s actions. “I had someone else lined up to give that ad presentation, and at the last minute the client demanded I be the one to do it. I couldn’t let a multimillion-dollar client down, not when he’d traveled all the way from Tokyo.”
Loren shrugged, and she leaned down and kissed his temple softly. “Loren, all I can say is how very sorry I am that I let you down, and please forgive me.”
This is how it always was, beg forgiveness after the fact. He knew his parents had important, well-respected, and vital jobs. But like he’d told Eliot, just once he wished he could come first.
He glanced over at Eliot, who stood with his hands in his jeans pockets, scuffing at the ground with his toe, trying to give Loren and his mom some privacy but unwilling to leave Loren alone when he knew Loren needed him.
He always came first with Eliot, always. There wasn’t a doubt in Loren’s mind. No matter what Eliot was going through, the bursts of weirdness or sadness that seemed to buffet him like the winds of a hurricane, Loren knew he was as much the center of Eliot’s world as Eliot was his.
The ache in his heart was replaced by a warm glow. As long as he had Eliot, he’d always be okay.
His mom was looking at him, her eyes full of genuine remorse. Loren sighed. She had planned to be at his game, and circumstances beyond her control had forced her hand. Eliot was smiling at him with encouragement, and Loren did what he had to do.
“It’s okay, Mom,” he murmured. “Next one?”
Her face crumpled with relief and she hugged him tight. “Next one, darling. I promise. No, not promise.” she amended. “I’ll do everything within my power to be there.”
He nodded, and asked, “Where’s Dad?”
She smiled, but it was full of apology. “He got called to a scene,” she replied. “He left me a text, and by the time I saw it, I had already missed your game too.” She hugged him again, burying her face in his hair. “I can’t imagine your hurt and disappointment tonight, baby. I’m so sorry.”
He finally wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. “I know you would have been here if you could have, Mom. It’s okay.”
She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Are you two hungry? We can go for burgers and shakes if you want.”
“Sure, that sounds awesome. El?”
“Hell yeah. I mean, heck yeah, Mrs. S.,” Eliot replied enthusiastically, and he winked at Loren as he climbed into the backseat of the Smiths’ SUV.
Loren tossed his duffle in after him and then folded his long body into the front passenger seat, all of a sudden remembering how close he’d just come to kissing Eliot. He could feel his face grow hot, and he pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the window.
It had to be the emotional overload he was experiencing and the gratitude he felt for his friend’s loyalty, that’s all. It had to be.
Senior Year
THE CHEERING
of the crowd was intoxicating, the drums and horns of the marching band gleefully egging on the deafening whistling and stomping. The cheerleaders were bumping and grinding, high kicking, their rhythmic chants just adding to the cacophony. Loren stood on the sidelines, sweating in his uniform, ready for another first game of the season. It was senior year, and it was going to be the best fuckin’ year of his life; he could just feel it.