and… Jesus….”
Crick frowned and backed up. Deacon was wearing his EMT
uniform, and the ambulance was parked on the curb. “What car?” he asked hazily, and Deacon wiped his cheek with the back of his hand like a little kid and tried to get a hold of himself.
Crick could see when it happened, because Deacon closed his eyes, grabbed Crick’s arms, and tilted his forehead to meet Crick’s, and for a moment, they just stood there, breathing steam into the cool spring night.
“I’m so sorry, Crick,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were in it. This last month if you haven’t been at The Pulpit , you’ve been in that red Toyota with Brian. And tonight, we….” He straightened and crushed Crick to him, and Crick went willingly, putting his head on Deacon’s chest because, oh God, oh God, he knew what was coming.
Brian, driving off in such a snit…. He hadn’t been a great driver anyway, and there were so many places on the levee for a car to go wrong….
“Brian,” he whispered.
Deacon sighed into his hair. “Yeah. They found his car about an hour after the wreck… he was already”—heartbeat—“dead. Crick, I’m so sorry….”
“Brian. Oh God.” Crick started to tremble. Brian, who had been pissed off and broken-hearted because Crick couldn’t even kiss him after he’d put his heart out on the line. Oh Jesus… Crick’s friend, Crick’s true friend who had let him copy off his math homework and worked English projects with him and helped Mrs. Thompson clean up after Art Club Keeping Promise Rock
and… “Brian… oh Deacon… it’s my fault. Oh God.” His chest was going to explode. It was going to flat-out disintegrate like fireworks on his front lawn. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe… oh God….
Deacon helped him sit down on the ground, the cold seeping through his sweats, but damned if he cared. He sat there with his head between his knees, breathing so hard he had spots in front of his eyes while Deacon rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back and told him not to talk until he could do it without sobbing.
It didn’t matter.
The whole awful story tumbled out, because this was Deacon, and Deacon loved him unconditionally, and God, sweet, dear God, Crick needed to know somebody still did.
When he was done sobbing and talking and sputtering through spit and snot and tears, Deacon leaned Crick’s head on his chest and rubbed his cheek on his hair.
“You have such a good heart,” he murmured. “God, Crick—you didn’t do anything wrong. You just tried to be honest, that’s all.
Sometimes people hurt each other, just by being. It’s not your fault.”
“I could have at least kissed him,” Crick murmured, seeing Brian’s happy, hopeful expression, the absolute sunshine of joy. He’d killed that.
He may not have killed Brian, but he’d killed that moment with his dumb, self-centered crush.
Deacon made a sympathetic sound. “Crick, you did your best. Man, sometimes that’s all you got. You were the best friend you knew how to be, but you weren’t ready to be lovers yet. Nobody can hold that against you.”
“I can,” Crick muttered against his chest, so glad, so infinitely grateful that Deacon was there, Deacon was alive, Deacon understood.
“Please don’t,” Deacon asked gravely, and Crick shivered. There it was. The words of finality from the hero he loved.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and he did.
But it was hard, damned hard. It was hard when Mrs. Thompson called him aside and asked him if he was all right, and hard when she asked if he knew what happened, why Brian had been alone. It was hard when step-Bob had grunted “Good riddance” when he returned home the next day after Deacon took him to The Pulpitto spend the night with 48
Parish because nobody wanted him to have to go back inside and deal with step-Bob’s bullshit.
It was especially hard at the funeral, when Crick outed himself in front of half the
Crick frowned and backed up. Deacon was wearing his EMT
uniform, and the ambulance was parked on the curb. “What car?” he asked hazily, and Deacon wiped his cheek with the back of his hand like a little kid and tried to get a hold of himself.
Crick could see when it happened, because Deacon closed his eyes, grabbed Crick’s arms, and tilted his forehead to meet Crick’s, and for a moment, they just stood there, breathing steam into the cool spring night.
“I’m so sorry, Crick,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were in it. This last month if you haven’t been at The Pulpit , you’ve been in that red Toyota with Brian. And tonight, we….” He straightened and crushed Crick to him, and Crick went willingly, putting his head on Deacon’s chest because, oh God, oh God, he knew what was coming.
Brian, driving off in such a snit…. He hadn’t been a great driver anyway, and there were so many places on the levee for a car to go wrong….
“Brian,” he whispered.
Deacon sighed into his hair. “Yeah. They found his car about an hour after the wreck… he was already”—heartbeat—“dead. Crick, I’m so sorry….”
“Brian. Oh God.” Crick started to tremble. Brian, who had been pissed off and broken-hearted because Crick couldn’t even kiss him after he’d put his heart out on the line. Oh Jesus… Crick’s friend, Crick’s true friend who had let him copy off his math homework and worked English projects with him and helped Mrs. Thompson clean up after Art Club Keeping Promise Rock
and… “Brian… oh Deacon… it’s my fault. Oh God.” His chest was going to explode. It was going to flat-out disintegrate like fireworks on his front lawn. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe… oh God….
Deacon helped him sit down on the ground, the cold seeping through his sweats, but damned if he cared. He sat there with his head between his knees, breathing so hard he had spots in front of his eyes while Deacon rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back and told him not to talk until he could do it without sobbing.
It didn’t matter.
The whole awful story tumbled out, because this was Deacon, and Deacon loved him unconditionally, and God, sweet, dear God, Crick needed to know somebody still did.
When he was done sobbing and talking and sputtering through spit and snot and tears, Deacon leaned Crick’s head on his chest and rubbed his cheek on his hair.
“You have such a good heart,” he murmured. “God, Crick—you didn’t do anything wrong. You just tried to be honest, that’s all.
Sometimes people hurt each other, just by being. It’s not your fault.”
“I could have at least kissed him,” Crick murmured, seeing Brian’s happy, hopeful expression, the absolute sunshine of joy. He’d killed that.
He may not have killed Brian, but he’d killed that moment with his dumb, self-centered crush.
Deacon made a sympathetic sound. “Crick, you did your best. Man, sometimes that’s all you got. You were the best friend you knew how to be, but you weren’t ready to be lovers yet. Nobody can hold that against you.”
“I can,” Crick muttered against his chest, so glad, so infinitely grateful that Deacon was there, Deacon was alive, Deacon understood.
“Please don’t,” Deacon asked gravely, and Crick shivered. There it was. The words of finality from the hero he loved.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and he did.
But it was hard, damned hard. It was hard when Mrs. Thompson called him aside and asked him if he was all right, and hard when she asked if he knew what happened, why Brian had been alone. It was hard when step-Bob had grunted “Good riddance” when he returned home the next day after Deacon took him to The Pulpitto spend the night with 48
Parish because nobody wanted him to have to go back inside and deal with step-Bob’s bullshit.
It was especially hard at the funeral, when Crick outed himself in front of half the
Similar Books
