“He can’t drop out! In a year and a half he’ll be a Harkness grad.”
“Bridger’s only a sophomore, actually. He took a year off before college, and now he’s kicking himself.”
“You know…” The house was so quiet that even our whispered conversation seemed loud. “I get stuck inside my head too often. I forget that other people have problems.”
Hartley was quiet a moment, watching me. Then he reached slowly across the expanse between us and covered my hand with his. Even that small touch made me stop breathing. “Everybody has their shit to shovel, Callahan. Everybody.” He gave my hand a squeeze, and then took his back. “Now, yours is right up front where everybody can see it. I don’t envy you that. But everybody has some, whether you can see it or not.”
I had to stop and think about that. To look at Bridger, you wouldn’t know that he was dragging around such troubles. But I suspected there were others who had no shit at all to shovel, or else had an entire team of minions to shovel it for them. Stacia sprang to mind.
“Are you sure?” I challenged him. “Because it seems like some people’s biggest problem is that the leather upholstery in their Beemer doesn’t come in the perfect color.”
Hartley’s face broke into the most beautiful smile. “For that, there’s always custom, Callahan.” He rolled onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. “Thanks for the calf massage.”
“Anytime.”
He chuckled. “Don’t say that, or I’ll wake you up every night next week.”
Sadly, I was so deep into him, I would probably look forward to it.
Hartley began to breathe deeply as I lay there listening. He was a warm shape in the dark, and just a few feet away. I would have given anything for the privilege of sliding over, closing the distance between us, and wrapping an arm across his chest. It was difficult to even imagine the luxury of belonging with him. I wanted to roll over in the night and curl up against his body. I wanted to feel his breath on my neck while I slept.
This is torture, my hope fairy grumbled, curling up on the pillow beside me.
She wasn’t wrong. But it was a sweet kind of torture.
Chapter Eleven: I'm Good With Gore
— Corey
Friday, we watched football, ate leftovers and played a lot of cards. Lucy made sure that there was at least one hand of Uno to every game of euchre.
On Saturday, we took Theresa out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, which offered fifty different varieties of dumplings. Hartley’s mom looked worn out from two nine-hour shifts in holiday retail hell. But her tired brown eyes were happy nonetheless. Hartley sat next to his mother, and from time to time she reached over to muss his hair. Dana tried to teach Lucy how to use chopsticks, and I ate my weight in chicken cabbage dumplings.
But later, after both Theresa and Lucy had gone to bed, and the guys had gone out to the garage to drink beer and change the oil in Theresa’s car, I had to admit that I was feeling off. There was a vague pain in my stomach, and my body felt hot and weary. Even though it was only ten o’clock, I took a couple of pain relievers and went to sleep.
That night, I didn’t even hear Hartley come in and lie down next to me. That should have been a clue that something was wrong. The American Medical Association should add Indifference to Hartley as a symptom in their compendium.
Even my hope fairy slept through it. I should have known.
The next morning, I hid my increasing discomfort. I took more Advil and drank two glasses of water. Still, I felt dizzy and hot.
“You’re quiet today, Corey,” Theresa observed, proving that you can never get anything past a mom.
“I’m just been thinking about exams,” I lied. I refilled my orange juice glass and forced a smile on my face. I needed fluids, and I needed to get home.
Luckily, Bridger had to get the car back to his mother, and so our weekend at Hartley’s drew to a close by late afternoon.
By the time we got back to McHerrin, I felt feverish and increasingly ornery. With a heavy heart, I phoned the Nazi police. “Mom, don’t freak out,” I said. “But I think I might have a bladder infection.”
She freaked out.
Ten minutes later — after listening to my mother rant about all the nasty things that can happen if a UTI is left to fester — I told Dana that I was under orders to roll myself to the hospital E.R.
“Crumbs!” she said, jumping off the couch. “I’ll come with you.”
“You really don’t have to,” I argued. “It’s going to be hours of waiting around for someone to hand me a prescription.”
“I’ll bring a book. Let me get my coat.”