Between the Shadow and the Soul - 2. Basketball Boy

June 22, 2016

"Dude, what the hell?"

"Can't you come up with new material?"

Nate bumped me with his elbow as he answered, "Since the last time we did the dirty? Oh yeah, I have new material."

I gave my best friend a quick scowl as I drove. "Yawn. Nothing new there, I'm afraid. Still the same boring straight moves and the same boring straight equipment. I've seen no indication of any upgrades."

"Of course not. I save those for the ladies." With that he waggled his eyebrows and gave me a lecherous sneer. Or what passed for one since he couldn't hide the grin beneath it.

"Anyway," he continued, "quit changing the subject."

"And what was the subject, do tell?"

"Your fixation on Basketball Boy."

"It's a fascination, not a fixation, and I just think he's attractive. Nothing wrong with that."

Clearly my surreptitious glance at the kid as we drove by wasn't as surreptitious as I thought.

"No, G-Man, it's a fixation. Get yourself a dictionary if you need proof."

"Whatever," I replied dismissively with a wave of my hand.

"No whatever about it, Greg. We've been here two months and you've practically become a romance recluse. You work, visit friends, stay home, hang out with me, visit with Mom, call your dad, read, watch television or movies, or take your telescope out to the country."

"All of which sound like reasonable activities for a thirty-year-old man."

"Did you notice anything missing?" This time he dropped a serious glare on me.

I shrugged. This conversation didn't interest me. Or, to be honest, I wanted to avoid it like I'd been avoiding a lot of things lately.

I didn't forsake the idea of men, only gave the thought a wide berth until I couldn't ignore it anymore. Men have needs, you know.

Since we'd moved to this neighborhood— No, that's not it at all. Moving was the catalyst, not the cause.

Since I first set eyes on Basketball Boy, something inside me had snapped, something already broken but held together with mental bailing wire and emotional duct tape and a hell of a lot of denial.

"You need to talk to him," Nate demanded, interrupting my thoughts.

"No, I don't."

Something about Basketball Boy vexed me. I knew it wasn't the idea of seeing an attractive young man since living in the DFW metroplex meant you were constantly tripping over them anytime you went outside. Nevertheless, this fascination— Damn it! Nate was right about that because it wasn't a fascination at all. This fixation terrified me.

I honestly don't remember eye candy scaring the bejesus out of me before. It felt safe to look at him when I didn't risk dealing with him, so that's what I did. Part of that stemmed from appreciating an attractive guy. Another part of it, however, came from some other place and brought with it a laundry list of feelings, none of them good, like fear and doubt and guilt.

Giving me a knowing look, my wise best friend pointedly said, "You should just go meet the guy, dude, put to rest your suspicions about him being a serial killer or whatever, then you move on, maybe with a new friend."

"He's probably underage."

"Have you seen his facial hair?"

"Hello! Do you remember me at fifteen? Mom had to buy stock in Gillette to keep up with my razor needs."

No matter how hard I tried to stop it, my hand had fallen from the steering wheel and found its way to the phoenix tattoo near my left hip. And no matter how much I tried to deny it, I knew Nate's eyes had followed it.

"Good point. You grew chin pubes before your first orgasm."

We both laughed, as much from the comment as the nearness of it to the truth.

Nate went on, "But his age doesn't matter—"

"Oh yes it does!" I practically yelled.

My fingers worried the tattoo through my shirt, seeking out and finding what it hid.

In his infinite wisdom, Nate calmly explained, "No laws exist in this country making it illegal to talk in a neighborly way to a neighborhood kid whilst hanging out in our neighborhood."

Forcing my hand back to the task of driving, I took a deep, shuddering breath, sighed loudly, then told him, "That's not the point."

"I know," he whispered as he shook his head, his eyes returning to the road ahead of us. "But we both know what the point is."

"Don't—"

"You have to deal with it, Greg. You have to face it and move beyond it."

"I have!"

"Bullshit!" he yelled, then quieter but still strident, "You know that's bullshit. You haven't faced it. You still can't say his name. You still don't date, at least not seriously. You still won't bot—"

"My sex life is beside the point."

"No," he said sadly, "it's a big part of the whole mess."

As I pulled into the restaurant parking lot and found a spot, I put the car in park, shut it off, then sat.

His hand came to me, gripped my shoulder before squeezing my neck and pulling me to him. Forcing our foreheads together, I breathed his voice as he lovingly chided, "Greg. It's time. This kid did it. I'm pretty sure we both have a good idea of why and how."

Planting a quick kiss on my lips before hugging me to him, Nate added, "I love you, G-Man. I want you to be happy. That's all I'm saying."

With a final squeeze he released me, climbed out of the car and shut the door. Without looking back he walked purposely toward the entrance.

I stayed in the car shaking, willing the tears in my eyes to remain unfallen.

* * * * *

June 24, 2016

Two months had passed since I first set eyes upon the kid from three doors down. I'd seen him plenty of times since then, thus I knew my initial impression of yum was correct. And a few glances longer than a drive-by made me question my jail bait remark because he had an infrequent five o'clock shadow, the stubble black and evident against his skin.

Oh, and I still didn't know if he had all his teeth.

Aside from him and Brandon, the neighborhood had thus far proved lacking of other eye candy. For me, I should point out, since Nate had found Malinda and a few other women he thought attractive enough to fuel a his fantasies.

Though why he needed fantasies I couldn't understand, given he looted and pillaged the metroplex's female population nearly every night. It's like the guy never grew out of his hormone-ravaged teens.

When I had time and found someone of interest, I dated, but I avoided the activity as a general rule, claiming work or fatigue when someone asked. Just as rarely I went out with no more on my mind than getting laid and getting gone.

I walked a tightrope, the chasm of physical needs on one side and the abyss of emotional involvement on the other. Always in the shadows of my mind I feared The Fiend, whether finding him in another person or becoming him for someone else.

* * * * *

June 25, 2016

Coming home from a date that had failed miserably, I grabbed a beer from the fridge before heading back outside to the driveway to relax for a few minutes. I didn't even acknowledge Nate in the living room. I just needed some space, some time, some... something.

As I removed my dress shirt and tossed it atop the car, I heard a nearby voice. Carrying the cold ale with me, I stepped just beyond the garage door and glanced around out of curiosity, my eyes scanning up and down the street like any nosy neighbor would.

Then I located the chatty night owl.

Basketball Boy wandered aimlessly about his driveway as he talked on his cell phone. Barefoot in a pair of long gym shorts, he stopped now and then to rub his toes in the grass, but mostly he strolled.

Well, perhaps stroll was too generous a word since he basically meandered from the garage door to the street and back again, sometimes circling or weaving random designs, yet never leaving that confined space.

Not in the mood for anyone, especially not him, I started to turn around, but at that point he saw me. He paused momentarily, threw me a quick wave that might have been dismissive or casual or foreign to someone who communicated with head nods—kids this day and age, I tell you—then he continued his aimless though limited wandering.

It'll look weird if you run inside now, don't you think? Might as well drink your beer.

So I did. Standing in my own driveway. Feeling like a bonehead for being too chicken to walk inside lest it look like an escape. As though, having been seen, I was suddenly obligated to look like I belonged there.

When the first beer eventually disappeared down my gullet, a bit of Dutch courage flooded my bloodstream. I walked inside—walked, I tell you, in the most natural way conceivable, as if I'd been doing it my whole life—and fetched a second beer before wandering back outside, hiding from Basketball Boy no longer foremost on my mind.

The night was relatively cool and the area quiet save the kid on the phone three doors down. It made for a perfect getaway that didn't involve the inside of the house where Nate surely waited to interrogate me about my date.

This time I sat down with my back against the corner of the garage, leaned my head back, and sipped my adult beverage as I stared at the sky. My eyes wandered the heavens, my mind picking out stars and galaxies and constellations, even fetching upon the International Space Station as it soared by overhead.

Perhaps thirty minutes later, my beer empty and my mind clear, Basketball Boy's voice vanished from the night air. Like any background noise, the sudden absence hit me like a rock and my head spun in that direction to figure out what had happened.

Frightened surprise flowed through me when I saw him heading right for me.

Shit! I should have gone inside. Is it too late to run? Would that look weird?

As he neared I could see he stood around five feet eight inches, making me about five inches taller. His build was slim but defined, a narrow waist with shoulders slightly wider, and he carried himself with the casual ease of someone comfortable in their own body and comfortable with present circumstances. As if he always approached strangers at night.

Okay, the neighborhood was close-knit in that everyone knew of everyone else, if not actually knowing them personally, so he undoubtedly felt safe since I'd lived there for two months already.

But it's freaking me out!

I rose to my feet as he approached, casually offered a noncommittal, "Hey."

"What's up?" He had a youthful yet resonant voice, rich but not too deep.

"Just hanging out." I offered my hand and added, "I'm Greg."

He gave me a pleasantly firm handshake. "I'm Kyle. You guys moved in a few months ago, right?"

"Right."

He had stopped in the open doorway of the garage only about three feet from me. With the feeble light at his back, I could only see that his eyes were a light color. Maybe gray, maybe blue.

"Were you waiting for me?"

Did it look like that? With me staring at the sky? Did that imply I was waiting here just for you? Are two people not allowed to inhabit the same block without one of them being there for the other? Would it crush your ego if I said no, it's not all about you?

Why am I debating this? Just go with the truth. It's easier to remember.

"Not really. I just needed to unwind. Figured I could sit out here in the quiet and drink a beer while I let my brain drain."

"Cool..." The word slowly faded as he turned toward my car. "Nice ride!" Enthusiasm and admiration failed to describe his tone. He practically gushed.

Slowly walking around the car, never taking his eyes off it, he said, "This is a hot set of wheels, man. I've seen you driving it around. Is it a kit car?"

"What? Oh. No, it's a new model. Just came out this year. This is a special order. It arrived on the boat a month before we moved in."

Fishing the key fob from my pocket, I hit the button to unlock the doors.

"Hop in."

"Awesome!" He opened the driver's door and slipped into the seat, all enthusiasm and interest.

Like all life I'm an opportunistic creature, so I sat in the passenger seat and gave him a serious once-over simply by watching him explore the car's interior. The dome light revealed he had blue eyes, which only took on a striking aura when coupled with his black hair and bronze skin.

He smiled as he caressed the dash and seats and various controls, at which point I noticed he did in fact have all his teeth, a fact I'd share with Nate later. And though clean and white, they were slightly crooked in front. In a normal way, I should add, rather than in a freakish display of orthodontic chaos.

"I bet it's got some power." He practically cooed.

Is that the heterosexual automotive appreciation gene on such prominent display?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts.

Wow, Greg, stereotype much? You nearly orgasmed the first time you sat in this car.

Okay, maybe not nearly, but it was closer than it should've been.

"Oh yeah, it has plenty of power. Rides real nice, too."

"I'd love to go for a spin."

"Maybe we can do that sometime."

Being this close to him at last, I noticed he had a youthful face that he clearly shaved infrequently given the abundant stubble. And his face was a bit too narrow for his frame, resulting in a slightly too-long quality that wasn't unattractive so much as distinctive. He wore his hair short and mussed without adding volume on top, a smart thing too as anything more up there would've elongated his face to the point of making him a caricature of himself.

Overall I'd call him ordinary with his youthful physique and everyman looks. So why did he mess with my mind just by existing?

Despite the gnawing fright simmering in my gut, I liked the kid. He clearly had an outgoing, affable personality, showing no fear in meeting a new neighbor, taking the initiative even, coming to me with no hesitation and striking up a conversation.

He seems like a nice, normal kid. Who unnerves me for some bizarre reason.

He climbed out of the car after several minutes and several questions. Afterward we stood in the garage and talked.

And talked.

And talked.

Our ability to find common ground pleased me. We talked cars, the neighborhood and neighbors, computers, astronomy, fashion, movies and music and television, and even politics. As with all youth, some of his views and knowledge lacked depth, but the breadth of his interests and exposure gave him a mature air, one I found calming and comfortable.

* * * * *

"You must work out a lot to keep that body, 'cause you're swole, man."

Shrugging, pleased darkness hid the blush I felt flaming its way from my neck to my forehead, I said, "I keep myself in okay shape."

"Nah, man, you look like a model or something."

I had to divert this conversation. I never felt comfortable discussing my looks. They'd been problematic for me since... Well, since a long time ago.

My mother taught me to be gracious though...

"Thanks. A lot of it's genetics. I hit the gym regularly, too. You do, too, right?"

"Sure, man, I started working out some like six months ago. My best friend Duane got me started."

"Cool. You're at the right age to start. It looks like you've made good progress already and it won't take much to get even more definition."

What the hell, Greg! Shut the fuck up! You're sound like a stalking perv.

Commenting on his workout progress weirded me out. Whoa...

I knew it. I knew I'd put my foot in my mouth.

This kid unnerves me or something, knocks me off the rails or whatever. I need to remember to floss the shoe leather from between my teeth when this conversation ends.

"Thanks, man. I'd really like a body like yours. You're really jacked."

I blushed from embarrassment. Again.

"Thanks, dude. But I don't work that hard on it, just kind of maintain what's already there."

"Let's see."

Really? Honestly, Greg, stop right now.

"I'm sorry?"

Good! Delay and divert. That's not obvious since he already knows you can hear him just fine.

"I've seen you a few times and I think you're ripped, man. I just want you to turn around once so I can get an idea of how you're built. 'Cause I wanna look like that, man."

No, not gonna happen. I'm not here to parade around in front of the neighbor kid I just met. I'm not a piece of meat on display. Nope.

Perhaps in the dim light he could see more of the turmoil on my face than I thought, because he suddenly told me, "Not a big deal, man. I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I just started working out is all, and I admire your build and want to shoot for that. It's all good."

God, really, Greg? Why is something that innocent such a big deal? Guy of all ages do it at the gym all the time. This is no different.

I'm comfortable in my own skin, so I stepped away from the wall where I'd been standing and made a casual turn in front of him before returning to my dark perch.

"See, your abs are as tight as mine," I told him. "I'm just a bigger guy."

Never mind that I was definitely older than him, even if I didn't know his age, so he probably burned more calories sleeping than I did running a mile. If I were to run a mile, that is.

"Nah, man, you look great."

"Thanks." My smile was both appreciative and embarrassed.

"What I really need is someone like you to help me get there."

Thankfully he couldn't see how wide my eyes grew at that suggestion.

Could I deal with him at the gym on a regular basis? Could I deal with him on a regular basis no matter where we were?

A shiver ran along my spine as the tight ball of fear churning in my stomach became unsettled, grew, roiled.

* * * * *

All sense of time lost, perhaps an hour or two later we remained in the garage, talking like old friends.

With a self-deprecating snicker he told me, "I'm always getting in the shit, man. My mom tries to keep me clean and my step-dad is too busy to do much but tell me to listen to my mom."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Stuff like skipping school, leaving the house without telling anyone, running around with my friends when I'm supposed to be someplace else, not doing all my schoolwork. Some of my friends try to get me into other stuff I don't want to be involved in, especially since I get in enough trouble on my own. You know, typical kid shit."

"Sounds like typical teenager stuff to me."

He said "kid shit." And "skipping school." And "schoolwork." So high school kid or college kid? The facial features could go either way, the body could go either way; I've seen plenty of older guys shorter and slimmer than he is. I don't really have a guess as to his age. But the five o'clock shadow makes me think college. I should ask—

"Are you a cop?"

His abrupt departure from reality with that question ended my mental monologue. For that matter, it interrupted all synaptic activity, at least while I tried to reorient myself to the conversation's new direction.

Shock caused my eyebrows to leap toward my hairline as my eyes widened. His face didn't tell me where that question came from other than out of left field.

"Uh... Well, no, I'm not a cop."

"You don't look like one. And you have those cool tattoos. I tend to trust people with tattoos."

Incredulous and confused didn't come close to describing my impression of this shift in the conversation.

"Okay... I've known plenty of cops with tattoos, so I'm not sure that's a good indicator."

"You seem trustworthy, though. I guess it seems like I can trust you. I feel like I can. The tattoos just help."

"Okay..." My conversational skills appeared as befuddled as the rest of me. Finding the right mental gear helped me add, "I'm really not a cop. How many cops drive a Lexus?"

He nodded as though I had submitted the very evidence he needed. "Oh. Right. Yeah, so, okay, you're not a cop."

Clearly he never considered I might be undercover. Which wasn't the case, of course, but still...

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "The kind of trouble I get into. Not big criminal stuff. Just... I like to smoke, man."

"Cigarettes?" The moment the question left my mouth I felt as dense as a fencepost. Of course he didn't mean cigarettes.

"No, man. I only smoke cigarettes once in a while. I mean weed."

Of course he did. I totally knew that. "Oh. Well... Um..."

Nerves firing all over my body and alarms going off in my head, I couldn't decide how to respond.

Nate and I enjoyed herbal refreshments like many, so on the merits of the case I had no problem with others partaking. Basketball Boy kept me on edge, twitchy and fearful, thus my intended dismissal of this as a non-issue caught in my throat.

"You smoke?" he asked.

"Yes, actually."

Why did you answer that? This could be a trap. Or something. And stuff.

"Wanna smoke one with me?"

Still functioning on autopilot, the truth won. "Sure."

Where the hell did that come from? Why did I just say that? Have I lost my mind?

I couldn't believe I agreed to get stoned with him. I barely knew this guy.

Why not? He's going to do it anyway. And so am I, if not now then later when I go inside.

The smile he aimed at me was so genuine and relaxed that I lost all reserve, suddenly cloaked with a feeling of camaraderie, as though we'd been friends for years.

"Sweet, man!"

I need to back out of this right now. I'll tell him I was kidding.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and fished a joint out of it. It was a trick I knew well. I didn't smoke cigarettes but the hard packs made great carrying cases for joints. So sue me.

Tell him to put it back in his pocket and go home. This is stupid!

"Come over here where it's darker," I said.

Are you not listening? Don't do this.

He didn't hesitate. As soon as he reached my position, he spun around and leaned against the wall next to me, then he lit the joint. Neither of us budged as we passed it back and forth.

"This is pretty good," I told him.

"I have quality standards."

I laughed. Which made him laugh, a deep, throaty rumble that sounded soulful and honest,and it made me smile.

He passed the joint back to me while he held the smoke. As I took a hit, he finally exhaled, then he swung his arm and whacked me in the chest.

"Oops," he said when I jerked from the unexpected hit. Tapping me a few times without pausing he asked, "Are you guys gay?"

Don't cough. Don't cough. Don't cough.

I did anyway. The smoke ripped from my lungs and abraded my throat as I ejected it in a fit of fear.

"Sorry," he murmured, "didn't mean to freak you out."

I shook my head, muttered, "No. Not that."

Still coughing a bit, I shook my hand in his direction as an indication he should give me a moment. And in the same moment I regained control of my breathing, I set upon consideration of the question.

Either he didn't care one way or another, in which case why ask, or he did care and telling the truth could be a problem in some way I might not foresee or imagine. Not that I feared him and not that the neighbors didn't already know about my sexuality, at least those who'd taken the time to get to know me, but he unnerved me with his obvious penchant for conversational tangents. And this one seemed like a potential trap.

I stopped hiding my sexuality at thirteen, though, and I had no intention of reentering the closet for Basketball Boy. Or anyone else.

"I am," I admitted, "but Nate's not. He's tragically straight."

"Oh." He sounded really surprised. "I figured you guys for boyfriends."

"Nope. Best friends though. Have been for twenty years."

"I bet you get all the guys you want, huh?" He took the joint from me and took a hit.

Goosebumps spread across my skin from head to toe as a brief tremble shook me. Conversations like this unnerved me. My sex life was anything but enviable, and mostly what I attracted were leaches and...

And worse.

"Well... Uh... Not really," I stammered, then after a shake of my head I clarified, "I've had a few here and there. I'm not big on random hookups. They're nice from time to time, sure, but I'm want something deeper, something that'll last longer."

What's with the sudden full disclosure? He's no therapist. This is none of his business. Why'd I tell him that? Like he gives a damn...

"I hear you." He passed the joint back to me, letting silence fill the space between us.

Yet it struck me as a comfortable silence, a contemplative quiet even.

As though any kid his age thinks about these things in abstract terms. No, at his age, it's all about getting off, the next orgasm, the next warm, wet hole...

My thoughts faded away as I pondered my own... Well, my own thoughts.

Wait a minute. I have no idea how old he is. Younger than me, I have no doubt about that, but specifically? Here I am generalizing without facts. I need to ask—

"So Nate's straight, huh? He's swole too, right? I bet he has lots of sex."

I smirked into the darkness, restraining a small chuckle.

Typical male conversation. It always comes around to sex.

"Dude, it's like you know him!" I finally laughed. "Nate's a total man whore. He says he's not the relationship kind of guy, that he just wants to dip his wick and move on."

"I guess that's hot if it's what you want."

Noting a hint of disappointment in his voice, as though Nate's propensity for hooking up and heading out made him less a man in Kyle's eyes, I quickly added, "I think he just hasn't met the right girl."

Which was precisely how I felt. My own withering dreams of happily ever after notwithstanding, I'd always wanted more for my best friend, something real and special and lasting, someone who could tame the ladies' man and bring out the dedicated husband I knew dwelled within him.

He deserves it.

Don't we all?

Maybe...

Sounding like this discussion of Nate had thwarted his expectations, Basketball Boy groaned before offering halfheartedly, "Huh..."

He wants more than that, you fool. Isn't it obvious?

Yes, it was obvious. My ability to comprehend body language, facial expressions, what was said and left unsaid, and vocal tones had made me a success in my career, not to mention with my friendships, though the massive blind spot I had seemed to thwart that gift when it came to attractive guys.

This kid's apparent let down at my description of Nate's love life—lack thereof, I should say—struck me hopeful, that someone his age—

Egads! His age. Again. I really should ask—

"I got a girlfriend."

That shook me out of my own head, rattled my synapses to kick out a pedestrian response: "Really? What's her name?"

"Traci."

"You two close?"

"She gets the job done."

That's not the kind of answer I expected. Traci "gets the job done"? What the hell is that supposed to mean? It's like she's a functionary rather than a girlfriend.

"Maybe I'm missing something here." I turned and looked at him, holding the joint toward him, trying to read his face in the dark. "She's your girlfriend, right?"

"I guess." As though that clarified matters, he took a hit whilst staring at the opposite garage wall, clearly seeing cosmic answers written there that remained hidden to my eyes.

"I didn't realize it was a difficult question."

I knew I was prodding, likely into personal business that had nothing whatsoever to do with me, but I couldn't help it. Over the course of our chat I'd realized Basketball Boy was an actual person, mature enough to have real feelings, real enough to strike me as someone worth knowing.

And that despite the constant torment he caused, the fear he created within me.

Suddenly he had stopped being this vexing creature that roamed the neighborhood. Now suddenly he'd become human, one stumbling through life like the rest of us.

"It's not a hard question," he huffed, offering me the joint with a dismissive wave. "It's just not simple."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from poking that open wound. What struck me about his tone and his body language and his words was clearer than a ringing bell.

Only I couldn't hear it. He stood smack in the middle of my blind spot and I couldn't interpret the obvious.

That realization put the fear of Kyle in me, more so than it had been up to that point.

Somehow he was me, a younger me, a doomed me, a questing me. And somehow I knew I had to push him away at the same time I knew he needed more from me than a cold shoulder.

And just maybe I needed more from him than the alienation with which I seemed intent to curse him. Maybe I needed someone standing in the blind spot to shed light on that shadowy realm.

Maybe I needed a friend who could finally help me burn the pyre of my past.

It's all projection on my part. He's not me. He's somebody else.

"I don't think I know what's going on in my life," he admitted.

"Same here," I mumbled as I tamped the roach on the concrete floor.

And in those two statements I'd discovered something. What, I didn't know, but it seemed important, applicable to the creeping turmoil this kid elicited in me and to the newfound closeness I felt with him.

Neither of us is talking about the same thing, but that right there...

Thinking it time to divert the conversation to a safer place, especially because I needed to know, I pointed my thoughts elsewhere.

His language skills didn't strike me as underdeveloped. Sure, he sounded like a kid now and then, but could I pin it down to an age? No, I couldn't.

Physically he could be anywhere from his teens to early twenties.

Maybe I just didn't have enough experience with younger people to catch the tells of age.

Right. It's that simple. Forget the fact that I avoid anyone who looks younger than forty. If they don't have gray hair, they're a danger. Isn't that my rule?

Exaggerate much? Besides, what has it accomplished to avoid people who look young?

What is it with me arguing with myself?

Good mental exercise, right?

Shut up.

Thus I was forced to use a more expert skill. As in digging up the truth with questions.

"So are you in college?"

He gave me a quizzical glance before huffing out an amused breath. "No, man. I'm not sure college is right for me."

Well, that didn't help a damn bit. How many post-high school kids have said that exact thing? A lot. So, tighten the focus.

"When did you graduate?"

Another look. As though he suddenly found me daft. Then: "I didn't."

At this rate we'll be going all night and I won't be any closer to knowing his age. Time to bring out the big gun.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Fuck! Son of a bitch! Damn it all to hell!

He might as well have punched me in the stomach for all the sudden churning and knotting it did, the sudden difficulty breathing, the tremor that shook my body.

No...

What seemed most important at that moment was kicking him to the curb, getting him away from me as quickly as possible.

"How old are you?"

Like electroshock therapy, his words jarred me, made me spit out a lungful of air, caused me to exit my own brain and revisit the real world.

What's good for the goose, I guess.

"How old do you think I am?"

Since when do I play coy?

"Twenty. Maybe twenty-five." His response came without hesitation, as though he'd thought on this question already.

"Thirty," I corrected with a hint of a impudence since I knew what was coming next.

With as much sincere innocence as I'd ever heard he said, "Thirty? Shit, man, I didn't think you were that old."

A compliment and an insult all in one statement. Ah, from the mouths of babes.

"I've always looked young. I'm genetically gifted, I suppose."

"I hope I can say the same when I'm that old."

Jesus, what a way to step on my buzz, dude. I'm not that old, thank you very much. I mean, I'm only twice your age. See, that's not old at all.

Discovering his age had put a damper on my mood. Worse, I had to consciously will my left hand away from the phoenix tattoo, tell it to focus elsewhere.

I could hardly in good conscience entertain the notion of friendship with Kyle. He had to go. Away. Forever.

Fifteen. What are the odds? I guess I'm the product of my past.

Looking for escape, I glanced at my watch. That simple gesture revealed we had talked for well over two hours. About a great many things.

So what if he's forbidden fruit. That doesn't mean we can't be friends.

Tonight felt like it had taken us a good distance in that direction, such a comfortable time, conversation flowing easily, both of us interested in what the other had to say.

It's time to go. It's time to get away from him. Send him away. Be done with him.

I was of two minds. My time spent with Kyle had illuminated something inside me, something that dwelt in the darkness of that massive black hole of a blind spot, something that I'd need to shine a light on and understand if—

It didn't matter.

It wasn't like I wanted to jump his bones. It wasn't like I wanted to ply him with alcohol and drugs until he became malleable and willing. It wasn't like I had become—

But it didn't matter. I thought him attractive, then to find out his age...

I couldn't, though. No matter how violently my stomach roiled, no matter how potently I needed to reject him, no matter how desperately his attractiveness repulsed me, he was just a kid, one looking for answers like we all do at that age, one seeking happiness, one trying to find himself.

Because deep down inside that blind spot, well beyond the reach of my mind's eye, I'd glimpsed something while Basketball Boy's light shined there.

I knew. I wasn't even sure if he knew yet, but I knew.

So I pushed all the knowing behind the curtain of fear, pushed his need behind the cloak of danger, pushed him away where I could ignore him.

"Listen, Kyle, I have to get going. I need a shower before hitting the sack. I have to be at work early in the morning."

And that's where it should have ended.

But it didn't. Because the part of me that had glimpsed into that lightless realm within wouldn't listen to the rest of me, didn't want to throw away hope when I'd suddenly found it again after so long.

"Listen," I continued, words spilling from my mouth that had no right to come forth, "you're welcome to come over anytime. If you want to hang out or burn one or whatever, feel free to stop by."

Keep digging yourself in deeper, Greg.

He's going to smoke anyway.

But that doesn't mean he has to do it here!

Would you rather have him doing it with people who might not have his best interests at heart or would you rather have him doing it where you know he's safe and only a few houses away from his own home?

Logical. Still not a great idea, but logical.

And he already mentioned some of his friends trying to get him into worse trouble than he already finds on his own. What'll happen if he's smoking weed when they finally accomplish that?

How is that my concern?

Why am I arguing with myself?

"Really? That's cool, man. I'd love to hang with you."

"Alright." I pulled out my wallet. "Here's one of my business cards. My personal cell number is on the back. Call me anytime. Or stop by. You can never have too many friends."

He reached out and shook my hand again, a comfortable, lazy smile on his face. I thought he held on just a moment longer than seemed necessary. Being stoned, however, that could just as easily have been a perception problem on my part or a synaptic misfire on his part. We weren't exactly firing on all cylinders.

Or so I thought until his grip tightened a bit, not painfully but noticeably, and he gave me a serious smile, one that looked like it held back tears.

"Thank you," he nearly whispered, still holding my hand, his voice serious and genuine. "That means a lot. Tonight meant a lot, too."

As he finally released my hand I told him, "To me, too, Kyle. And I mean it. Get in touch or stop by if you want."

"Cool. Goodnight, Greg. It was really nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, too. Goodnight."

I watched him walk across the intervening yards between our house and his. He glanced back once he reached his sidewalk,saw me, gave a nod of his head, then turned and disappeared.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

Why'd he have to be fifteen?

I was whining. Using my inside voice, but still whining.

* * * * *

The garage door quietly shut behind me as I walked into the kitchen. Nate lay on the couch watching television, the only source of light in the otherwise dark downstairs.

"Finally decide to come in? I was beginning to think you were taking up residence in the garage."

"Nope," I said as I put my empty beer bottles in the recycling bin.

"How'd the date go?"

I couldn't stop myself from sighing. Loudly.

Nate glanced at me before turning back to the television. "What happened?"

"The guy was hot and seemed really nice when we met at the gym and when we worked out together and every time we talked. And dinner was great. Good food, good conversation, relaxed, all that jazz. He even paid like a gentleman—"

"He asked you out, G-Man. That's how it's supposed to work."

"Anyway..."

"Right. Back to what happened."

I stood near the coffee table staring at the TV without seeing or hearing the program. Holding my discarded shirt between my hands, I was wringing it back and forth without realizing it.

"When dinner was over and we got to the parking lot, he asked me if we were going to his place or mine. I told him it was a wonderful date, I had a really good time, and I'd like to see him again, but I wasn't looking for a hookup. I told him I wanted to take it slow and see where it went because I was looking for more than just getting off."

After several long moments of silence except the quieted television, Nate prompted, "And how did he respond?"

Equal parts hurt and anger tainted my voice when I answered, "He tried to cajole me at first, like coming at the idea from a gentler angle would change my mind. And when it didn't, he called me a fucking tease, told me I'd been leading him on the whole time, that I knew what I was doing and it wasn't cool. And I was an asshole for letting him pay for dinner when I knew I wasn't taking it any further."

I almost sobbed at that. Almost. But I held back the tears and the emotions.

"Like I was a cheap whore and he didn't get what he paid for."

"Sounds like an asshole. Good riddance to bad rubbish. You deserve someone better, Greg, and you'll find him. You need to stop looking with your eyes and start looking with your heart."

"Whatever, Dr. Phil," I sniffed.

"Changing topics... Finally met Basketball Boy?"

"Uh huh." I hoped to escape before this interrogation began.

"Does he have all his teeth?"

"Yes!" I answered through my chuckling. "All his fingers and toes, too."

He nodded through a grin. "I'm sure he's happier about that than you are."

"On that you're probably right, my dear friend."

"So, hey, I could hear you guys talking and decided not to interrupt. Sounded like a cozy conversation."

"Just this and that really."

"Just this and that, huh? I didn't hear you discuss my weight or what time I have regular bowel movements, but those are probably the only topics you didn't cover."

Damn bionic hearing!

"I had to turn the TV up so I wouldn't feel guilty for eavesdropping."

"You feel guilty for eavesdropping? It happens automatically with you, so why feel guilty about it?"

"True that, G-Man. Never felt guilty about it before."

"So why start now, right?" I grinned as I shook my head.

Nate called it a curse, that damnable hearing of his, and I'm sure to some extent it came across that way, having to constantly ignore what you didn't want to hear, having to concentrate harder to filter out detritus so only substance remained.

But for his whole life that bionic hearing had afforded him all sorts of advantages and seeming foreknowledge. I'd never known him to feel bad about overhearing what others assumed he couldn't hear.

"Seems like a nice kid. Not that I met him, but you didn't run screaming from him and you didn't come inside beaten and bloody. Hell, you don't look any more terrified of him now than you did before tonight."

"Asshole."

"I'm just saying, dude. Maybe getting to know him is just what you need. You can never have too many friends."

His eyes remained on the television, intentionally not looking at me, but I could plainly see the knowing look on his face.

"What are you thinking?" I asked him.

When his eyes met mine, he grinned, his eyes twinkling with reflections from the television. "How old is he?"

I hesitated for only one breath, but Nate caught it as any best friend would. His eyes narrowed yet he remained silent, waiting.

Finally I replied, "Fifteen." Already my hand rested near my hip, my left hip, near the phoenix tattoo my mother helped me get when I was still fifteen, a gift from her to help me cover the evidence of my terror.

He nodded slowly without taking his eyes off my hand. "Okay." Then his eyes leaped to mine when he asked, "Did that freak you out?"

"You know it did." I sounded dismissive, defensive even, so I headed for the stairs.

Rerouting my train of thought before I sank deeper into the quagmire of my past, he said, "Anyway, seemed like a nice visit. He gonna come back?"

"He shouldn't," I declared. Halfway up the stairs, though, I mumbled, "I think I hope so."