Here For You

by J. P. Oliver

  The door to the diner was propped open, so I stopped short, inviting him to lead with a wave of my arm. He offered me one of his tiny almost-smiles, then stepped inside. Like magic, his shoulders relaxed as he crossed the threshold.

  The sign by the door read PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. We had plenty of options at this awkward too-late-for-lunch, too-early-for-dinner hour. “This okay?” I asked, indicating a round table near the door, bathed in the glow of mid-afternoon sunlight. Beck could sit with his back to the window, but have a clear line of sight to the exit. Nothing could get to him directly, and if he needed to bolt—he wouldn’t, but if he needed to—nothing, not even me, would obstruct his path. I’d had enough sit-downs with survivors of abuse and assault to know these things mattered.

  Beck nodded and sat.

  I took the chair opposite him and stared down at the laminated placemat that did double-duty as the menu. I already knew what I wanted, and I was bursting to actually talk with the boy, but I wasn’t going to fire off questions the second we sat down. I glanced up. His eyes were locked on his menu. Not like he was reading. Like he was scared to look anywhere else.

  Less than a minute later, the waitress arrived. She wore faded jeans and pink sneakers, and the name “JoAnne” was embroidered on her black polo.

  “Hey, fellas. Something to drink while you’re looking?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “A water for me, and a coffee.” I waited a moment, and when Beck didn’t answer, I looked at him.

  “Coke?” He spoke to me, not JoAnne.

  I nodded, then canted my head slowly toward our server.

  “A Coke?” he repeated, to her, but just as quietly.

  “Cokecoffeewater.” JoAnne nodded before bustling off.

  We pretended to read our menus some more. When the silence between us grew ridiculous, I looked up. “Anything look good?”

  He froze for a moment, then thawed just enough to shrug.

  “Anything you want. Go crazy.”

  He nodded. A little.

  Before I could plunge any deeper, JoAnne returned, two tall plastic glasses in her hands, a ceramic mug suspended from the two thick fingers impaling its handle. She set them down, no wasted movement, not spilling a drop. She was good.

  “Know what you want? Any questions?”

  “I’ll have a Mountaineer,” I said. “Eggs scrambled, please, bacon burnt, hash browns crispy, and…a biscuit. And I’d like some sliced jalapenos. And Cholula when it comes.”

  She scribbled and nodded, then looked up at Beck. “Hon?”

  “Pancakes?” Again, to me.

  I nodded. “Is that all?”

  “With chocolate chips?” He bit his lip and flushed like I’d just made him confess his most secret sin.

  “Chocolate chip pancakes for my friend,” I said to JoAnne, who scribbled some more before scurrying off to the kitchen.

  The ordeal of ordering behind us, Beck at least looked at me. I met his gaze and offered a little smile. He smiled back.

  Washed in sunlight, he looked even more fragile than he had in the Sit and Sip. As easy to break as a porcelain cup. As easy to bruise as an orchid’s petal. Some men, I knew, would take that fragility as an invitation, a challenge. I only wanted to hold him. Press him close to my chest and will my strength to flow into him, to stroke his hair, to tell him he was strong and brave, that nothing would ever hurt him again. I wanted to make promises, and to keep them.

  The soft glow also gave him a beauty, an unearthly perfection I hadn’t quite noticed in the bookstore. He looked like a boy used to night and shadows, and the sun bathing his neck and face seemed to illuminate him from the inside, an opalescence that contrasted even with his pale pink lips and flushed cheeks. His hair, a perfectly nice blond under the Sit and Sip’s warm electric lights, now flared golden. A few strands flopped down over his forehead, and it took actual effort not to brush them away. His eyes, now back to spring-sky blue and framed with copper lashes, watched me watch him. If he hadn’t looked so skittery, so ready to bolt or to hide inside his too-large sweater, I would have half-believed he was an angel.

  The silence between us began to take on physical weight. I stirred sugar into my coffee. I smoothed my napkin in my lap. I glanced down and away from time to time, but stayed present. Guys like Beck, if I was judging him correctly, knew what was expected of them and ached to fall in line—people who didn’t fall in line got noticed, and Beck didn’t want to be noticed. I waited for him to realize that speaking and sharing would make him less memorable than remaining silent.

  Eventually, bravery set in his jawline.

  “Why did you want to buy me lunch?”

  Even in the silence of the restaurant, his words were barely audible.

  I sipped my coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry?” I set my cup down with a soft thud, still louder than his question.

  “Why—” His voice was husky now, thick, but slightly louder. He paused and cleared his throat and pushed forward. “Why did you want to buy me lunch?”

  “Ah,” I said, as though I’d only just heard him. “You have a nice voice, Beck, but you’re hard to understand when you whisper. Speak up, yes? Be confident.” Another sip. “I asked you to lunch because I wanted company, and I thought you might be good company.”

  I didn’t think his eyes could grow wider, but they did, and his cheeks flushed ever rosier. I looked down, adjusting my napkin, letting him react without the pressure of my gaze.

  “Why did you say yes?” I asked, when our eyes met again.

  He shrugged.

  I cocked my head. “Surely you had a reason?”

  “It’s something new.” Soft. Louder than before, but soft.

  “I didn’t hear you?”

  “It— It’s something new. I wanted to try something new.”

  I nodded approval, both at his answer and his volume.

  “¡Bueno! Even in a town as small as Harlan, new experiences lie everywhere. You just have to be alert enough to notice them, and bold enough to take them, yes?”

  He smiled, hearing the compliment that I hadn’t quite paid him. Good.

  JoAnne returned, somehow carrying two steaming plates, a small bowl of sliced peppers, a dish of butter and jellies, a container of syrup, and a bottle of hot sauce in her two capable hands. I leaned back, allowing her to set our food before us.

  “Anything else, guys?”

  I looked at Beck, who looked at his half-empty glass.

  “More Coke?” he whispered, again to me.

  I smiled and made a loose fist, knocking it twice against my chest, over my heart. “Mas fuerte, Beck.” I kept my own voice low; this was a moment between us.

  “More Coke,” he said to JoAnne. “Please.”

  I smiled, and I saw the rosy flush kiss his cheeks again. Not fear this time. He was proud of himself, and pleased at having pleased me.

  We spoke casually between bites. I asked him if he’d spent much time in Denver. He shook his head, but caught himself, and then said no, he’d never been. I nodded my encouragement, and then told him about the city, and my life there, and my big, crazy family. He listened, eyes bright, and even laughed a couple of times, while demolishing his pancakes. Once he was good and warmed up, I started asking questions, just simple things to draw him out. How was his food? (Good, thank you.) How long had he been in Harlan? (Five months.) Did he like it here? (Yes.) His answers were short—sometimes a mere word, never more than a sentence—but his voice carried and his eye contact was good, and when he felt himself getting quiet or glancing away, he’d stop, take a breath, and start over, louder and direct. He wouldn’t be reciting Shakespeare anytime soon, but I could see him making himself do better.

  I asked him, after JoAnne had cleared the plates and dropped the check, what he liked about working at the Sit and Sip. At once, he came alive. I don’t know if he’d gotten used to talking, or if he was just passionate about the place, but he lit up, talking unself-consciously for maybe a minute about th
e books and the smells and Gavin and Jay. In that moment, our conversation felt as easy as coffee with a friend, as pleasant as a—as a good date. My own cheeks warmed when that comparison skated through my consciousness.

  The kid was cute, though.

  Lunch hadn’t been productive in the way I’d hoped. I still didn’t feel comfortable asking him any real questions, but I was proud of him for opening up as much as he had. His shoulders weren’t bunched around his ears, and his smile, though still shy, came more and more frequently.

  It was after four when I finally pushed my chair back from the table. We’d finished eating ages ago, but I was having fun, and Beck seemed to be as well. I didn’t think Jay would mind that I’d kept his little helper out so late, but I added that to the mental checklist of favors I owed him.

  “This was nice,” I said. “Thank you for your company.”

  He smiled, and after a moment he said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Maybe we can do this again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’d like that.”

  He smiled.

  “Is there somewhere else you’d like to eat? We can come back here, but if you have a place you like?”

  He shook his head. “This is nice. I like it.”

  I nodded slowly. “Fair enough. But don’t always let me pick. If there’s something you want to do or to try sometime, you have to let me know, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I grinned down at him. “Good boy.”

  Faster than I would have believed possible, cold lightning washed over him. His muscles tensed; his face, impossibly, became paler; his eyes burned into me like frostbite.

  “What—”

  “I’m not your fucking boy.” His quietness scraped at me, like gravel into a skinned knee.

  “I know, Beck.” Low and slow, like talking to a cornered man holding a gun. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t ever call me that again.” Louder now.

  “I won’t, Beck. I’m sorry.” I reached for him, glacially.

  He flinched as though I’d slapped him and took a step back. I froze, but left my arms open in case he wanted them.

  “I will never hurt you, Beck. Not with my hands, and if I can help it, not with my words. I’m sorry.”

  A moment later, he was in my arms. His stiffness evaporated. I felt each tremble, each shudder, against my chest. He started to sob, loudly. I felt his tears on my skin as they soaked my shirt.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw JoAnne step out of the kitchen. She opened her mouth to speak, and I shook my head in a frantic motion.

  “It’s okay, Beck. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” I risked stroking his hair. He sobbed louder, but let me, hiding against my shoulder.

  We stood for a while, sharing warmth, touching. It would have been nice, if I hadn’t been consumed with the guilt of devastating him.

  When the crying abated, he remained still for a moment, then whispered, so softly that I felt it more than I heard it, he repeated, “Never call me that again.”

  “Never, Beck.”

  I relaxed my arms a little and, as though I’d given him a sign, he pushed out of the embrace, fierce as a ferret. Stumbling through the open door, he ran across the street without checking for traffic—thank God for small towns—and barreled through the entrance of the Sit and Sip.

  And I stood, and watched, and wondered how much of his trust I’d just undone.

  5

  Beck

  “Boy! Get in here!”

  “Stop making that goddamn racket, boy!”

  “Does this steak look medium-rare to you? What are you, boy, a fucking idiot?”

  “If you can’t iron a shirt without burning it, I’ll find some other way for you to earn your keep. You want that, boy? Fucking sissy. Fucking queer-boy. You want me to make you show me what a good boy you can be for me?”

  The bad dreams returned the night after my lunch with Officer Flores.

  I couldn’t tell if I was mad at him or not. I felt like I wanted to be, but I didn’t think I should be, and, when it came down to it, I didn’t know if I was.

  That word.

  That word had been my identity until the moment I’d walked out of my uncle’s house almost six months ago, not even bothering to lock the door behind me. I’d wanted to burn it down, but instead I’d just walked away, hoping it would get robbed and vandalized, hoping a family of hungry bears would move in for the winter.

  Officer Flores had called me that word, and he hadn’t meant it bad, but I heard it like my uncle had said it. Heavy, like a weapon.

  Jay had seen it on my face. He’d given me some macaroons—the coconut kind, not the almond kind—and a cup of tea, and let me sit at the counter, not talking, until we’d closed.

  And maybe he’d said something to Gavin, because Gavin had been extra quiet but extra smiley when he came in yesterday, and again today.

  I’d slept badly anyway. I’d had bad dreams that night and last night, and it was getting dark outside, and I was scared I’d have them tonight.

  I wanted to see Officer Flores and apologize for being weird. I wanted to see Officer Flores and beat my fists into his tree trunk of a chest, for all the good that would do.

  Mostly I wanted to see Officer Flores so I could look into his warm brown eyes and see how he looked kind even when he wasn’t smiling, and hear him tell me to speak up and be brave, and fall against his body and feel his arms around me, and make him hold me while I slept and not let the bad dreams come.

  Stupid. Stupid boy.

  He hadn’t come back after lunch. He hadn’t come in yesterday. He hadn’t come in today. Because I’d freaked out on him. Because I was a weirdo. Because I was a stupid-boy, sissy-boy, idiot-boy, bad-boy.

  I shelved automatically, letting the rhythm of Gavin running reports at the front register numb me. I tried to not tell myself what a stupid boy I was, but I was a stupid boy.

  The bell on the door jangled. I froze. This end of downtown died just after five, and it was nearly six.

  “Evening!” Gavin’s voice. “Help you find something?” Gavin never rushed patrons, even if they showed up right as we were closing.

  “Good evening.” My insides clenched. I peeked around the edge of the bookshelf and saw a patch of sky-blue flannel, molded to a broad back. It was him. The voice continued. “My name is Jamie Flores. I’m a friend of Jay’s.”

  “Officer Flores! Hi. Yes. Nice to finally meet you. Gavin Joy.”

  “And you as well, Mr. Joy. Jay speaks highly of you, as does my friend Detective Mack.”

  “Well, thank you.” Gavin’s pleasure was clear in his voice. He really didn’t realize, I think, how much people in Harlan liked him, looked up to him. “Is—uh. Is there something I can do for you? Jay’s gone home for the night. He gets here before sunrise to start baking, and—”

  They got quiet again, but not silent. I could hear them talking in low voices, little huffs of breath, little bursts of sibilance cutting through the hush of the store. I wished Gavin’s report would hurry up and quit printing. I strained to hear, but nothing. Then Officer Flores turned, and I ducked back behind the bookshelf, heart thundering.

  Then he was beside me, impossibly large. Eyes. Dimple. I burned at being exposed like this, trying to hide from him in plain sight. I sighed and stepped out.

  “Hello, Beck.”

  I stared at the carpet.

  “If you’re upset with me, I understand. But I’d like to talk about it. I would hate to leave things between us the way we left them after lunch. Especially because I’m the one who upset you.”

  I stared at the carpet. I wanted to look at him, but I couldn’t.

  “Will you talk about it with me?”

  I nodded.

  And then he touched me. I jumped, but only because I was surprised. His touch was gentle. Two fingers brushed my jaw, slid under my chin. I raised my face to his,
not because he was making me, but because the touch told me that that’s what he wanted.

  “Eyes are important, Beck. When you look another man in the eye, it’s a sign of respect, yes? But it’s also a show of confidence. When you look another man in the eye it tells him you are not afraid of him.” He paused, raising his eyebrows.

  I nodded.

  “Good. I promised you, Beck, that I would never hurt you. But there are people who like to do harm. If you look a man in the eye, he will think twice about picking on you. Seem confident even if you don’t feel confident. If you do that often enough, you will sometimes forget that you are only pretending.”

  I swallowed, and nodded again, but looked into his eyes. My heart was racing again, but in a different way. A good way. I never wanted him to take those two fingers off my skin.

  “And don’t forget to speak out loud. Clear. Fuerte.” He touched my chest, just lightly. Another two fingers pressing against my heartbeat, and then gone in an instant. My mouth went dry. “Speaking aloud, this is also a sign of respect and a show of confidence. Do you understand me, Beck?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Fuerte, Beck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He smiled and his dimple appeared and his eyes shone, and when he took his fingers off my skin I almost whimpered and my face grew warm.

  “Let’s start again. Hello, Beck.”

  “Hello.”

  “May we talk for a few minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “The café is empty now, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to go sit?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, and then started to walk toward the café. I followed him, then realized I had three novels in my hand. I went back to the shelf and set them down, just anywhere. I’d fix it in the morning. Then I followed Officer Flores, who’d waited for me, back to the café.

  The lights were low. He pointed to two armchairs, big and comfy, one cranberry red, one creamy white. I sat in the cranberry one. He sat next to me in the cream one, but scooted it until we were directly across from each other.

  “I want to thank you for talking to me, Beck. I want to thank you for allowing me another opportunity to apologize. I had a very good time with you at lunch, and I feel as though I undid all of that with a few simple words at the end of the afternoon. I regret that.”