Page 67 of Man On

I just want to pretend. I want to smile and laugh with the friends I've made, and act like I'm just a normal guy. Looking around at each of the guys around me, screwing around and laughing and being overall disruptive to the mostly empty restaurant, I want this to be my life.

But it isn't. And that peace only lasts so long, because avoidance isn't an effective coping mechanism when your deepest secrets are being splattered all over the news.

"Hold on," Danny says, motioning for the group to calm down and pointing at the television mounted over the bar. "This is that cult church I was talking about," he tells Peters, who looks up at the screen. The volume is too low to hear, but the subtitles are big enough to read from where we are. It's a commercial for the documentary they're doing. My mom told me about it this morning. Since I don't watch much TV or get on social media, I missed the announcement of a documentary they are doing about the compound. The detective told mom, but was assured that since we changed my name, I was safe from the media outlets finding out about me. Apparently, they were very thorough when searching for people to interview, but they haven’t managed to track me down yet.

My attention is grabbed by movement at the end of the table. I watch Noah kick his best friend and shake his head, mouthing the word no with a threatening look. My heartbeat picks up. Miah knows about the compound. His big mouth talked about it all over soccer camp, but thankfully no one else from our graduating year went to camp with us. Noah didn't stop him or defend me then. Is this part of our new arrangement? Or is he feeling bad for me? Or just protecting his toy from getting too damaged? Either way, what are the chances that Miah is actually going to keep his mouth shut about this?

Worry flashes in Noah's eyes, and I follow his gaze back to the television screen. They're flashing photos of the compound, teasing their exclusive access to tour the grounds. A picture of a tile room with a chair flashes on the screen, and the room spins. I rub my wrists, soothing a phantom pain.

I can't breathe.

On the screen, they flash a mugshot of Dr. Andrews, who, as it turns out, wasn't an actual doctor. Another mugshot, one of the church staff. I know what's coming, but I can't think of a way out of it quick enough. My body turns towards Noah, hoping he isn't looking at the screen. I don’t want him to see it. He'll know. They'll all know. They won't need Miah to tell them, it'll be right there for them to see.

Noah is definitely looking at the screen, but he's not really paying attention. He’s paying more attention to the guys, who are turned around or craning their necks to look at the TV.

Bam! A loud thud and the table lurching gets everyone’s attention.

"Oh, shit! Damn it! Fuck. My bad." Noah looks up and flags one of the employees while everyone at the table scrambles to toss their napkins into the soggy mess that is Noah's plate and lap. "Can we get some more napkins or a towel or something. I don't know what happened." He stands and looks down at himself, face falling. "Well shit," he says, blotting at himself uselessly with a wet napkin, his face coloring. "I look like I fucking pissed myself," he mutters. The guys hear him, and they all start laughing again. Noah isn’t laughing. He’s annoyed, especially when a couple of the guys make jokes at his expense about whether pissing yourself is better than being face down in the mud like he was the other day.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, very funny,” he grouses. He pulls some cash out of his wallet and throws it on the table. “Make sure the waitress gets that, will ya? I feel bad for the mess, but I'm out. I’m gonna run home before my dick shrivels up from the cold and I start attracting ants. See you guys tomorrow if practice is still on."

His eyes dart to me, and then quickly away. Miah watches him with narrowed eyes, clearly working it out before I do. Noah did that on purpose.

Still laughing at his misfortune, the guys wave him off with some good-natured jabs. A minute or so after he leaves, I stand up. "He's going to track soda all through the apartment if I'm not there to clean up after him. Everything's going to be sticky," I huff.

Noah has endlessly complained that I'm an obsessive neat freak, so no one is surprised by my reaction and doesn't question me running off after him. Except for maybe Danny, who seems disappointed that I'm leaving.

"I'll catch up with you later," I tell him.

As I'm leaving, I hear Taylor ask Danny if we've got something going on, and the pressure in my chest increases. I don't stay to hear Danny's answer, but I'm pretty sure he'll set him straight. I hope.

It’s sprinkling again, the cool drops waking me up enough that I realize I'm standing in front of the restaurant, bent over and sucking in air like I've been under water.

They’re all going to know. Maybe not today, but soon. They’ll all know.

I can’t lose it here. My feet move, not paying attention to the direction they're taking me. I can only hope that somewhere in the recesses of my brain, my internal compass will lead me home.

Just past the restaurant, Noah is waiting for me, leaning up against a light post. I tense, thinking that maybe he's about to go off about having to humiliate himself to cover for me, or make some snide comment that, on a good day, might come off funny. Instead, his expression is as tense as I feel. He looks worried.

"Are you okay?"

"No," I answer honestly, maybe for the first time in my life.

He nods and pulls me to him. My entire body goes stiff, but Noah wraps his arms around my back and… hugs me. It's strange.

"Relax, Lane. You're allowed to hug your brother in public."

The more I melt into his embrace, the better it feels. Tears threaten, but I hold them back. I want to ask Noah to squeeze me as tightly as he can, until it hurts. Because it seems like that would feel good, and I feel like I'm unraveling. He lets go, but I don't move right away, my mind spinning in too many directions at once.

Noah’s hands are holding my shoulders, and he’s trying to catch my eyes, but I can’t look at him straight on. I’m too dizzy, and it’s too real.

"You know?" I ask him, not bothering with specifics.

"I know something. But I have a feeling it’s barely the surface."

I close my eyes and nod, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

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