Page 34 of Gabe

Not wanting to let the others hear us arguing, again, I turned to close the bedroom door. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of Newt and Sebastian talking. Based on their body language, Newt was obviously just as upset as Frankie, but somehow the pair managed to discuss their problem without arguing.

How did they do it?

Does being romantically involved make things easier?

Or are they both just that much better at communicating?

Sucking in a deep breath, I closed the door and turned to face Frankie.

“I cannot just give up on my job. That would mean giving up on all the victims who need my help, and I refuse to do that. And unless I have seriously misjudged your character, I don’t think you want that either.”

The fight instantly drained out of him, and he seemed to sag within his own skin. “No. I don’t. I just wish that helping people didn’t have to come at the risk of your own safety.” He stepped forward until his head rested on my uninjured shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad at you. I just... hate everything that is happening right now.”

A man putting his head on my shoulder was a request for comfort, right?

I’d never had anyone act so familiarly with me before, not since I was a kid anyway, and I didn’t immediately know what to do.

Raising my arm that wasn’t trapped in a sling, I stroked a hand over the back of his head.

I immediately knew that was the wrong move. Frankie sprang away from me, clutching the back of his head like I’d struck him. Panic made his eyes glitter in a way that should not have looked so pretty, and I realized I’d seen this expression on his face before.

“Are you injured?”

“What?” Frankie ran both hands through his braids in a self-soothing gesture as he took a deep breath. “No. Everything’s fine. What makes you say that?”

“You reacted the same way when I grabbed your hair, back when I was trying to show you some self-defense. Is it something that I’m doing wrong? If I’m hurting you, then I want to know so I don’t do it again.”

For a moment it looked like Frankie might bolt out of the room, and I was already prepared to face a reality where he locked himself in the RV again. However, rather than run, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes, tipping his head up toward the ceiling like he was praying. Then, when he opened his eyes again, there was a new strength in his expression.

Without saying a word, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against the back of his head, guiding my fingers to bury in his braids until I touched his scalp.

A thick line of knotted scar tissue ran along the back of his head. At first, I wanted to pull back, afraid I would hurt such an obviously sensitive area, but Frankie grabbed my wrist with both hands.

“It’s fine. I don’t actually feel anything there. You can touch. It won’t hurt me.”

With his permission, I slowly traced my fingers over the scar. It took the entire length of my hand to cover it, stretching all the way from just behind Frankie’s ear to the back of his head. The fact that the scar was so raised meant that the wound had not been easy to stitch together, and the skin had not aligned properly.

A scar like this anywhere on the body would be a big deal, but on the head, it was even more shocking. I could imagine several different wounds that would leave such a scar, and each possibility left me feeling angrier than the last.

It was a struggle, but I managed to keep my voice steady as I spoke. “What happened?”

The wound may be old but the memories of it were obviously still raw as phantom pain flickered in Frankie’s eyes.

“Oh, you know. An openly gay black boy living in the American deep south. High school was a treat.”

He obviously needed a minute to collect his thoughts, so I guided us both to sit side by side on the bed. Not once did he ask me to remove my hand from his head, and I didn’t feel particularly inclined to let go, so I just kept rubbing along the line of the scar as if I could erase it from his skin.

“I told you that I used to be on the track team in high school, right?” Frankie asked when he found his voice again.

I understood social cues enough to understand that he was not looking for an actual answer. It was just a transition into the story he actually wanted to tell. So, I nodded in encouragement for him to keep talking, but stayed silent as I listened.

“I didn’t really like running on the track team, but I was good at it, and a sports scholarship was the only way I was going to college. I don’t think I ever saw my parents so happy as the day I was told that I’d gotten the scholarship they wanted.”

“You were injured because you earned a sports scholarship?”

I shouldn’t have spoken. My role in this interaction was to listen, not to interrupt, but the idea was so absurd I couldn’t help seeking clarification.

Luckily, Frankie didn’t seem to mind the interruption. He merely laughed a sad little chuckle and pressed his head closer into my hand like a dog asking to be petted.

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