Page 13 of Surrender

“Why would I want that?”

My question baffled him. “The same reasons anyone would—money, fame, sex…”

“What do those things have to do with posting my photo on social media?”

Ever was still staring at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Lots of followers means offers of sponsorships and endorsement deals. I usually turn them down because I don’t want to dilute my brand, but there’s a lot of money to be made there. The fame part is obvious. And in terms of sex, don’t you want a lot of hot guys sliding into your DMs?”

“I can’t overemphasize how little I want any of that.” When his expression fell, I quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just a private person, and what you’re describing is basically an introvert’s worst nightmare.”

“No, I totally get it.” He put away his phone, and we started walking again. After a while, he broke the silence with, “Tell me about yourself, Tracy.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Sure there is. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a program assistant at a transition shelter for LGBTQ-plus young people.”

“What does transition mean in this context?”

“Our residents are eighteen to twenty-two years old, and before coming to us, they were either unhoused or in foster care. When kids age out of the system, they often end up struggling to afford housing. The shelter provides a bridge of sorts, from their teen years into adulthood. It gives them a chance to go to college or learn job skills, while living in a stable, supportive environment.”

He glanced at my profile and asked, “Were they homeless or in foster care because their families disowned them?”

“Some were disowned. Others ran away from bad situations.”

“Does the shelter need volunteers? I have a lot of time right now, and I’d love to help out.”

“Possibly. I can put you in touch with Darwin, our volunteer coordinator, if you want.”

“I can hear the hesitation in your voice, but I swear this isn’t about a photo op. These kids have a right to their privacy. I wouldn’t try to plaster them all over social media to make myself look like a super awesome humanitarian.”

I stopped walking and turned to him. “I know, and I didn’t mean to sound skeptical. But I hear the same thing almost every time I tell someone about the shelter, and very few people actually follow through. If they show up at all, it’s maybe once or twice before losing interest. What our residents need more than anything is stability, so take some time to think about it. Be sure you’re willing to make a commitment before you agree to volunteer.”

“I get what you’re saying, and I’ll definitely give it some thought and check out the shelter before making any promises. But part of putting down roots here in San Francisco isfinding ways to give back to the community. That’s always been important to me.”

“Well, like I said, I’ll put you in touch with our volunteer coordinator, and you can go from there.”

“Thanks. So, should we keep going?”

Ever made a sweeping hand gesture to indicate continuing down the sidewalk, and he looked confused when I told him, “We’re here.”

“We are?”

“Yeah, this is my gym.”

I pointed to the warehouse beside us, and he muttered, “You’re kidding.”

5

Ever

Tracy had meant it when he called his gym no-frills. Half of the old warehouse housed a boxing ring and some related training equipment, while the other half contained free weights, a couple of weight machines, and a small row of bikes and treadmills for cardio. There were also a few medicine balls and resistance bands scattered around, but that was about it.

I took off my jacket and stuck it in my gym bag, feeling out of place in my red, form-fitting shorts and tank top. Only six people were using the equipment, and they were all dressed like Tracy in baggy sweats. This wasn’t a place people went to socialize. It was about getting in a solid workout, nothing more.

Suddenly, a young, totally jacked blond guy burst out of the office and yelled, “Holy crap, you’re Ever Daley!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at us, which clearly embarrassed Tracy. When the blond reached us, he vigorously shook my hand and gushed, “It’s an honor, Mr. Daley, truly. I’m Steve, the assistant manager. My friends are never going to believe I met you! We’re all huge fans.”

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