Page 54 of Again with Feeling

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She nodded. “Let me get Bobby, and I’ll follow you home.”

“Is he okay?” I hadn’t seen him since the police had sent us to sit in separate squad cars. “Is he in trouble?”

Acosta gave me a funny look.

But before she could answer, one of the Astoria detectives shouted, “What do you mean she’s taking them?”

“You go get him,” Acosta said to me. “I’ll handle this.”

“Where—”

“Back of the ambulance.”

I started to ask what happened, but then I realized it didn’t matter.

Let me tell you something: if you want to see a little gay boyrun.

I don’t even remember crossing the distance—it was a blur of flashing lights and the darkness that swept in on their wake. But I remember when I saw him sitting on the tailgate, a blanket around his shoulders, in the steady light from the back of the ambulance. He had his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and he was sitting so very still.

Somehow, I managed to hit the brakes and not barrel into him and hug him, Millie style, into a million pieces. I slowed to a walk. I took the last few steps so slowly, in fact, that it felt like it took me years to finally reach him. He must have heard me because he looked up. His face was drawn with something beyond exhaustion. The earthy bronze of his eyes was dim. Even his regulation hair looked wild, like someone had been running their hands through it.

All of a sudden, I realized I was going to have to say something, and the last words we’d said to each other had been so awful. So angry.

But I am, forever and always, Dashiell Dawson Dane, which means I did theweirdestlittle wave and heard myself say, “Hi.”

It felt like a long time before Bobby said, “Hi.”

There was probably a stoic, masculine way to approach the next part of this interaction—something that would allow both of us to feel appropriately butch, without either of us making ourselves vulnerable or sacrificing our pride.

Which was why it made perfect sense that, instead, I blurted, “Are you okay?”

Another long pause came. Bobby shook his head.

The seconds ticked past. A paramedic came around the back of the ambulance, typing a message on her phone. When she saw us, she took one look, rolled her eyes, and went back the way she’d come.

I decided that was a sign that the universe wasn’t going to put a merciful end to this conversation for me. So, I climbed up onto the tailgate next to Bobby. I mean, not right next to him. Because, you know, the fight. And because he probably wanted his space. And also just in case either of us needed to make a quick escape.

“Please don’t die.”

The words escaped me before I could stop them.

(Yep, still good old Dash.)

Bobby craned his head to look at me. “What?”

“Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

“I’m not going to die. He didn’t shoot me.” That unreadable emotion tightened his expression again, and he said, voice stiff, “I had another panic attack.”

“No, I mean don’t ever die. Please, Bobby. Please don’t ever die from anything. Because it would kill me. You can’t ever let anything bad happen to you. No more guns. No more surfing. Definitely no more working out. I mean, my God, Bobby, the human body isn’t meant to lift all that heavy stuff.” I managed to come to a crashing halt. And then I forced myself to say, “He almost shot you.”

And in my mind, I heard Neil say,Richard was gone. There wasn’t anyone else.

Bobby didn’t say anything, but his breathing sounded accelerated. And then it sounded even worse. And I realized, a moment later (because I’m so smart) what was happening.

“No,” I said. “No, no.” I rubbed his back through the blanket. “Everything’s okay. Deep breaths. Deep, slow breaths.”

---