Page 45 of Body Count

I was still scrolling when the text came through.

It was from my boy.And it said,Gray, I hope you’re okay.I heard what’s going on.If you need to talk, I’m here any time, day or night.

And then a second message came through:I don’t understand everything you’re going through, but I know about this.Please call me or text me or come over.Whatever you need, bro.

It was the bro that did me in.

The pain was in my guts, in my belly, deep in there, twisting around until my mouth opened.I didn’t make a noise.I didn’t think I did.But I couldn’t help myself; all I could do was lie there, taking shallow, urgent breaths, the world shrinking around me as I tried to get through one moment, and then the next.

I know about this.

Saint Somerset, with his perfectly messy hair.

I know about this.

Saint Somerset, with his perfect smile, perfect skin, perfect body.

I know about this.

Saint fucking Somerset, with his perfect house and his perfect husband and his perfect son and his perfect daughter.With his perfect life.

I know.

He thought he knew?He thought he understood what I was going through?He thought he understood anything?

I locked my phone and tossed it on the floor.The lights were still on, and the thought of getting up, of dealing with that, was too much.I pulled a pillow over my face instead.It smelled like everything in this house, neat and clean the way he wanted.I could hear him, now, out there—straightening, wiping down, returning everything to where it was supposed to be.Pretty soon, he would have fixed it.The way he fixed everything.

For a long time, I played out scenarios in my head: calling him on the phone, telling him what I thought of that fucking message, what I thought of him presuming to know anything about me, about this, about anything.For having the fuckinggall.I got stuck on that word.Gall.The gall.The fucking gall.What the fuck is wrong with you?Where do you get off?

I felt feverish.My head throbbed.My stomach ached.And the anger made it hard to think clearly.Hard to think about anything else.Hard to remember.

I wasn’t sure when I fell asleep, but I woke in the night, clenching my teeth so hard that I thought my jaw had locked.Water, Tylenol, back to sleep, the light still blazing overhead.

19

The next morning, my body felt unnaturally light and cool, and my head was clear again, like a fever had broken.I found my phone, dismissed the notifications and messages from the various apps; there wasn’t anything important, of course.I was on leave or suspended or whatever Peterson had decided.

I showered again, and when I dressed and went into the kitchen, Darnell was frying eggs.The smell of hot butter and cast iron and toasting bread filled the air.

“Coffee’s in the pot,” he said.

I poured myself a mug.After a few sips, I said, “Do you want me to do something?”

“No, thanks.I appreciate you asking, though.”He turned the eggs and said, “How’d you sleep?”

“Great.”

He looked at me.Then he said, “Ah.”

I saluted him with the mug.

He smiled and said, “Gray,” and then he finished cooking in silence.

We ate in silence too, aside from the scrape of forks on plates, the crunch of toast, the soft sounds of chewing and swallowing.Darnell was good at a lot of things, and cooking was one of them.The eggs were perfect, the yolks still runny, the whites cooked through, seasoned just right.Lots of butter on the toast.Before—when things had been normal—I’d had to be careful.Because, you know, there was always good food.If you only eat once or twice a day, though, it’s less of an issue.

“What are you going to do today?”

“Watch porn.Jack off.Smoke weed.”

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