sleeves like
the little boy he’d been when she’d brought him home.
“He loves you because you keep him safe,” she echoed very
quietly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a hel uva place to be when you love someone like you
love him.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he ever see a counselor?” she asked, and Brian looked at
her with raised eyebrows.
“Should he? I mean, nothing happened, right? No harm, no
foul, right? He got an HIV test, because, you know, he was the one
dumb enough to have unprotected sex, but no… why would the guy
want to see a counselor when it was al his fucking fault….” Brian’s
sarcasm died a painful death, and he used the damn tissue again.
He’d always known that shit rolled downhil , but he never knew
tears did the same thing. Tate to Brian, Brian to Aunt Lyndie—who
did Aunt Lyndie get to cry on?
Someone, he thought, looking around the little house again.
She’d always had someone. There were two coffee cups in the
Talker | Amy Lane
50
sink, and two oversized parkas hanging on the door because it was
April and it stil got pretty cold outside at night.
“Are you stil seeing C raig Jeffries?” he asked suddenly,
remembering the name of the school custodian that Lyndie had
dated for the last years before Brian left for school.
“He moved in—January, actually,” Lyndie said with a smile,
and Brian looked at her sharply.
“Why didn’t you say anything? C hristmas, your birthday—why
wouldn’t you want him there?”
Lyndie shrugged. “Wel , for the first two years, I didn’t say
anything because you were so damned lonely, sweetheart. I didn’t
want you to think you couldn’t move back.”
Brian remembered that. C ollege had been as awful for him as
Virginia had said—he’d felt out of place and isolated from the other
students, even on the track team. Besides Virginia, the only person
at Sac State to make him feel welcome had been Tate.
“It got better,” Brian murmured, remembering that first,
tentative offering to come to his dorm and watch a movie. Tate had
been the first person in two years to talk to him like more than a
teammate. The first one Brian had wanted to talk back to, anyway.
Brian could admit that it wasn’t just shyness that kept him
isolated—some of what drove him was snobbery. He really didn’t
like mean people. However he came to be lonely, by the time his
shoulder had blown out, not seeing Tate every day had been far
more terrifying than not being on the team, or even not finishing his
computer science degree. Brian could always scrabble for a living,
but living without his friend?
“I know it did,” Lyndie said softly. “It got better the minute you
met Tate.”
Talker | Amy Lane
51
Brian nodded and sighed, resting his chin on his crossed arms
on the table. “He needs to get better. He needs to get better, and
he needs me… al of me, not just the friend parts, to do it.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, and he looked up at
her hopefully.
“Wel , I’ve got a plan, but I need to borrow some of the old
clothes you keep borrowing but never use.” He knew exactly where
she kept them in the hal closet. “C an I use them?” he asked, a little
anxiously. Lyndie had frowned, and he was afraid she would have
gotten rid of them when her boyfriend moved in.
She nodded absently. “O f course, baby—they’re still there.
Anything in the closet, you know that.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“That guy… the one that hurt Tate—he’s not going to come
back, is he? Those types… I mean, I know why you wouldn’t want
to try to prosecute him, but he sounds like the type to just rub it in
Tate’s face.”
Brian felt his expression go flat and hard. “No worries, Aunt
Lyndie. He won’t bother Tate ever again.”
BRIAN had started taking Tate to work after his “date.” G atsby’s
Nick was in bike-riding distance, or even bus-riding distance, and
Tate had a car, but he’d just
the little boy he’d been when she’d brought him home.
“He loves you because you keep him safe,” she echoed very
quietly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a hel uva place to be when you love someone like you
love him.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he ever see a counselor?” she asked, and Brian looked at
her with raised eyebrows.
“Should he? I mean, nothing happened, right? No harm, no
foul, right? He got an HIV test, because, you know, he was the one
dumb enough to have unprotected sex, but no… why would the guy
want to see a counselor when it was al his fucking fault….” Brian’s
sarcasm died a painful death, and he used the damn tissue again.
He’d always known that shit rolled downhil , but he never knew
tears did the same thing. Tate to Brian, Brian to Aunt Lyndie—who
did Aunt Lyndie get to cry on?
Someone, he thought, looking around the little house again.
She’d always had someone. There were two coffee cups in the
Talker | Amy Lane
50
sink, and two oversized parkas hanging on the door because it was
April and it stil got pretty cold outside at night.
“Are you stil seeing C raig Jeffries?” he asked suddenly,
remembering the name of the school custodian that Lyndie had
dated for the last years before Brian left for school.
“He moved in—January, actually,” Lyndie said with a smile,
and Brian looked at her sharply.
“Why didn’t you say anything? C hristmas, your birthday—why
wouldn’t you want him there?”
Lyndie shrugged. “Wel , for the first two years, I didn’t say
anything because you were so damned lonely, sweetheart. I didn’t
want you to think you couldn’t move back.”
Brian remembered that. C ollege had been as awful for him as
Virginia had said—he’d felt out of place and isolated from the other
students, even on the track team. Besides Virginia, the only person
at Sac State to make him feel welcome had been Tate.
“It got better,” Brian murmured, remembering that first,
tentative offering to come to his dorm and watch a movie. Tate had
been the first person in two years to talk to him like more than a
teammate. The first one Brian had wanted to talk back to, anyway.
Brian could admit that it wasn’t just shyness that kept him
isolated—some of what drove him was snobbery. He really didn’t
like mean people. However he came to be lonely, by the time his
shoulder had blown out, not seeing Tate every day had been far
more terrifying than not being on the team, or even not finishing his
computer science degree. Brian could always scrabble for a living,
but living without his friend?
“I know it did,” Lyndie said softly. “It got better the minute you
met Tate.”
Talker | Amy Lane
51
Brian nodded and sighed, resting his chin on his crossed arms
on the table. “He needs to get better. He needs to get better, and
he needs me… al of me, not just the friend parts, to do it.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, and he looked up at
her hopefully.
“Wel , I’ve got a plan, but I need to borrow some of the old
clothes you keep borrowing but never use.” He knew exactly where
she kept them in the hal closet. “C an I use them?” he asked, a little
anxiously. Lyndie had frowned, and he was afraid she would have
gotten rid of them when her boyfriend moved in.
She nodded absently. “O f course, baby—they’re still there.
Anything in the closet, you know that.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“That guy… the one that hurt Tate—he’s not going to come
back, is he? Those types… I mean, I know why you wouldn’t want
to try to prosecute him, but he sounds like the type to just rub it in
Tate’s face.”
Brian felt his expression go flat and hard. “No worries, Aunt
Lyndie. He won’t bother Tate ever again.”
BRIAN had started taking Tate to work after his “date.” G atsby’s
Nick was in bike-riding distance, or even bus-riding distance, and
Tate had a car, but he’d just
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