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The knock on his window is so light.
G.B. wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t awake. He hasn’t been sleeping well these last few weeks. He got used to being interrupted.
He lifts his head from the pillow, wishing the crack in his curtains were wider so he could see what it was. A tree branch. Probably.
If he doesn’t look, he’ll wonder all night, and he already has enough thoughts chasing each other around.
He pulls aside the curtains.
Marshall Lee smushes his face into the window. As G.B. watches, Marshall Lee presses his tongue to the glass and wiggles it, leaving a smear of saliva.
G.B. isn’t surprised. He isn’t anything.
His throat catches, but the air in his room is dry, and he often has trouble with his asthma when he has trouble falling asleep. He stares at the saliva streaked across the glass.
Then he pulls the curtain shut.
Another tap comes at the window, light as a kiss in the middle of the night.
G.B. wants to walk back to bed and sit down because he’s starting to feel light-headed—asthma again. But he stands at the window, focused on the feeling in his chest. It reminds him of how he felt when he found out his parents died: every noise suddenly became intolerable; any stimulation was just too much.
It’s not the same, though. The feeling spinning and twisting in his heart isn’t grief. It’s…
He throws open the curtain and shoves open the window with a strength he reserves for lifting fifty-pound bags of sugar at the restaurant supply store.
Marshall Lee jerks his head back to avoid getting his nose broken by the movement. “Geeze, Bubba, you could warn a guy.”
G.B. wishes he could say that he’d forgotten Marshall Lee had started to call him that, but he hasn’t forgotten anything. That’s part of the problem. Every moment with Marshall Lee—and every moment spent waiting for him—is fresh and bright, and the two sets of memories are at war in his mind.
He opens his mouth and still can’t speak. He settles for narrowing his eyes—anything to get thefeeling out of him. He wants to be numb and still and deep like the moment after a dive, buried in water at the bottom of a pool.
Marshall Lee blinks. Before his eyes close, they hold recognition—he knows G.B. is upset. But when they open, his expression is insouciant, meaningless as a toddler’s signature. “What’s the matter, Bubba? Cat got your tongue?”
The catch in G.B.’s throat becomes more than a catch; he bends over, clutching his chest as his air just—stops. Marshall Lee reaches for him, but G.B. knocks his hands away, stumbling back. “Don’t touch me,” G.B. manages, though he’s not sure how.
He turns his back on Marshall Lee and staggers to his nightstand, where his inhaler sits beside his glasses. He shakes the inhaler and exhales, then presses it to his lips and breathes in deep. The taste of envelope glue is soothing as the back of Pepper’s hand when he has a fever. He waits a beat, shakes the inhaler again, takes in another puff. The catch in his throat releases; he no longer feels like someone is crushing his chest. He fumbles his glasses onto his nose. Though he means to put his inhaler back, he stands still, like a puppet with cut strings.
“You okay, G.B.?” Marshall Lee’s voice is as light as the knock on G.B.’s window, and he wouldn’t give up the nickname unless he was truly worried.
And that is even more infuriating than him showing up here like nothing had happened, like no time had passed since they’d walked in the park just after dawn to find a litter of bunnies. It’s all right if Marshall Lee shows up here acting like an asshole. But if he’s coming in here pretending to be nice…
G.B. swallows and sets his inhaler down. He rubs his chest; the inhaler takes away the pressure, but it does nothing for the ache of muscles tightened too hard and too quickly.
His eyes narrow again, and he adjusts his glasses, and he walks over to the window, every movement stiff as an ill-oiled toy robot. “What are you doing here?” His voice is calm, natural, but he knows his expression is not, since Marshall Lee draws back.
Again, that cognizance flashes across Marshall Lee’s face—he knows exactly what’s going on, but he wants to ignore it. G.B.’s hands tighten at his side. Marshall Lee puts his hand on the window and leans inside. “Well, there’s this great Ramones-slash-Black-Flag cover band playing in the park tonight. I know that sounds like kind of a weird combination, but—”
“What are you doing here.” The words drop from his lips like stones.
For a wonder, Marshall Lee stops talking. He looks at G.B.; there is almost something true in his eyes, but it vanishes quickly as the puff of medicine from G.B.’s inhaler. “I wanted to go out tonight.” The carelessness in his voice is carefully measured as a syringe of poison for an execution.
“Tonight.” Marshall Lee nods, as though he has begun to wonder if G.B. is a little slow. G.B. swallows. His thoughts will not coalesce; he senses hardened, awful words just out of conscious reach, words to make Marshall Lee flinch and shrink and cringe, but for the moment G.B. is too outraged to do much but state the obvious. “Because…?”
“Because it’s not raining, and Black Flag cover bands are awesome?” The words are light, but Marshall Lee’s eyes are dangerous. Good.
“It hasn’t rained in three weeks. And it only rained for two nights, and every day before that it was clear.” G.B. doesn’t want to talk about the rain, but that’s what comes out. Marshall Lee opens his mouth. “I can look at my weather app and prove it to you. I know because I walk somewhere every day, unless it’s raining. Then I take the bus. I have a punch card. I know how often it rains.”
Marshall Lee wrinkles his nose. “Whatever. That ain’t relevant.” He brushes G.B.’s words aside with a flutter of his hand. “Point is, I’m here now, and the band’s there in, like, twenty minutes, so we better get going.”
G.B. sets his feet. “You are here now.”
Marshall Lee tweaks a brow. “What, are we gonna get into some weird philosophical discussion about whether or not I’m here? ‘Cause dude, I have to be way drunker for that—”
“You’re drunk?” The word comes out as an angry little squeak, like the first scream of a tea kettle.
Marshall Lee doesn’t answer, leaning his temple against the frame of the window. Something about the way he sits says he’s waiting.
Something inside G.B. swells and stretches to the breaking point. He crosses the space between them. Marshall Lee looks surprised at how quickly G.B. moved, but he remains leaning against the window, looking at G.B. with half-lidded, lazy eyes.
“Stop it,” G.B. says through gritted teeth, pressing one hand to the window and gripping the sill with the other. Marshall Lee’s face is inches from his own, but there is nothing intimate about the distance; there are miles between them, filled with G.B.’s anger and Marshall Lee’s inability to care about anything real.
Marshall Lee’s eyes drift closed and open again. “Stop what, gumdrop?” His breath doesn’t smell like liquor. It smells like the mint-flavored toothpicks he chews when he’s nervous.
“Stop acting like you don’t know why I am angry with you.” Every word comes out slow and measured. “Stop acting like it hasn’t been seven weeks. Stop acting like you didn’t fucking disappear.”
Marshall Lee’s eyes widen in exaggerated shock. “Such language, Bubba! What would Pepper think?” G.B. glares at him. Marshall Lee lifts his head from the window and folds his arms. “Yeah, I was gone. I just don’t get how it was any of your goddamn business.”
G.B.’s jaw works; the words don’t come. When they do they are nowhere near as sharp as they should be. “You can’t just come back here like nothing happened. You could have been dead in a ditch for all I knew!”
Marshall Lee cocks his head. It is a dangerous look; G.B. used to back away from it because it means he’s pushed too far, too fast. Right now, he doesn’t give a damn. “And, again, I don’t know why that’s any of your goddamn business. I do what I want.”
“Quit acting like you don’t know why I’m upset! I know you do, Marshall Lee!” The words come out too fast and too loud; G.B. clamps his hand over his mouth, lest he wake Pepper.
Marshall Lee fidgets; the mask slips, though only for a moment.
“There! You know exactly what I mean!” G.B.’s still talking too loud, but he can’t help it. It’s like there’s something pounding with sharp fists against the inside of his chest, forcing words out. “Don’t give me that ‘why should I care’ crap. You don’t just get to—take me places and eat dinner at my house and sit on my roof and then just—vanish, Marshall Lee!”
Marshall Lee swallows. He sets his face in a leer, but it’s not effective nor believable. It is, in fact, a desperate attempt.
It makes G.B. feel better. He cannot believe how much he has come to hate it when Marshall Lee lies. At first it was just a minor irritation. Now it’s like hot coals against his skin because… because…
“I thought it actually meant something to you.” G.B. doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Marshall Lee’s lips part in surprise.
They stare at each other for a moment. If Marshall Lee is shocked to hear it, G.B. is just as shocked that he said it. Admitting something true in front of Marshall Lee is like pinning a “kick me” sign to your back and walking down a middle school hallway. It’s just an excuse for him to rip it up and piss on it.
G.B. shuts the window and the curtains before Marshall Lee can say anything else.