Page 4 of Backward Motion

“Sure, twenty years ago.” Sam caught his snark a beat too late. What was standard repartee in his old world sometimes fell flat here, where locals were quick to offend.

But Connor shot him a wry smile. “What if we started you out on a trial? Then you can leave if it’s not a good fit. No hard feelings.”

Sam was surprised by a swell of relief. He hadn’t landed a job at a Fortune 500 company, but it was the first big win he’d had since coming home—not counting getting out of bed in the morning. “Deal.”

Connor stuck out his hand, and Sam took it. His palm was warm and rough with wear.

“I’ve been on the back foot since Sheryl left,” Connor admitted, gesturing at the chaotic mess of papers on the desk. “Any chance you could start tomorrow?”

Connor stared at the door for a long time after Sam left. It was uncanny, like seeing someone return from the dead. He hadn’t recognized him at first in the expensive-looking suit and the stylish haircut, his wheat-colored hair now a dark blond. But once the penny dropped, the man was unmistakable. Those warm brown eyes, that nervous smile.

Connor let out a slow breath and returned to the workshop behind the office. He was supposed to be going through his gear for an air-conditioning installation that afternoon but found himself unable to concentrate. He’d spent years in high school furtively watching Sam walk down the halls in vintage shirts and embroidered jeans. Their paths hadn’t crossed much. Sam had hung out with a handful of drama kids, who mostly kept to themselves.

Sam had been half right earlier: He’d been the only openly queer kid at their school and seemed to carry that responsibility with a grim resignation, as though steeled for disaster. Not unlike Connor, Sam had projected an air of indifference that was almost believable until the mask slipped to reveal snatches of startling vulnerability—a shyness, a sweetness that life seemed determined to snuff out. Connor had been confused by many of the things he’d felt for Sam, least of all the urge to protect him.

He recalled one morning when he’d arrived late to school, a frequent occurrence in those days—the only thing getting him there was the threat of his father’s mounting punishments. Precociously world-weary, he hadn’t been the easiest kid. After checking himself in at the front desk, he’d walked down the corridor to find Sam sitting outside the nurse’s office, a bunch of bloody tissues held up to his nose. Connor still remembered the flash of anger as various scenarios raced through his head. All led to thoughts of retaliation. He came to a stop in front of Sam, who stared up at him timidly. They inhabited different tiers within the school’s ecosystem and hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other.

“What happened?” Connor asked.

“It does this sometimes. Makes life interesting.” Sam moved the tissues away from his nose, and two beads of dark-red blood slid from his nostrils.

“You’re dripping.” Connor returned to the front desk and stole the box of tissues from the counter. He dropped it on Sam’s lap as he walked past then continued down the hall toward his first-period class.

“Thanks,” Sam called out to his back.

Then there was the incident senior year. The school play. Connor had left school by then, but he’d heard about it through a couple of friends who still attended. It was all the kids talked about rightuntil graduation, after which Sam had promptly left town, and Connor hadn’t seen him since.

There was no denying the man’s résumé was impressive. Until a month ago, he’d been an account manager for a brand-marketing agency based in Austin. He’d completed a bachelor of commerce at UNL and spent several years working for a well-known start-up in New York. Connor had always considered Sam one of the lucky ones. He’d gotten out.

So what was he doing back in Oakdale?

Chapter Four

At his doctor’s insistence, Sam had been weaned off his emergency-Xanax habit and put on a high-dose SSRI. The doctor said she would reassess the dosage in a few months, but after what had happened, she didn’t want to risk starting too low. The new meds made Sam feel more even-keeled and less like he was moving underwater.

He stood at the drugstore counter, waiting as Mr. Willis, the pharmacist, measured his prescription behind the glass. Mr. Willis had doled out the little blue inhalers Sam had used as a kid, and Sam might have even gone to one of his son’s birthday parties in middle school. He wondered what Mr. Willis thought now as he bagged Sam’s Lexapro. In a town like Oakdale, everyone knew each other’s business. Sam was just relieved his early sexual experimentation had taken place far from the watchful gaze of the town’s only pharmacist. He could only imagine the look on Mr. Willis’s face if he’d sidled up to the counter with condoms, lube, and a multipack of enemas.

“There you go, Samuel,” Mr. Willis said, handing him the paper bag. “Take care, now.”

“Thanks, Mr. Willis,” he replied, not sure if the man’s parting sentiment was as benign as it seemed.

As Sam pushed open the door to leave, he felt something brush against his leg. He looked down to see a kid of three or four about to toddle outside with him. He grabbed the boy’s hand. “Hold on, buddy. Let’s go find Mom.”

“Or Dad,” someone said behind him, sounding out of breath.

Sam turned to find a man with a baby strapped to his chest, clutching an empty shopping basket. His face was white with panic.

“Thanks. They’re slippery little creatures. This dude here is a champion escape artist.”

Thwarted, the kid slunk back to his dad’s side, his mouth puckered in a pout.

“No problem,” Sam said.

The man narrowed his eyes, and then his face lit up. “Whoa, Sammy? Samuel Bryant? I didn’t know you were back in town!”

Sam did a double take. Behind the beard and large round glasses, the man looked familiar. “Spielman?”

Brian Spielman laughed and stepped over to pull Sam into an awkward hug, the baby sandwiched between them. “Kind of hard to recognize with the dad bod. I swear, I put on more weight during both pregnancies than my wife.”