Page 17 of Haunted

Jesus, I had no idea how literal that was going to turn out to be. I sign my name to the bottom and he puts it back reverently, careful not to crease the paper.

He sits back down next to me and puts another bag on the bed. “There’s one more thing. I thought you could…”

I slowly open the bag.

“It’s a sketchbook!” I don’t think I could hide how touched I am even if I wanted to. “You even know what pencils I use.”

“I had to go to Sinclair’s Art Store to find them. And the colored pencils are expensive, so I just got the basic set. You’ve always been drawing, ever since the day I met you, so I thought maybe if you wanted to sketch something, it would make you feel—”

I hug him, and this time, he touches my hair, running his fingers through it. He hums softly. It’s not wrong to let myself have this, is it? Just for a moment.

And that’s when I understand what I’ve been doing for the last ten minutes, which is not thinking about them at all. Elliott is somewhere tonight with nobody who knows how to touch him. And I’m here, warm, in a boy’s arms, and some part of me that I am never going to say out loud is in no hurry for the morning.

Chapter five

Lance

At one point overnight, I hear Parker on the air mattress. He’s not tossing or turning—he’s trying to be quiet about it, but I can hear the hitched breathing, the way he keeps swallowing it down. He’s crying and trying not to let me know.

The only reason I’m still awake is because every time I close my eyes, I can feel fire licking at the car windows, flickering on the other side of the walls. I see Elliott clutching his stuffed snail. My God, poor kid. He must have been so terrified and I abandoned him. I was the driver. I should have done something. She wouldn’t listen to Parker, but I could have made her listen to me.

I look over at Parker. I wish I’d won the argument and let him have my bed. I slide off it and crawl onto the mattress next to him. I don’t put my arm around him—I just put my hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and rub gently. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s over. You’re not alone.”

He stiffens. “Lance?”

“I’m sorry. You sounded—I just—” I stop. “I can’t sleep either. Every time I close my eyes I see the fire. I’m better when I’m close to you. Can I stay here for a bit? No strings. I promise.”

He rolls over to face me. In the moonlight filtering through the window, I can’t read his face. He hesitates. “Please stay a little longer. If it’s not weird,” he adds.

“It’s not weird.”

He’s quiet, but his shoulders sag in relief. He rolls so that his back is to me. I hesitantly drag down my pillow from my bed and put my hand on his hip.

“Just a few minutes,” I say. I close my eyes and the flames are gone. We are alone in this little raft, where we can feel safer. I think I will be here for just a few minutes, but when I wake up again, it’s already morning.

Light is coming in through the gap in the curtains, warm and golden. I can hear Mom moving around in the kitchen, the clink of a coffee pot. I lift my head and stare at Parker, not daring to move anything more. In sleep, his face has finally relaxed. The pinched, haggard look he’s had lately has drifted away, and he’s just Parker again—sweet, handsome Parker. Where he got the idea he’s ugly, I have no idea.

There is a soft tap at the door. My mother opens it a crack and peers at us. I’m still in my boxer briefs—Parker’s in the full pajamas Dad lent him. He’s sound asleep. I crawl off the air mattress and pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt before joining her out in the dining room.

She looks tired, and I can tell she’s been crying. She pours me coffee and puts it out for me. The rest of the house is still quiet.

“We weren’t doing anything,” I start. “He had a bad dream.”

She sits down. “Honey, you’re two teenage boys. If you’re going to do…that…then I’d rather you weren’t going to lie about it.”

“But we didn’t!” I insist, then drop my voice.

“I know. This time. I can’t stop you, but I’m your mother first and foremost, and I’m worried.”

“I know what to do,” I say. “I looked it up.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She leans over the table. “Honey, look at him. He’s clearly been through the wringer. When was the last time anybody touched him kindly who wasn’t you?”

I don’t know the answer.

She reaches out and puts her hand on my wrist. “I know you really care about him, but this is bigger than that. I’m really concerned that his home environment is not good. How close is he to his eighteenth birthday?”

“It’s this right after Halloween, on November 4th.”