Page 4 of Returning the Runner

“That’s the saddest compliment anyone’s ever given me.”

I did smile then. I couldn’t help it. And I watched Porter clock it, his eyes tracking the movement of my mouth like he was cataloging it, filing it away. Hanson smiled. Note the time and date.

“You look good, Porter,” I said because it was true and because I owed him at least that much honesty. “The beard’s new.”

“Grew it at thirty. Never looked back.” He rubbed his jaw. “Covers a multitude of sins.”

“There’s nothing to cover.” It came out quieter and more honest than I’d intended. I saw it register on his face with a flicker of surprise, then something softer that he quickly rearranged into a grin.

“Careful, Swaim. I’ve got a whole week to develop an ego.”

The conversation found easier ground after that, or maybe we both steered it there by unspoken agreement. He told me about the brewery, about Forestville, about the way the town had changed and the ways it hadn’t. I told him surface things about LA, about the job, about the commute. We talked about music. About a teacher we’d both hated in high school. About the time we’d gotten caught sneaking into the old sawmill property at sixteen, and we both laughed at that, real laughter, and for a few seconds, it felt like no time had passed at all.

But time had passed. I could feel it in the spaces between our words, all the things we weren’t saying, all the years we weren’t accounting for. The ghost of who we’d been sitting at the table with us—young, stupid, in love—neither of us willing to look at it directly.

A group of guys at the next table erupted in laughter, and I became aware of how long we’d been sitting there. My glass was empty. Porter’s was nearly there. The mixer was thinning out around us as people drifted toward the clubs and late-night bars.

“I should—” I started.

“Yeah,” Porter said. “It’s late.”

We stood. Awkwardness descended. Did I hug him? Shake his hand? I did neither. Just stood there, close enough that I could smell him—something warm and yeasty underneath the salt air, brewery and skin—and my chest constricted so hard I had to look away.

“This is surreal,” I said.

“Which part?”

“All of it. You. Here.”

Porter looked at me for a long moment. Steady. Those brown eyes, warm and searching and completely unafraid. “I’m glad you’re here, Hanson,” he said. Simple. Direct. The most Porter sentence in the world. “Whatever this is, I’m glad.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. Nodded. “Goodnight, Porter.”

“Night.”

I walked back to my cabin on autopilot—down one deck, through a corridor that smelled like carpet cleaner and air conditioning, keycard against the lock, door shut behind me. The cabin was small and quiet. My suitcase was waiting for me inside, delivered while I’d been talking to Porter.

Jesus Christ, Porter was here. On this cruise.

I stepped onto the balcony. The ocean was black and endless, the coastline already a thin strand of light behind us. The wind was cool against my face, and I gripped the railing and let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in my lungs for twenty-five years.

Porter Waugh. Same brown eyes. Same steady warmth. Same way of looking at me like I was worth looking at.

I pressed my thumb hard into my palm and stared at the dark water. You don’t deserve this. You left him. You don’t get to feel this way.

But I felt it anyway.

3

PORTER

Iwoke up to sunlight cutting through the balcony curtains and the low hum of the ship beneath me, and for about three seconds, I didn’t remember. Then it rushed right back in.

Hanson was on this ship.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting that fact settle into my bones. Hanson Swaim. On a gay cruise. Out, apparently. For a few years, he’d said, which meant he’d spent the better part of two decades still in the closet after leaving me, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know if it made me feel vindicated or sad or furious, or all of it at once.

I got up and showered, then pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. I took a moment to check myself in the mirror—beard trimmed, hair doing its salt-and-pepper thing, not bad for forty-six. I’d never been vain, but this morning, I was aware of my own reflection in a way I hadn’t been in years, and I resented Hanson a little for that.