Page 64 of Iron

“Good.” I hand the pen back to the salesman. Don’t look at Gavin when I say the rest of it, because it costs me something small to say out loud. “I like you being here.”

“You've never been to Sam's,” I say, like it's a diagnosable condition.

“I've been in Denver two weeks total, TJ. Cumulatively. Other times, I’ve stayed up near Ben’s place.”

“That's not an excuse. That's a crime.” I hold the door for him, mostly so I can watch him duck under the frame, because he still hasn't figured out that not every doorway in this city was built with him in mind. “This place has been here since like 1927. It's a Denver institution.”

“So are the Broncos, and I still haven't been to a game.”

“Different conversation.”

The counters run down the middle of the place, forming three U’s, the way it's always been, stools bolted to the floor. The smell of green chili is thick enough to taste before you sit down. I grab two seats at the middle counter, the same spot I always take, and Gavin folds himself onto the stool next to me like a man trying to solve a geometry problem with his own knees.

“This was not built for someone my size.”

“Nothing in Denver's built for someone your size. You'll adjust.”

He's still working that out when our waiter comes around, a big guy, forearms like a lineman, with the simple confidence that says he's worked this counter for twenty years and doesn't rattle for anyone. He claps a hand on my shoulder before he even says hello.

“TJ Harrington. Look at you.” His hand stays there a beat, slides down to squeeze my arm like we're old army buddies. “Where the hell you been, man? Haven't seen you in here in months.”

“Tour,” I say. “Kind of been busy.”

“Tour's kept you fed, apparently.” He grins, gives my shoulder another squeeze, and I feel Gavin go very, very still beside me. “You still doing the Kitchen Sink Omelet, or you finally graduated to a real man's order?”

“I wish I could have the Kitchen Sink,” I say with a pathetic groan. “Just some chicken soup and toast. Maybe a biscuit.”

“Oh, man, ok you got it.” Another pat, this one landing somewhere between my shoulder and the back of my neck, and out of the corner of my eye I watch Gavin's jaw clench. I relent and introduce him.

“Denny, this is Gavin. My boyfriend.”

Denny claps Gavin on the shoulder like he’s known him for ten years. “Awesome, glad to meet you. TJ’s like family, and now you are, too.”

Gavin’s scowl eases a bit.

“What are you having?” he asks, sizing Gavin up like he's cataloging furniture. “Big guy like you, I'm thinking the Trailblazer. Smothered.”

“Iced Tea,” Gavin says. “And that Kitchen Sink he wanted.”

“Got it.” Denny writes it down, gives my shoulder one more pat on his way past. It’s genuinely just a friendly, overly-familiar diner-regular thing, the kind of touch that means nothing except I've known you a while, and disappears toward the kitchen.

“You're doing the thing again,” I say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Fine, if you don’t want to tell me…,” I reply

He doesn't answer that, just picks up his tea the moment it lands in front of him, like it's a shield he can hide behind.

That's when the woman at the register catches sight of him.

She's maybe sixty, silver hair, the kind of unbothered Denver local who's clearly been coming here since before Gavin was born, and she walks straight over, hand landing on his muscular shoulder like she's checking produce for ripeness.

“You're that golfer,” she says. “The tall one. My husband watches you every Sunday, drives me up a wall.”

“That’s. Um. Sorry. Yes. That's me.”

“You're bigger in person.” Her hand's still there, giving his shoulder an approving little pat, the same casual touch our waiter gave me, except now it's happening to Gavin, and I watch the exact moment it registers on his face that he has absolutely no idea what to do with it.