Page 60 of Sweat

Dude is a runaway train. Or…an updating laptop stuck on a perpetual restart loop. I don’t fucking know, but it’s freaking me out.

“What’s going on?” I ask from the center of the field while he passes me at a strained sprint. “What happened? Are you pissed at me? Did I do something? Is this about your boss? Are you okay?”

Nothing. Like I’m talking to thin air.

Annoyance mixes with concern, and I come up with a stupid plan that might work to shake some reality back into Tommy’s noggin. The next time he comes sprinting past, I lunge at him and sack him linebacker-style, dragging him down by the waist and landing on top of him when his back hits the grass.

“What the fuck?” he finally speaks while trying to buck me off him.

I steel myself, like I can make myself heavier with sheer will alone. I grasp Tommy’s wrists before he can push me off, and I hold them to the grass.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” I ask through gritted teeth while trying with all my might to hold Tommy down.

He bucks and pushes, not going easy on me, and when I falter for just a moment, Tommy shoves me off him and turns the tables.

Now he’s the one holding my wrists to the grass. His knees dig into my thighs, his ankles cuffing mine with how much pressure he’s able to put on me, even after the weight he’s shed.

“Tommy,” I hiss, because the pain is real and so is the fear. Adrenaline pumping my heart like a speed bag. I don’t like being afraid of Tommy. It doesn’t feel right—those baby blue eyes full of rage and hatred. Then again, I’ve seen it before.

I fight against Tommy’s weight, but the more I do, the weaker I become. In a last ditch effort to break through to him, my macho jock brain decides to challenge him. “You wanna fucking hit me again, motherfucker?! Do it!”

Something flashes across Tommy’s face, making it crumble from his fiery bluster to something sad and hopeless. His sneer morphs to a pouty frown, and his eyes well up with tears. He goes from overpowering me to burying his face in the crook of my neck and latching himself around me so tight my lungs can hardly expand enough for me to murmur his name.

“Tommy,” I choke. “It’s okay.”

His knees shift off my legs to straddle me instead, and as I rub my palms along the back of his sweat-stained shirt, his body quivers against me. Something wets my shoulder. Tears. Tommy’s soft, whimpered groans aren’t anything like his pleasured ones. These hurt even worse than that punch to the face did.

“It’s okay,” I repeat, but nothing feels okay. Tommy is clearly not okay, and I can’t be okay until I figure out what’s wrong.

Do I want to know what’s wrong? As indestructible as Tommy seems to think I am right now, I’m not a rock for people to take their emotions out on. My own emotions arehard enough to handle without me trying to take on the responsibility of another’s. Just another reason in a very long list of why I can’t do a relationship.

“Tommy, please. I can’t breathe.”

Finally, Tommy’s hold relaxes enough that my ribs quit aching and I can take in a full breath. I use it to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” he whines with his forehead pressed to the center of my chest, his soft hair tickling my chin. I lay my hand on the back of his head and run my fingertips along his damp scalp.

“It’s okay, baby boy.”

After a minute of him catching his breath against my skin and relaxing those intense muscles of his, Tommy rolls off me. Onto his back on the grass beside me. His hand finds mine without looking, and he holds it almost as tight as he squeezed my body against his own, like he’s trying to absorb me into him or the other way around.

He has a way of holding my hand where I can’t hold his back. It’s probably because he thinks I’d pull away if given the choice, but I think I could hold his hand. It’s not that big of a deal.

Dumbly, I ask, “You okay?”

His head shakes, eyes to the sky.

I should ask what’s wrong again, what happened, or if he’s mad at me, but now that he might actually answer, I’m too afraid to ask.

Soon, though, he answers on his own. “My sister is gonna die.”

That isn’t what I expected him to say, though I’m not sure what I expected. I didn’t even know Tommy had a sister. Or did I? Maybe he told me and I forgot, because my head is so compartmentalized there’s no room for anythingbesides soccer, school, and getting off. I started building a new compartment just for Tommy, but it’s still under construction, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be stable enough to shelter him full-time.

“Do you, uh…wanna go somewhere and talk about it?” Part of me wants him to say no and let him deal with it on his own, but the thought of him leaving me now fills me up with more dread than I can stand. I want to be there for him. I want to want to be there for him, at least.

He doesn’t answer for a while. Long enough for me to wonder if he’s stuck in another loop of blinking up at the sky. But then he turns his head, blinks glossy blues at me, and says, “Okay.”

We take my car to a 24/7 diner I like because the décor makes it feel like a cozy den. The mood is always chill, and the bacon is always perfectly crispy. I order us both chocolate milkshakes and a plate of double bacon, and Tommy tells me everything without qualm, as if the four-top booth we’re tucked into is our own private confessional.

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