Page 27 of The Locker Room

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usually leave the house until seven, so Xander huddled on the porch

under his blanket and did reading for English in the early December

chill.

He was interrupted when Chris himself came out, a bag of garbage

in his hand, grumbling something about “Well, if I"d known about it last

night I would have taken it out last… oh shit! Xander!”

Xander scrambled up and shoved the book in his backpack, then

tucked his hands under the armpits of his hooded sweatshirt (so short it

rode up his middle) and turned with Chris to put out the trash.

“Hey,” he said.

“You got here. I didn"t think you would get here—I mean, I"m glad

you got here, but, Jesus, how early did you have to get up?”

Xander shrugged. “It"s easier with sleep.”

The halfway house wasn"t bad. He"d gotten another job doing fast

food, one that let him buy clothes (sort of) and food. He had a bed in a

room with three other boys (his feet stuck over the edge), and no one got

high and no one hit him, and really it was all he could ask. Well, except

for Chris. He could ask for Chris.

“Well, you look cold!” Chris said, dropping the trash in the can. He

gave the can a few yanks until it was out on the curb and then turned and

took Xander"s hands from under his arms and held them, blowing on

them. Xander looked down at his… friend? Boyfriend? The focus of his

life and center of his universe? Christian looked up from warming his

24

Amy Lane

hands and gave a crooked smile. He reached up and tugged on Xander"s

bangs, hanging low over his eyes from the part in the middle.

“You still look tired, Xan,” he said softly, “but I"m glad to see you

here in the morning.”

“Your mom still mad?” Xander asked, and Chris grimaced,

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