Page 93 of Heartbeat

The sidewalk was like glossy caramel, shining under yellow light as we walked along tiny puddles on concrete. For most of the seven blocks, we moved in silence, occasionally catching sight of each other and always having it end in a smile. I tried remembering the last time any of it had happened. Looking as far back as I could, I first attempted to recall a time in which I had felt anything remotely similar to what I could only describe as being seen. I couldn’t, so I then tried to remember something that should’ve been simple enough to do: a time in which I had felt kindness akin to that which seemed to flow so easily from him. Once again, I had no luck. Of course, I could think of moments, random bits of memory that hadn’t yet cracked or dimmed after being confronted with time, ganders of a previous life that seemed to become more distant the longer I tried to anatomize it. But they were there nonetheless. However brief, they had occurred, and even though I was tempted to imagine they failed to match the ones I’d recently experienced, it was ultimately because of them that I was capable of understanding how much the last few hours mattered.

Instead of glimpses, I was given minutes. Whole minutes—oftentimes countless ones—in which I felt as though I was actually there. Were it not for those glimpses I’d innocently held on to for so long as though treasure, I’d never have thought it possible to discern them, realizing something else could, in fact, exist. That, and numerous other thoughts raced through my mind during those seven blocks of utter comfort. Not all of them equated pleasure, but they all shared the same constant.

“Here we are,” my constant said as we stopped in front of my house.

I climbed the first step and turned back to face him. “Look,” I said. “Same height.”

He smiled, taking a step forward. I could see his eyes without looking up a bit, an odd feeling.

“Is this how you see everything?” I asked as he put his arms around my waist. He slid them under the black hoodie with the word “Déchues” written on it in big, bold white letters he’d let me borrow.

“Thank you,” he said and pulled me closer, allowing me to wrap my arms around his neck. “For spending the night.”

“Anytime,” I told him, trying not to kiss him.

“Lunch was awesome. You should do that again, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Best pasta I ever had,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks for the bagels. And the coffee and, you know, the arms.”

“The arms?” He tilted his head.

“Holding me,” I explained quietly.

“We should do that again too.” He leaned in and kissed me.

Whenever he did that, particularly at times I wasn’t prepared for, I swear it was as though all the air suddenly left my lungs, vanishing as though forcing me to pay attention to it, the softness of his lips, and how that was all that was somehow needed.

“Hi, guys!” Noah said casually, walking up the stairs with Jonas in his wake.

I barely heard him.

“Gay,” Jonas said, passing us and following Noah inside.

Ethan chuckled, then pulled away. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“We do go to the same school.”

“I mean after. Can I see you after school?”

“Sure,” I said. “I have therapy though. But aside from that, I’m free.”

“Ditch.”

“Can’t. I sort of made a promise.”

Compromise actually. It was either never missing an appointment and being at home, or staying at St. Yve’s during treatment. Having taken part in a couple of group sessions during my stay there, I could safely attest that a group therapy session at St. Yve’s was the single saddest thing one could possibly imagine.

“After therapy, then.” He nodded.

“After,” I said.

“We could go get some stuff for the party.”

“Sure.”

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