If Ryan’s mother is surprised that Dante’s
coming with them to therapy, she doesn’t show it. Ryan doesn’t ask
if it’s okay—he just tells her when she shows up, he’s going, and
she nods, that’s fine. In the back of the van, while his mother’s
still outside and can’t see them, Ryan leans close to Dante to
smell his scent, a mingling of sweat and ice as intoxicating as
alcohol in his veins. Before his boyfriend can tie his bandanna
back around his hair, Ryan runs his fingers through the damp curls
at the base of his neck, the thick strands dark like lines of ink
across his palm. “Thanks for letting me come,” Dante whispers,
turning to kiss Ryan’s wrist when he starts to pull away. “It means
a lot to me.”
“It’s not a pretty sight,” Ryan says.
“After an hour I’m cussing and yelling
