We talked non-stop: he was so easy to talk to, and he didn’t make me feel weird for liking geeky stuff. I told him about getting dressed up as comic book characters at conventions, and running around with rubber axes at live action role-playing events. He told me about balancing the weight of the car through a bend and how to get the most air through a supercharger. I realized he was much smarter than he gave himself credit for: he knew a lot of physics and engineering, he just understood it on an instinctual level that probably hadn’t been picked up by his teachers.

I told him about growing up on our little ranch in South Texas: country-early starts, trying to keep my eyes open while I staggered around with a bucket feeding the animals, and the sunrises that made it worth it. My dad checking my history homework and wheeling himself over to the dinner table, saran-wrapping the whole surface so he could walk me through Gettysburg with marker pen maps until I got it. My mom’s pot roast and the legendary sandwiches she made from the leftovers. Simple stuff. I was almost embarrassed, telling him because growing up in London must have been way cooler. But he looked entranced. And when I’d finished, he looked off at the horizon, his jaw tight, and I saw that unspeakable pain in his eyes again.

The sun was close to going down when we finally reached the tiny building. It really was small, a tiny hut big enough for maybe one or two people to sit inside. We were curious, but we didn’t have time to stop and look. It would be night soon and we needed to get off the plain and into some trees so we could find firewood to get us through the night.

The sun kissed the horizon as we were about halfway across the plain. We were walking west so it was dead in front of us and there were no hills or buildings to block it so we could watch as it slid slowly down. It turned deep orange and then crimson, throwing out a fan of color until it felt like we were walking across a red carpet towards a glowing red doorway. Without meaning to, I reached for Danny’s hand and curled my fingers around his.

His hand towed me to a stop. I turned and found him looking at our joined hands. Then he looked at me and God, the battle in his eyes. He’d been enjoying talking as much as I had, but now that friendly had tipped over into romantic, he’d remembered that we couldn’t have this.