Ben was quiet. They were driving along the outskirts of Roanoke Rapids, the traffic heavy, and he appeared to be concentrating on that; but a moment later he said, “I always feel like I have to defend you from somebody but most of the time I’m not sure who it is.”

The thought of being protected, of being necessary in that way, made Ronny almost golden in the quiet. Ben’s eyes stayed fixed on the road even when he was talking, like a commitment. Ronny asked, “Defend me?”

“Like, I’m listening to Tate talk to his boys about you the day you said you’d do that paper and I’m wondering if he’s going to say some crap to piss me off to the point I have to do something. He never does. So far nobody does. But it’s like I’m always edgy.”

“That doesn’t sound so good, Ben.”

“I’m making it sound like more than it is. I don’t even know what one of those jerk-offs would say, really. I mean, I still call you a faggot myself. I don’t mind when Tate jokes around about you sucking his cock because I know you can handle that. And he jokes like that with a lot of people, not just you.”

“I don’t care what he calls me. Or what you call me.” Anger in the assertion, a touch of it, and Ronny sat up straight. Looking ahead at the road. “Or what anybody calls me.”

Ben wet his lips and asked, “Your dad was gay? You told me that one time but we never talked about it.”

“He left my mom when I was little. For some dork man he stayed with for two weeks.”

Scowling, Ben said, “Sounds like an asshole.”

“Why would he trick my mom like that? I never even dated a girl. What kind of crap would that be, me taking a girl out when I know I don’t really want to be with her.”

“You think he was confused?”

“I’ve never been confused.” A dark anger took over, and he felt the same bitterness as whenever he talked about his dad. “Why would he have been?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you be confused about what makes your dick hard?”

Ben laughed quietly, watching the road. “You got me, there. That’s what clued me in.”

But Ronny wasn’t quite comfortable, suddenly. He had a need to put his hand on Ben’s thigh for a moment, to make a connection, so it would be all right to talk like this. Ben moved it to show it was all right. The anger drained into the point of contact. They glanced at each other. They were both still there. “My dad and I get along better these days but that doesn’t take much. I hear from him a couple times a year and I see him when I see him. He’s with this guy that I don’t like.”

“Keep your hand there. Where does he live?”

A new delight: the solidity of Ben’s thigh in the ragged jeans. “Richmond.”