Page 11 of Canned & Coated

“Brian,” Tanner says, never breaking our gaze.

The sound that leaves me isn’t quite a gasp. More like the air gets pressed gently from my lungs.

“Brian,” Milo repeats, drawing the name out.

Tanner finally looks away, his profile sharp against the dark. “Yeah. Then came Lauren. After that, AJ and Riley.” He takes another drink. “Those last two were mistakes.”

Looking back, Tanner lived in a strange middle space. He wasn’t hiding, exactly, but he never revealed much of that side of himself either. At least not to us. Definitely not to me.

A girl would appear every few months. She’d stick around long enough to satisfy nosy classmates or parents, but never long enough to mean much.

He’d mention a date the way someone mentions a dentist appointment. Something to check off a list. Then months later he’d drop another name, and if anyone asked, he’d shrug. “Didn’t work out.”

We never questioned it. We added it to the pile of signs Tanner wasn’t quite like the other guys: too thoughtful, too intense, too content spending Friday nights arguing sci-fi plots with the only openly queer kids in our grade.

Milo and I sit in stunned silence. I expect a joke, a follow-up, literally anything. Nothing comes.

I glance over. Milo’s expression is unreadable, lips pressed together, beer bottle gripped a little too tight.

Across the fire, Tanner’s laugh comes soft and private. His shoulders rise, then fall, already folding the moment away.

“Need a refill?” He stands. “Either of you?”

Milo nods without looking up from the flames. Then Tanner’s eyes find mine, waiting.

God, I could use a drink, especially after that bombshell, but wanting one and taking one are two different things. One drink becomes another. Another loosens my tongue.

History suggests I should fear both alcohol and myself.

“All set,” I say, lifting my half-full can.

Milo shifts beside me, the camp chair creaking. “Have a drink if you want it.”

“I don’t,” I snap. “Want one, that is.”

“You do,” he says flatly.

Tanner returns before I can respond. He hands Milo a fresh bottle and folds back into his chair with that same easy grace he’s always had.

“Some things never change,” he says, eyes sliding to Milo with a familiar half-smile.

Milo shrugs. “Guess not.”

I tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tanner’s bottle hisses as he twists the cap free. He tips his head back, throat working as he drinks, then lowers it and meets my eyes.

“You act like you’ll break the world if you take what you want.”

Ha. Hate that.

You act like you’ll break the world if you take what you want.

Tanner watches me, his eyes catching the firelight so dark they look almost black. One corner of his mouth lifts. A challenge.

He leans forward, curls falling across his forehead, elbows on his knees, closing the space between us by inches.

“It’s kind of a shame, honestly. You could’ve had a lot of things, Nate.”