Page 444 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Yes.” “You understand your movement restrictions?” “Yes.” “Employment reporting?” “Yes.” “Therapy?” “Yes.” “Residence?” Elliot stopped. There. The address. He knew it. Had memorized it years ago. Never seen it. Ronan’s apartment. No. Their apartment now, apparently. That part still felt theoretical.

“Residence?” the officer repeated. Elliot gave the address. Approved. Signed. Stamped. Another door. Property returned. Phone. New. Rebecca had purchased it. Ronan had apparently set it up. Elliot turned it on. One message waited. Of course.

RONAN: Don’t make me come inside. Elliot smiled. He typed: ELLIOT: You’d enjoy that too much. Immediate. RONAN: Five minutes. Elliot stared at the screen. Five minutes. His pulse increased. Ridiculous. He had seen Ronan six days ago. They had sat across from each other in visitation. Ronan had complained about traffic. Elliot had complained about release paperwork. They had argued about whether Elliot needed three jackets. Nothing dramatic. Still. Six days ago there had been a clock on the wall. An officer near the door. A table. Rules. Today— Elliot looked toward the final security door. Outside. Actually outside. His chest tightened. The officer noticed.

“You good?”

Elliot almost laughed. That word. Six years ago, it had belonged to everyone else. Golden boy. Good son. Good student. Then Saint. Good boy. Reward. Punishment. Ronan had somehow taken the word apart and handed it back without demanding Elliot become anything.

“Yes.” The officer nodded toward the door. “Then go.” The lock released. Elliot walked.

The morning was too bright. That was his first thought. His second was that the parking lot looked smaller than it had from the transport van five years ago. His third was Ronan. There. Leaning against a black SUV. Sunglasses. Dark T-shirt. Jeans. Arms crossed. Older. Not dramatically. Better. Fuck him. Elliot stopped. Ronan smiled. Five years of visits. Five years of calls. Five years of letters. Five years of tomorrow. Every week he could. Every holiday the facility allowed. Every birthday. Every court review. Every awful fucking day Elliot convinced himself Ronan would eventually realize loving someone through prison was harder than loving him in theory. Ronan came anyway. And now he was standing in a parking lot. Waiting.

Like he said he would. Ronan pushed away from the SUV. “You planning to live on the sidewalk?” Elliot couldn’t speak. Ronan’s smile faded slightly. He approached. Slow. No joke now. He stopped several feet away. Elliot stared. Ronan stared back. Neither moved. Five years of being told when they could touch had apparently ruined both of them. Ronan finally opened his arms.

“Come here.” Elliot did. Immediately. He hit Ronan hard enough to make him stumble. Ronan laughed. Then his arms closed around Elliot. No officer said stop. No countdown. No glass. No rule. Elliot buried his face against Ronan’s neck. Same smell. Different cologne. He hated it. Loved it. Would complain later. Ronan’s hand pressed against the back of his head.

“I told you.” Elliot closed his eyes. “What?” “I’d be here.” His throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“Every fucking time.” “I know.” Ronan pulled back. Elliot held on. “No.” Ronan froze. “What?” “Not yet.” Something in Ronan’s expression broke. Softened. He wrapped both arms around Elliot again.

“Okay.” So they stood there. Parking lot. Cars. Concrete. Blue sky. Elliot holding his stepbrother like an idiot while strangers walked past. He did not care. Eventually Ronan whispered:

“We should probably leave prison property.” Elliot laughed against his shoulder. “Probably.” He pulled away. Ronan looked at him. Really looked. Elliot hated how vulnerable that felt.

“What?” “You’re outside.” “Observant.” “Shut up.” Ronan touched his face. Thumb near Elliot’s eyebrow. The scar. “You look good.” “Allowed?” Ronan smiled. “Definitely.” Elliot looked toward the SUV. “Yours?” “Yes.” “You sold the Audi?” “Three years ago.” “You loved that car.” “It was a piece of shit.” “You loved that piece of shit.” “People change.” Elliot looked at him. Ronan caught it. “Don't.” “What?” “Turn that into something.” “I wasn’t.” “You were.”

Maybe. Ronan opened the passenger door. Elliot stared. “What?” “Get in.” “You’re driving?” “Yes.” “I have a license.” “You have not driven in five years.” “I remember.” “Absolutely not.” Elliot smiled. There. Normal. Fucking beautiful. He got in.

Ronan had apparently become boring. Elliot discovered this twenty minutes later.

“Farmers market?” “Yes.” “You go voluntarily?” “Yes.” “On Saturdays?” “Yes.” “Every Saturday?” “Most.” Elliot stared. Prison had changed Ronan more than him. Ronan looked over.

“What?” “Nothing.” “Say it.” “You’re thirty.” “Twenty-nine.” “Basically dead.” “You’re twenty-six.” “Prime.” “Shut up.” Elliot smiled and looked out the window. The city had changed. Stores gone. New buildings. Different signs. Same streets. People everywhere. That was strange. Too many choices. Turn left. Turn right. Stop. Keep going. Nobody telling him where. Nobody counting. Nobody watching every movement. His chest tightened. Ronan noticed. Of course.

“You okay?” “Yes.” “Actually?” Elliot looked at him.

“Overwhelmed.” Ronan nodded. No joke. “Want to go straight home?” Home. The word landed. “Yes.” “Okay.” No detour. No surprise party. Thank fuck. Rebecca had wanted one. Elliot knew because she was incapable of keeping secrets now. Ronan had apparently threatened everyone into waiting until Sunday. Today belonged to them. Elliot looked at him.

“Thank you.” “For?” “No party.” “Your mother threatened me.” “I’m sure.” “Claire supported me.” “Traitor.” “Dylan offered to distract Rebecca.” “That sounds dangerous.” “It was.” Elliot looked out the window again. Then: “How is Dylan?” “Still annoying.” “Good.” Ronan glanced at him. Elliot smiled. Allowed. They had reached something resembling peace three years ago. Dylan never pretended the past hadn't happened. Elliot never asked him to. That worked. Ronan turned into an underground garage. Elliot’s pulse increased again. Apartment. Home. Their home. Technically. Ronan parked. Neither moved.

“What?” Ronan asked. Elliot looked toward the elevator. “I’ve never been here.” “I know.” “You’ve lived here four years.” “I know.” “I know where the bathroom is.” Ronan laughed. “You’ve seen approximately nine hundred photos.” “You sent terrible pictures.” “I was not photographing the apartment for Architectural Digest.”

“You could've tried.” Ronan got out. Elliot followed. No property bag now. Ronan had taken it. Carrying Elliot’s things. Something about that made his chest hurt. Elevator. Fourth floor. Hallway. Door 417. Elliot stopped. Ronan put the key in the lock. Then paused. Looked at him.

“What?” Ronan removed the key. Held it out. Elliot stared. “No.” “What?” “You do it.” Elliot looked at the key. Small. Silver. Ordinary. His hand shook when he took it. Fuck. Ronan noticed. Said nothing. Good. Elliot inserted the key. Turned. Click. No electronic buzz. No officer. No permission. He opened the door. Home. The apartment looked exactly like the photographs. And nothing like them. Warm. Clean. Too many plants. Ronan had become one of those people apparently. Bookshelves. Dark sofa. Large windows. Kitchen beyond. A stupid rug Elliot had told Ronan not to buy.

“You bought the rug.” “You've complained about that rug for two years.” “Because it’s ugly.” “Take it back to prison.” Elliot laughed. Then stopped. There were photographs. Everywhere. Not many. Enough. Rebecca and Thomas. Claire. Ronan with friends Elliot recognized from calls. Dylan in one group picture. And Elliot. A photograph from before. College. Not golden- boy posed. One Ronan had taken. Elliot asleep on the couch with his mouth slightly open.

“Seriously?” Ronan smiled. “My favorite.” “I look dead.” “You were asleep.” “Burn it.” “No.” Another. Visitation photograph from year two. Approved family day. Ronan beside him. Both smiling. Another. Elliot’s mother. Another. Then a frame containing no photograph. A letter. Elliot recognized his handwriting. Tomorrow? Beneath it, Ronan had written: Always. Elliot stopped. Ronan went quiet behind him.

“You framed that?”

“Maybe.” “That’s disgusting.” “I can throw it away.” Elliot turned. “Touch it and I’ll kill you.” Silence. Elliot froze. Old language. Old instinct. Ronan raised an eyebrow. Elliot sighed.

“Figure of speech.” “Growth.” “Fuck off.” Ronan smiled. Elliot looked around again. Home. Then he saw the hallway. Bedroom. Bathroom. Second room. He walked. Ronan followed. Bedroom first. Large bed. Dark sheets. Ronan’s clothes visible through partially open closet doors. Then— Elliot stopped. Half the closet. Empty? No. Not empty. Clothes. New. His size. Basic things. Shirts. Jeans. Sweaters. Shoes below. Elliot stared.

“What is this?” Ronan leaned against the doorway. “Clothes.” “I can see that.” “Then why ask?” “Ronan.” “Yours.” Elliot touched one shirt. “You bought these?” “Some.” “Mom?” “Some.” “Claire?” “One jacket.” “Which?” “Leather.” “Of course.” He looked lower. A drawer partially open. Socks. Underwear. His. Already. Bathroom. Elliot moved. Two toothbrushes. His preferred shampoo. The brand he had complained about missing for five years. Razor. Skin-care products. Ronan had mocked his skin-care routine endlessly.