Will Grayson, Will Grayson(53)
Author: John Green

I slow further when I hit the park, half because I’m out of breath and half because so long as I can’t see into the dugout, he’s there and he isn’t. I watch this couple walking on the lawn, knowing that they can see into the dugout, trying to tell from their eyes whether they see a gigantic someone sitting in the visitors’ dugout of this Little League field. But their eyes give me nothing, and I just watch them as they hold hands and walk.

Finally, the dugout comes into view. And damned if he isn’t sitting right in the middle of that wooden bench.

I walk over. “Don’t you have dress rehearsal?” He doesn’t say anything until I sit down next to him on the cold wooden bench.

“They need a run-through without me. Otherwise, they may mutiny. We’ll do the dress a little later tonight.”

“So, what brings you to the visitors’ dugout?”

“You remember after I first came out, you used to say, instead of like saying, ‘Tiny plays for the other team,’ you’d say, ‘Tiny plays for the White Sox.’”

“Yeah. Is that homophobic?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “Well, probably it is, but it didn’t bother me. Anyway, I want to apologize.”

“For what?”

Apparently, I’ve uttered the magic words, because Tiny takes a deep breath before he starts talking, as if—fancy this—he has a lot to say. “For not saying to your face what I said to Gary. I’m not gonna apologize for saying it, because it’s true. You and your damn rules. And you do get tag-alongy sometimes, and there’s something a little Drama Queeny about your anti-Drama Queenyness, and I know I’m difficult but so are you and your whole put-upon act gets really old, and also you are so self-involved.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” I say, trying not to get pissed. Tiny is awfully talented at puncturing the love bubble I felt for him. Perhaps, I think, this is why he gets dumped so much.

“Ha! True. True. I’m not saying I’m innocent. I’m saying you’re guilty, too.”

The couple walks out of my view. And then finally I feel ready to banish the quiver Tiny apparently thinks is weakness. I stand up so he has to look at me, and so I have to look at him, and for once, I’m taller. “I love you,” I say.

He tilts his fat lovable head like a confused puppy.

“You are a terrible best friend,” I tell him. “Terrible! You totally ditch me every time you have a boyfriend, and then you come crawling back when you’re heartbroken. You don’t listen to me. You don’t even seem to like me. You get obsessed with the play and totally ignore me except to insult me to our friend behind my back, and you exploit your life and the people you say you care about so that your little play can make people love you and think how awesome you are and how liberated you are and how wondrously g*y you are, but you know what? Being g*y is not an excuse for being a dick.

“But you’re one on my speed dial and I want you to stay there and I’m sorry I’m a terrible best friend, too, and I love you.”

He won’t stop it with the turned head. “Grayson, are you coming out to me? Because I’m, I mean, don’t take this personally, but I would sooner go straight than go g*y with you.”

“NO. No no no. I don’t want to screw you. I just love you. When did who you want to screw become the whole game? Since when is the person you want to screw the only person you get to love? It’s so stupid, Tiny! I mean, Jesus, who even gives a f**k about sex?! People act like it’s the most important thing humans do, but come on. How can our sentient f**king lives revolve around something slugs can do. I mean, who you want to screw and whether you screw them? Those are important questions, I guess. But they’re not that important. You know what’s important? Who would you die for? Who do you wake up at five forty-five in the morning for even though you don’t even know why he needs you? Whose drunken nose would you pick?!”

I’m shouting, my arms whirling with gesticulations, and I don’t even notice until I run out of important questions that Tiny is crying. And then softly, the softest I’ve ever heard Tiny say anything, he says, “If you could write a play about anybody . . .” and then his voice trails off.

I sit down next to him, put my arm around him. “Are you okay?”

Somehow, Tiny Cooper manages to contort himself so that his massive head cries on my narrow shoulder. And after a while he says, “Long week. Long month. Long life.”

He recovers quickly, wiping his eyes with the popped collar of the polo shirt he’s wearing beneath a striped sweater.

“When you date someone, you have the markers along the way, right: You kiss, you have The Talk, you say the Three Little Words, you sit on a swing set and break up. You can plot the points on a graph. And you check up with each other along the way: Can I do this? If I say this, will you say it back?

“But with friendship, there’s nothing like that. Being in a relationship, that’s something you choose. Being friends, that’s just something you are.”

I just stare out at the ball field for a minute. Tiny sniffles. “I’d pick you,” I say. “Fuck it, I do pick you. I want you to come over to my house in twenty years with your dude and your adopted kids and I want our f**king kids to hang out and I want to, like, drink wine and talk about the Middle East or whatever the f**k we’re gonna want to do when we’re old. We’ve been friends too long to pick, but if we could pick, I’d pick you.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re getting a little feelingsy, Grayson,” he says. “It’s kinda freaking me out.”

“Got it.”

“Like, don’t ever say you love me again.”

“But I do love you. I’m not embarrassed about it.”

“Seriously, Grayson, stop it. You’re making me throw up in the back of my mouth a little.”

I laugh. “Can I help with the play?”

Tiny reaches into his pocket and produces a neatly folded piece of notebook paper and hands it to me. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, smirking.

Will (and to a lesser extent Jane),

Thank you for your interest in assisting me in the run-up to Hold Me Closer. I would greatly appreciate it if you would both be backstage opening night to assist with costume changes and to generally calm cast members (okay, let’s just say it: me). Also, you’ll have an excellent view of the play.