I put my hand in his. His grip was warm, surprisingly strong, and perfectly still. We stayed like that for the rest of the hour. My mother found us that way when she came home—two kids on the grass, hands clasped over the divide, saying nothing at all.
A good day meant quiet. No meltdowns. No sudden flights toward open windows. I found Liam sitting on the grass, knees drawn up, staring at the fence. Not at anything on the fence—at the fence itself, the way the grain of the wood made rivers and mountains and countries no one else could see. Beautiful Boy
“Beautiful boy,” she whispered from the back door, and I couldn’t tell which of us she meant. Maybe both. I put my hand in his
We sat in silence for a long time. A bee bumbled between the clover. Somewhere a dog barked twice and then gave up. I pulled blades of grass and let them fall, one by one. My mother found us that way when she