happy that he probably had some part in Brayden’s good mood, but all it does is make him feel like a liar and a predator.
What does it matter if there are no patrons whispering about Cry Baby Braydy and snickering behind their drinks, when Jenner has taken advantage of him in a way no bully ever could? For years, he thought he was better than that, that when it was just him, alone, he would never choose cruelty and selfish pleasure over the well-being of someone smaller than him and much less able to defend himself. What Jenner did to Brayden was so much worse than tripping him in a hallway or calling him names for the amusement of the crowd. He violated a sacred trust.
Mid-way through the night, he runs into Max in the hallway.
She confronts him with, “What’s going on with you? You’re acting really squirrely, and—”
“Fuck off,” he snaps, regretting it instantly. Too prideful to apologize, Jenner also feels like it’s partially Max’s fault that he went to Manse in the first place, looking to get laid at her suggestion.
“Jenner,” she starts, taken aback.
Rolling his eyes at it all, he storms away and goes back to work.
The busier his hands are—pouring drinks, collecting money, restocking—the more the shame dulls. He gets lost in it, and soon the end of the shift is nigh. They lock up at one in the morning. In a semblance of apology for earlier he sends Max home rather than expecting her to clean up at all. Quietly but diligently, he and Brayden perfunctorily clean up the bar. Jenner tells Brayden he can take off but Brayden only shrugs and keeps going, muttering something about wanting to feel like he’s earned his good tips. Jenner can feel Brayden keeping an eye on him but is thankful that he doesn’t pry.
Once things are in order, Jenner goes to help Art finish in the kitchen and locks up the night’s earnings in the safe. It’s almost two when Jenner groans with weariness and shuffles into the break room to get his wallet and keys and head upstairs to bed.
“You look tired,” Brayden observes.
Jenner starts with shock, having thought he was alone. Turning, he finds Brayden sitting on the bench across from the lockers.
“Brayd. Christ, you scared me. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
With a half-smile, Brayden says, “Yeah, I was on my way. Just started thinking about stuff and, I don’t know. Guess I’m not in a huge rush to get back to that old room in my Nana’s house. Need some time to unwind after work, you know? It’s hard to do when you have to be quiet as a mouse or risk waking people up.”
Undoing the clasp to the chain around his neck, on which is strung the key to his locker, Jenner says, “Mm. I can imagine. I know what it’s like to crave privacy, your own space.”
He gets the key and uses it to open his locker. In a swift movement, he twists his dirty, sweaty, black work-shirt up over his head.
“Look, I’m sorry if I was short with you at all earlier. It’s just been one of those days. It wasn’t…”
The words trail off. Brayden has suddenly gotten to his feet, facing Jenner, frowning and tensed with fear, his chest rising and falling visibly as his breath quickens.
“…personal,” Jenner finishes lamely. “What?”
Brayden’s eyes are locked to the tattoo above Jenner’s heart.
A single word.
A woman’s name.
Bette
Jenner follows the stare. Understanding blooms like a flower finding the sun.
“Fuck.”
“
It was you
.”
It’s said softly, those three little words of accusation, but they cut Jenner deeply. The stricken paleness of Brayden’s suntanned face tells Jenner everything. His expression, his hurt, is a perfect reflection of all of the boys like Patrick, who have become trapped in Jenner’s conscience. Just one more person Jenner has wounded by not being honest and standing up for what he knows is right. He should have made Brayden’s feelings the priority over his own and pulled Brayden aside privately to
What does it matter if there are no patrons whispering about Cry Baby Braydy and snickering behind their drinks, when Jenner has taken advantage of him in a way no bully ever could? For years, he thought he was better than that, that when it was just him, alone, he would never choose cruelty and selfish pleasure over the well-being of someone smaller than him and much less able to defend himself. What Jenner did to Brayden was so much worse than tripping him in a hallway or calling him names for the amusement of the crowd. He violated a sacred trust.
Mid-way through the night, he runs into Max in the hallway.
She confronts him with, “What’s going on with you? You’re acting really squirrely, and—”
“Fuck off,” he snaps, regretting it instantly. Too prideful to apologize, Jenner also feels like it’s partially Max’s fault that he went to Manse in the first place, looking to get laid at her suggestion.
“Jenner,” she starts, taken aback.
Rolling his eyes at it all, he storms away and goes back to work.
The busier his hands are—pouring drinks, collecting money, restocking—the more the shame dulls. He gets lost in it, and soon the end of the shift is nigh. They lock up at one in the morning. In a semblance of apology for earlier he sends Max home rather than expecting her to clean up at all. Quietly but diligently, he and Brayden perfunctorily clean up the bar. Jenner tells Brayden he can take off but Brayden only shrugs and keeps going, muttering something about wanting to feel like he’s earned his good tips. Jenner can feel Brayden keeping an eye on him but is thankful that he doesn’t pry.
Once things are in order, Jenner goes to help Art finish in the kitchen and locks up the night’s earnings in the safe. It’s almost two when Jenner groans with weariness and shuffles into the break room to get his wallet and keys and head upstairs to bed.
“You look tired,” Brayden observes.
Jenner starts with shock, having thought he was alone. Turning, he finds Brayden sitting on the bench across from the lockers.
“Brayd. Christ, you scared me. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
With a half-smile, Brayden says, “Yeah, I was on my way. Just started thinking about stuff and, I don’t know. Guess I’m not in a huge rush to get back to that old room in my Nana’s house. Need some time to unwind after work, you know? It’s hard to do when you have to be quiet as a mouse or risk waking people up.”
Undoing the clasp to the chain around his neck, on which is strung the key to his locker, Jenner says, “Mm. I can imagine. I know what it’s like to crave privacy, your own space.”
He gets the key and uses it to open his locker. In a swift movement, he twists his dirty, sweaty, black work-shirt up over his head.
“Look, I’m sorry if I was short with you at all earlier. It’s just been one of those days. It wasn’t…”
The words trail off. Brayden has suddenly gotten to his feet, facing Jenner, frowning and tensed with fear, his chest rising and falling visibly as his breath quickens.
“…personal,” Jenner finishes lamely. “What?”
Brayden’s eyes are locked to the tattoo above Jenner’s heart.
A single word.
A woman’s name.
Bette
Jenner follows the stare. Understanding blooms like a flower finding the sun.
“Fuck.”
“
It was you
.”
It’s said softly, those three little words of accusation, but they cut Jenner deeply. The stricken paleness of Brayden’s suntanned face tells Jenner everything. His expression, his hurt, is a perfect reflection of all of the boys like Patrick, who have become trapped in Jenner’s conscience. Just one more person Jenner has wounded by not being honest and standing up for what he knows is right. He should have made Brayden’s feelings the priority over his own and pulled Brayden aside privately to
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