The Big Rewind by Libby Cudmore Page B

felt like a Pollyanna.
    Bryce rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” he said. “Afterward, we went back to my place—hope I don’t have to spell that out for you too.”
    This was a revelation, to say the least. “But what about KitKat? Wasn’t she his . . .”
    â€œHis bestie and his beard,” Bryce said. “He said she was his girlfriend when his family visited. They’re those kind of snotty born-again types who think gay sex should stay between Dad of the Year and the kid he’s diddling down the street. I didn’t like it, thought he should be honest with them, but he just wasn’t ready. Some people never are.”
    If I thought about Bronco hard enough, I was more surprised that he pretended to be straight than that he wasn’t. “But in Bushwick, seriously? Why stay closeted here, of all places?”
    â€œBecause you can’t just be gay in one place,” said Bryce. “Admitting he was dating me meant broadcasting back to everyone in Armpit, Arizona, that he was out and proud. And being black, gay, and dating a white boy? He said he just wasn’t ready to face his family with all that.”
    â€œSo how do I know you didn’t kill her to force him to come out?”
    â€œBitch, please,” he said. “You watch too much SVU . I adored KitKat. She was going to bake our wedding cake . . .” He sighed and stared somewhere beyond the traffic. “. . . when he finally told his family about us.”
    I ’D NEVER EVEN been to the principal’s office, let alone a prison visiting room. I was immediately seized with the fear that they’d somehow find contraband in my purse: a pocketknife I’d thrown in for a picnic because I needed the bottle opener; a strip of condoms forgotten from a long-ago hookup; a chocolate bar that could, in theory, be a brick of cocaine. I had visions of being slammed against a wall and strip-searched, forced to don an orange uniform and bunk with some murderous junkie named Sherrie. She’d tattoo me with a Bic pen; Sid and my parents would have to visit by phone through panes of Plexiglas. . . .
    But instead, the guards nodded at the contents of our care package and waved both Bryce and me through to the sterile room. The yellow walls had just the opposite effect than was probably intended. There was no way anyone could feel happy or relaxed when an armed guard was glaring at your every move, as though each embrace was a secret transaction of drugs, weapons, cash, or contraband Snickers.
    Bronco didn’t look out of place here. He was a big guy, covered in tattoos, though his Mohawk was now wet down and plastered to his head. The only difference was that his eyes were sweet and sad and soft. They didn’t have the hard look that the eyes of the man two tables down being visited by his mother had.
    â€œWe’re going to get you out of here,” Bryce said, reaching across the table.
    Bronco pulled away. “Not here,” he hissed. “I don’t want any trouble.”
    Bryce shrank back like he’d been slapped.
    â€œHow are you holding up?” I squeaked out.
    â€œWell, I think I’ve had more visitors in the last two weeks then I’ve had since I was ten, when I had my appendix removed in the fifth grade.”
    â€œNext time I’ll bring you a coloring book,” I joked, opening up the care package. “I think there’s some crosswords in here to pass the time until then.”
    Bronco smiled for the first time since we arrived. Bryce didn’t like my stealing his thunder and quickly added, “There won’t be a next time—we’re going to get you out of here. We’re holding a benefit and Lovelle says that we should raise enough money to secure your bail.”
    â€œThat’s a relief,” he said. “It’s not so bad in here; quiet mostly. But the food is