Free Carry Me Like Water by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

worked and played and laughed. After his mind had come back, he had locked his parents in the part of him that could not make words, the part of him that no one was allowed to see or touch—except Joaquin. Joaquin had touched every part of him—even the part where he kept his parents. When Joaquin died, he knew that his final days or weeks or months would be heavy and inconsolable and his days would be without light. Maybe he would take to the bottle again and walk out into a cold and barren field that was far away from everyone and praise it for its solitary existence—and cut himself until he bled rivers.
    Joaquin opened his eyes and stared blankly around the room. He sat up slowly.
    Jacob smiled at him. “Tired?”
    “Not as tired as yesterday. I had a dream.” There was still sleep in his voice.
    “You wanna talk about it?” he whispered.
    “I don’t remember exactly. Someone was chasing me.”
    “Jesse Helms.”
    Joaquin laughed. “No—someone I knew.” He thought a moment, and Jacob could see he was trying to piece his dream together. He shook his head. “I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, does it, Jake?”
    “No. It doesn’t matter.”
    Joaquin stretched his arms and grunted. “How come you let me sleep on the couch?”
    “You were tired. I didn’t have the heart to move you.”
    “I’d have rather slept with you.”
    “Who wouldn’t?” Jacob smiled. “Take your medicine.”
    Joaquin shook his head. “Jake—I can’t—not today.”
    “Joaquin—don’t. We’ve been through this a thousand times.”
    “That shit is poison. I’ll die of it.”
    “I can’t take this today. Let’s not do this—I can’t—” He covered his ears with his palms.
    Joaquin sat a moment and watched him. He walked over to the cabinet, showed his medicines to his lover, smiled, and took his daily dose. “Ummmmm. That was gooooood. Sabrosisimo. Are you happy now, gringo?”
    Jacob kept himself from smiling. He crossed his arms and locked his hands under his armpits. Joaquin walked up and stood behind the chair where he was sitting. He kissed the top of his head. “I know you’re dying to laugh.”
    “Am not.”
    “Are too.”
    “Am not.”
    “How old are we?”
    “Nine. We’re nine.”
    “Nine, Jake? Nine? I couldn’t get it up when I was nine. Can’t we at least be sixteen?”
    Jacob smiled. “Late bloomer, huh?”
    “Well, I made up for lost time when I reached sixteen.”
    “OK. We’re sixteen.”
    Joaquin kissed him on the top of the head again. “I’m going to hop in the shower.” He walked out of the room and down the hall. Jake stared at the couch where Joaquin had slept. He rememberedthe first time he saw him, just standing there by himself like a beautiful silk shirt hanging over an empty chair. He had wanted to reach out and touch. He had seen him many times before he had spoken to him. He had taken it for granted that Joaquin had noticed him, too—noticed him because everyone noticed him—at least noticed his looks, his body, his masculine presence. But if Joaquin had taken note of him, that fact was not detectable in his face. He’d asked him if he could buy him a drink.
    “No, gringo,” he said, “I don’t want a drink.”
    Jacob had immediately noticed his voice—a voice that was calm, comfortable, and free of any discernable rage. “You don’t drink? Or you don’t like gringos?”
    “Oh, I drink.”
    “But not with gringos?”
    “They’re too used to being liked—they expect it.”
    “Not all of us are that superior.”
    “No— but you are.”
    When he’d said that, something had shot through him, and he had wanted to strike out at him—to bust his jaw—to put a mark on his dark and perfect face.
    “I can practically taste your hate, gringo.”
    “I have a name, godamnit!”
    “So do I,” he’d said quietly. “My name is Joaquin.” He’d walked away. As Jake sat there remembering, all the confusing feelings came back, as if he had stepped