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Hair.
Warrick's hands aren't supposed to touch Greg's hair. The hooded attackers definitely aren't supposed to touch it. I am. Sara - Sara's allowed to touch, because Greg is her best friend and she is his.
(And I'm thankful every single day that Sara said kissing Greg was like kissing her brother and Greg said kissing Sara was like kissing his sister, if he'd only had one.)
No one else should be touching Greg's hair, just me. And there it is, lying on the ground, Warrick's latex-gloved hands holding it, and now it's evidence and I just.
Just can't stand it.
Weak.
He's taunting us. No, he's taunting me. Can he look at me, know my - our - secret? Weak, weak, a joke. We're not a joke. We're not weak.
(And I can hear myself saying it, saying it in Texas, saying it to the kids who were either brave enough to be out or unable to hide it. Saying it about myself because I thought I was.)
No one should call us weak, no one should call Greg weak. He saved a man's life and that's, it's not a joke.
Greg is not a joke.
See.
No one knows, we agreed a long time ago that it was a secret, always a secret. My family, his family, our coworkers, our careers. Our closet. But now I haven't seen him and everyone says he's okay but I have to know.
(Our closet is large and beautiful and we're inside it together, keeping everyone else happy which keeps us happy because really, we both just want to get along and to be included. So we like our closet most of the time.)
I have to touch his hair, I have to make sure he sees just how strong he is, I have to see him for myself. I have to meet his eyes. I have to know.
"I want to see Greg."