Jake & Bill are forensically evident

Jake and Bill are in Jake’s bedroom. The whole house smells like a ham dinner. Bill says, “You can’t just tell them everything.” He looks genuinely scared, and it pleases Jake to see it.

Jake hasn’t had any whiskey in two weeks. Got the shakes the first night but he’s fine now. Bill doesn’t scare him anymore. Jake’s fucks have definitely shifted.

“You don’t think they’re going to find us all over that girl? Or her all over your car?” Jake says. “You’re gonna have to figure out what you’re saying. I know what I’m saying.”

“You tell them, I’ll kill you.”

Bill walks down the stairs, out of the house, gets into his car, and squeals out of the driveway.

Fiancée Ashley stands, mid-setting-the-dinner-table, forks in hand, looking clueless. Jake wonders if Bill forgot she was there. Probably did. Bill’s no good at remembering things like that. Never remembered to feed the snake, either.

Jake thinks back to a day when he was about ten. Fourth grade. Bill stuck Jake’s hand in the toaster and tried to toast it. Twelve. Sixth grade. Bill stuck a toothpick up Jake’s penis. The night of Bill’s eighteenth birthday about four weeks after the toothpick, Bill did it to him. The thing he does. The thing he told Jake to do to the girl.

Jake is ready to come clean. In every way. Back on St. Patrick’s Day, he stole his dad’s credit card so he could pay for online video counseling and he told the counselor the truth. Not of the girl. Of Bill. Of shame. Of parents who didn’t know what to do with a boy like that. Of Bill’s friends and their gatherings and the smell of gasoline-soaked pine. Of the toothpick. Of the whiskey he’d been drinking. Of Jeff-as in-Jefferson-Davis-at-work.

Jake’s feeling a lot better about things.

Even if he has to go to prison.

Even if he has to tell the truth about everything.

Truth isn’t so bad once you look at it. It’s like throwing up after drinking a whole fifth of bourbon. It’s a purging that makes you feel better, not worse.