IN A small house, just above the winding brown snake of the Ohio River, two boys slumber together in a twin bed, arms and legs entwined. Moonlight slips in, slatted and silver, to lie upon the floor and cast the pair in grayish light.
One of the boys—who cares which one—snores softly, a resonant rhythm born of complete exhaustion. The snore accompanies a similar rattling intake and outtake of breath coming from the dog on the floor who lies near the bed, content in the knowledge that his master is deeply happy. The dog dreams of being a puppy again, in filtered sunlight on the pebbled bank of the Ohio River. He chases a stick that dances over the sun-dappled water, and when he catches it, it magically throws itself again. But he never tires, and the joy he knows is boundless. For Odd Thomas, the aches and pains of old age exist no longer.
One of the boys turns, the one with the dark hair and the stubble he’s too young to have on such a baby face, and murmurs in his slumber, perhaps in response to a dream he’s having, one in which he and his own true love, Truman, inhabit a small apartment somewhere vast and bustling. Outside, a cityscape rises up to illuminate the night sky, blotting out the stars, but no matter; the windows of all the skyscrapers are stars themselves. In his dream, he and Truman sleep wrapped in each other’s arms on an old couch, a beaten-up and frayed quilt thrown over their naked bodies.
The other boy dreams too. And perhaps the three of them, together so close in this room, have synced their dream cycles. Truman dreams of a city too, of rows of lighted marquees and crowds emerging under bright lights. He steps backstage after taking his curtain call to fall into the overjoyed and loving embrace of Mike, who is somehow years and years older yet still the same. They look into each other’s eyes, and all the backstage machinery and magic-making, along with dozens of other castmates and crew members, vanish for just a moment as the two hold their gazes steady, knowing that real success lies not in the trappings of what’s around them but what’s in their hearts—and their eyes.
One room over, a woman sleeps fitfully, the smell of white wine perfuming her every exhalation. She doesn’t dream, not anymore. But in those moments when she tosses and turns and her eyes flutter open, she hopes.
In the living room, a young girl with dark hair cocoons herself on the couch, one hand on her belly to perhaps reassure the life growing within her. She dreams of the soft, fat cheeks of a baby, downy to her touch.
IN THE morning Truman jerked awake, staring over at Mike, who still slept, mouth open, a line of drool dribbling out of the corner. “How cute.” Truman rolled his eyes.
He woke Mike with a kiss. When Mike opened those incredible baby blues, Truman forgot for a moment what had panicked him a moment ago—the fear of being caught with a guy in his room by Patsy. He wasn’t quite sure how she’d take it. It was one thing to have Stacy here—who was now couch-surfing in the living room after refusing Patsy’s offer to give up her own bed—quite another to have Mike.
A boy I just had sex with. Four times. A boy, more importantly, with whom I’m falling more deeply in love with every breath I take.
“You need to get out of here,” he whispered in Mike’s ear, much as he hated to say the words. They were still, after all, high school kids. Was this even proper?
“Really?” Mike reached down to give Truman’s dick, at full mast, a playful squeeze. “Maybe one more? For the road?”
“Later, Tiger.” Truman felt even a little more panicked. He’d just heard the toilet flush. What time was it, anyway? The way the sun was shining in, he would guess it was not super early.
A knock at the door made both of them tense. Truman, mouth open, looked wildly to Mike. Perhaps he could slip out the same window he’d come in the night before.
But then they both relaxed as they heard Patsy, laughing, say, “There’s a man in your room. I can smell him.”