Chapter Fifteen

HE ALMOST TRIPPED while trying to simultaneously put on his jacket and grab his satchel, but if he didn’t hurry, Isaac was going to be late for his first Wednesday class. “John?” He hustled into the office to find John at his desk, forehead on the keyboard. “So writing is going well today?”

John groaned. Against the hard wood of the desk, the sound echoed like a banshee cry. “I used to like writing. I do not remember why.”

Isaac picked up John’s head by tugging on his hair. “Maybe you should take a break.”

He moved his jaw left to right, stretching out the tension Isaac knew he held there. “I need to shower soon anyway.”

“Did I get honey in your hair again?”

“Probably. I don’t understand how you had the energy to shower at midnight. After round two, I passed the fuck out.”

Isaac leaned on the edge of the desk. “I know. I had to roll you like a log to make space. Talk later?”

“Yeah, I’m going over to Janelle’s on my way to campus. I really need her opinion on some of this cover art. It felt like she was barely paying attention at the meeting last night, and she’s my go-to person, you know?”

Isaac winked. “I thought I was your go-to person.”

John gagged. “Don’t be gross in the morning.”

He kissed John on the head. “I have to go. Love you.”

John smiled.

Too much sex was the best form of insomnia Isaac had ever had, so despite the lack of sleep, he started his first class chipper and bordering on cheerful. The students probably thought he was high. He had found a groove—a rhythm. Miraculously, with the help of John and Being Frank, he was a teacher again.

Right in the middle of his roll, though, someone knocked at the door. Through the small cutout window, he caught a flash of Cleo’s red hair and her big, blue eyes. “Excuse me, class.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. “What’s up?”

Before she covered her mouth, her lip trembled, and she started to cry.

 

ISAAC PULLED INTO the hospital parking lot and sprinted into the emergency room. He spotted Meeks immediately, talking in hushed tones on her cell phone. Her eyes widened when she saw Isaac but soon looked away, disinterested, as she continued having what looked like a heated debate. Isaac scanned the area in search of a familiar face, but all he saw was a curly-haired kid hugging herself and a construction worker with a bloody rag on his arm.

A nurse in green scrubs looked up from her desk. “Sir, can I—”

Tommy appeared from down a brightly lit hall, and Isaac ran to him, clinging to his shoulders. “Where is he?”

Tommy clung back. “I don’t think he’s okay, Isaac.”

“Where…is…he?” Isaac growled out one word at a time.

“Back there.” He glanced at a closed door. “I… He won’t let anyone near him. He won’t even… There’s blood and…” He took forever to swallow. “He won’t talk to me. I don’t know…”

“Okay. I’ll go.”

“I don’t want to lose him. I—”

“No.” Isaac squeezed Tommy’s shoulders. “We’re not going to lose him. Go sit down, all right?” He moved beyond Tommy but paused. “Hey, did someone call her parents?”

Shoulders slumped, he said, “Yeah. Meeks. They’re on their way, but they had to book a flight. It could be a while.”

With a curt nod, Isaac went in search of John.

After doing a cursory scan of the emergency department hallways, Isaac found him sitting away from the main waiting area in a pool of shadow. Usually if John was in crisis, Isaac would run to him, but instead, Isaac froze on the tips of his feet as though hitting a concrete wall. For the second time since meeting John, he actually felt scared of him. It wasn’t due to the blank expression or the way the shadows invaded the hollows of John’s cheeks, no—it was the blood. His hands and chest were painted in it, his pastel pink shirt now a Rorschach test. What do you see? He could almost make out Janelle’s face.

“John?”

He didn’t move, so Isaac knelt slowly in front of him. Up close, there was a swash of blood across his cheekbone, too, and on his chin. They looked like fingerprints.

“John, can you hear me?” He wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist and squeezed.

His eyes moved, at least. Although he looked at Isaac, there was no recognition.

“Hey, it’s Isaac.” He swallowed sorrow and forced a smile. “Remember me?”

John stared some more. Just as Isaac’s vision started going fuzzy with tears, he nodded. “How did you know to come here?”

“Cleo.” He plucked a curl from the center of John’s forehead and pushed it back over his brow. “Would you come to the bathroom with me, John?”

His thin fingers trembled when he looked down at them, but he nodded again.

With one arm around his shoulders, Isaac led John the twenty steps to the men’s restroom. ER staff tried not to stare as they went. Inside, beneath the too-bright overhead light, Janelle’s blood looked like something out of a B-horror film. He leaned John against the wall, away from the mirror, and pulled a stack of paper towels from the dispenser. He went for John’s face first, wetting the cloths and gently pressing them against his skin. He focused on the task, busied himself with the mundane, because otherwise, Isaac feared he would start screaming. John merely blinked at his attentions.

Once his face was clean, Isaac took both John’s hands in his and held them under the faucet. Water ran red, then pink, as he added more soap to the mix—and more soap. Isaac never knew blood was so hard to wash off. Inside, blood kept us alive; outside, it stained skin, clothes, and minds.

As Isaac massaged suds into John’s nails, John’s hands suddenly squeezed. Isaac looked up, expecting finally some show of emotion, but no, John was still haunted and empty.

“I didn’t spend the summer with my family in Wisconsin,” he said. “I spent it in a psych ward.”

Isaac dropped his head, nodding. He released one of John’s hands, and despite the soap and blood, covered his eyes as the tears came. He dragged John into his arms and cried against his hair, even though John barely hugged him back. John was a statue.

They stepped away when the door opened—and just in time since Meeks walked in. “The nurses said I’d find you in here. John, we need to talk.”

John took a shuffling step forward, but Isaac halted him with a hand on his upper arm. “Tomorrow,” he said.

She scoffed. “What are you, Twain, his keeper?”

“No, I’m his friend.”

She put both hands in the air and then brushed them across her hips. “Fine. Whatever.” Her over-made-up face didn’t move, frozen in a strained expression of discontent. “John, my office at eight a.m. And pull yourself together.” Her high heels clicked as she stomped away.

 

MEEKS CANCELED ALL English Department classes for the remainder of the week. Isaac imagined she wanted people to think she was being sympathetic, but in reality, he guessed she was trying to stop the spread of gossip on a campus just waiting for more bad news.

At John’s house, Isaac left Tommy in the kitchen and ushered John into the bathroom, where he stripped off his bloodstained clothes. He turned on the water, warm, and took off his own clothes, too, before guiding John under the spray. Isaac reached for John’s fancy shampoo and rubbed his head until his curls turned white.

By the time he’d finished, John’s skin was finally clean. He wrapped his arms around himself while Isaac toweled him off. Once, John leaned up on his toes and kissed Isaac’s cheek. They shared a few breaths. Despite the lack of words, it was the loudest conversation they’d had in weeks.

In the bedroom, Isaac dressed John in his own pajamas and wasn’t sure why. Isaac’s sweatshirt hung low around John’s throat and swallowed his hands. The plaid bottoms pooled over his feet on the floor, hiding even his toes. Isaac took the afghan from the bottom of the bed and wrapped it around John’s shoulders. If only he could keep John warm, maybe he could keep John safe.

“Do you want to sleep?” Isaac asked.

John shook his head and roamed, in all his excess fabric, to the living room, where he slumped onto the couch—and slumped some more until only the top half of his face and his shower-damp curls remained visible.

Tommy waited in the kitchen, fists wrapped around the edges of the island as though he wanted to tear the whole thing apart.

Isaac opened cupboards. He found chamomile tea first and then, whiskey. He and Tommy shared a look before Isaac put the tea away and reached for three rocks glasses. He poured two shots. Without saying a word, both men threw theirs back. Isaac poured another round and a third for John and moved to the living room.

John’s pale hand sprang from the nest of fabric and grabbed the whiskey, but he didn’t drink it—just sat there with it in his hand. Isaac put his arm around him, while Tommy sat in the recliner by the back door.

Eventually, John swallowed the whiskey. Eventually, he leaned his head on Isaac’s shoulder, which was when silence was finally broken.

“We’re here,” Isaac said before the silence returned.

 

ISAAC CLOSED THE bedroom door quietly. It was only six thirty, but the winter sun had already sunk and John had said he was tired. It was the only thing he’d said all afternoon.

Tommy poked at a cold, half-eaten piece of pizza on the counter. They’d ordered delivery in the middle of the afternoon once the grumbles of their stomachs had interrupted the horrible stillness in the cozy house that was rarely still.

Like opponents at a chessboard, Isaac and Tommy stood across from each other.

“What happened?” Isaac asked.

“Janelle slit her wrists, and John found her.”

Saying it out loud made Isaac’s assumptions die. He buried them with the urge to run to John’s bedroom and never let go. “And she’s still alive.”

“Yes.”

“Was there a note?”

“I don’t think so.” Tommy slid the pizza away. “By the time I got to the hospital, John was catatonic. I mean, you saw him.”

Yes, and the image of John motionless, covered in blood, would haunt Isaac for months. “Do you know where he really was this summer?”

Tommy deflated. Spine curled, he rested his elbows on the counter and dug his fingers into his hair. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was never my business to tell.”

“Do you know why he was hospitalized?” Isaac asked.

Tommy put one hand on his hip and whacked the island. “Goddamn it, Isaac. How would he not be hospitalized? Fuck!” He paced away and paced back just as fast. “You don’t know what it was like for him. A bunch of kids get shot, and everyone’s calling him a hero? What he did was fucking insane, and yes, it probably saved lives, but he had to watch Chris shoot himself in the head. And the media? Christ!” He looked up as though calling for said deity. “They were all over this town, all over John. God, they followed him everywhere. They wanted to know everything about him. ‘What did you say to the shooter? What were his last words?’ Thing that pissed John off the most was that they stopped using Chris’s name; he was just ‘the shooter.’ And John never told those vultures a thing. To this day, no one knows anything about those final seconds—not even me.”

He stepped closer, almost invading Isaac’s space with anger that radiated like flames. “Even worse, once this goddamn country got a look at John Conlon, they swooned. Forget about the dead kids; look how handsome the hero is. He was getting love letters from all over the country. Marriage proposals, as if his biggest accomplishment was being a heartthrob when people were dead.” Tommy paced away again, this time facing their reflections in the back glass door. “After a while, he couldn’t even go outside anymore. I used to have to bring him food, and he would just… The way he is today, he was like that for weeks before he made the decision to go away. He had to find some hospital in Nowhere, South Dakota, so they wouldn’t find him. We are the only ones who know—us, his parents, and his shrink. Not the school. Not the media, thank Christ. I have been watching him like a hawk since the beginning of the semester, and I get glimmers…God.” He growled and covered his face. “I get glimpses of who he used to be.” His chest lurched on a sob, but before Isaac could react, John’s voice interrupted.

“Hey. Assholes.” He stood in the doorway, holding his phone. “What part of ‘I’m tired’ did you not understand, Shouty McShouterson?”

Tommy’s sob turned into a bark of laughter. “God, how much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” John shuffled forward and rubbed Tommy’s back while watching Isaac. “Any questions?”

“Would you ever hurt yourself?” Isaac asked.

John hesitated and rubbed his lips together. “I don’t think so.”

At that admission, Tommy grabbed onto John’s arm and dragged him into a hug. “You better not.”

John’s cell phone vibrated on the island, so Isaac took a glance. “It’s Anthony.”

“Yeah, he’s been texting. Janelle’s stable, but she’s still not awake.”

“You saved her life,” Tommy mumbled against John’s shoulder.

“Let’s not put anymore lives on my head, okay?” John pulled away and smiled at Tommy. “Look at you. You haven’t cried like this since Michigan beat Ohio State in the Rose Bowl.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

“Are you okay to go home?” John asked.

Tommy took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Can I stay on your couch?”

“Of course.” John reached for Isaac’s hand and squeezed. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight, so why don’t we drag blankets in from the bedroom and have a slumber party? Watch a movie or something?”

Isaac hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sound of John’s voice all day until right then.

Ten minutes later, they’d built a blanket and pillow fort on the living room floor. On the TV screen, Tom Hanks played nosey neighbor in The ’Burbs. John and Tommy knew all the punch lines, but even as they recited, they still laughed. Distracted, Isaac dug around beneath the blankets and past the overlarge hoodie until he could pull John close by his bare skin. He turned down a glass when Tommy poured whiskey and eventually fell asleep wrapped around a still awake John quoting Bruce Dern.

 

FOR THE DURATION of John’s early morning meeting with Meeks, Isaac hid in his office and walked in circles simply because it would be obvious if he stood with his nose pressed against her door. He only had to pace for twenty minutes before a quiet knock preceded John, who looked like a hungover beatnik poet. He wore the newsboy cap Isaac knew he only used on “bad hair days,” black skinny jeans, and his gray blazer over a V-neck tee. Maybe he looked more French than beatnik.

“What’d she say?”

“Wanted to know if I saw any warning signs.” He shrugged. “And I have no idea.”

“What kind of warning signs?”

He drooped into Isaac’s guest chair. “The usual bullshit. Negative talk, substance abuse, loss of interest. I mean, I guess I saw those things, but that’s just Janelle. She’s emo as fuck, but I never thought she’d try this again.”

“Her black bracelets.”

John steepled his fingers over his nose and spoke from between his palms. “She slit her wrist when she was thirteen when she realized she was gay. Just the one wrist, not like—Jesus, it was like she was trying to saw her arms off yesterday, Isaac.” His cell phone vibrated in his back pocket, and he leaned forward to grab it. “At protests, she’s spoken out to other gay kids about how suicide is not the answer. I don’t get why she did this.” He tapped at his phone. “Anthony’s at the hospital.” He muttered a “fuck” from behind closed eyes. “He says Janelle’s parents are there and being awful.”

When John stood, Isaac latched onto his arm. “It’s not your responsibility.”

He tugged his arm away. “Yes. It is.”

Isaac reached for his suit coat on the back of his chair. “Then, I’m coming with you.”

John snickered and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s really not your responsibility.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m not part of this.”

John’s volume jumped. “You’re not! You’re six months late to the party, man.”

Isaac’s mouth dropped open on a “Wow.” He leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. “Do you resent me for that?”

John’s forehead wrinkled when he looked outside, out at the naked sycamore and the beginnings of College Green. He whispered, “Sometimes.” His throat heaved on an audible swallow. “Sometimes I wish you’d been here. But then, I hate myself because what if you had been here, and what if you were dead? Janelle lost Demi; what if I’d lost you?”

Isaac had considered it before, the notion of never having met John—of John’s summer funeral, of his slim body in a box. The weight of this death that never happened still suffocated Isaac on occasion—but the ever-strengthening flicker of optimism knew better. “I was supposed to meet you,” he said. “There was never any question. I was waiting to find you.”

John shook his head. “No, I don’t deserve that.”

“Well, I do,” Isaac said as the ghosts of Elizabeth and Simon released his heart and disappeared to the dark hovel where regrets go to die.

 

NO MATTER HOW clean they claimed to be, hospitals smelled like sick people—and stale food—but mostly sick people. Despite the stench, Isaac breathed resolutely through his nose so as not to swallow the air around him and taste illness, despair. They met Anthony in the waiting room, half his huge hair flattened from probably sleeping in a hospital chair.

“She won’t wake up, but they won’t even let me see her, man.” He started walking, and they followed rapidly behind.

John eyed his clothes. “Well, your T-shirt is pretty much a conservative nightmare.” All it said was “I’m rooting for everyone black.”

Anthony buttoned his red cardigan as they turned down a couple stinking hallways. Someone wept from behind a green curtain. After scurrying past a nurse’s desk, Anthony stopped and pointed to a handsome middle-aged couple whispering back and forth. Still ruffled from the panicked flight, their expensive clothes didn’t sit quite right on their bodies. The woman had Janelle’s eyes, but that was where the resemblance stopped. Both blond, Janelle apparently dyed her long, black hair, and she would never wear pastel.

“Mr. and Mrs. Houcks?”

They turned at the sound of John’s voice.

“I’m John Conlon, one of Janelle’s teachers.”

Janelle’s father grew five inches. “Oh, we know who you are, Mr. Conlon. Dr. Meeks told us everything. A literary magazine about the shooting? Are you insane or just stupid?”

“Look, it was—”

“No, you listen to me.” Janelle’s father pointed a fat finger. “This is on you. My little girl lost her best friend, and you would shove it in her face. These children need to be protected from monsters like you. We let her come across the country for school because our little girl wanted to learn from you, her favorite author, and what happened? She got all these crazy ideas about girls kissing girls. She writes terrifying stories about murderers and deviants. Then, she almost gets shot, and now, this!”

The entire hallway turned to look.

“My little girl might go to hell because of you.”

Vision blurry with rage, Isaac opened his mouth to argue, but John beat him to it.

“Excuse me if I disagree.”

Mr. Houcks clapped his hands once. “Oh, so he has a voice.”

“Yes, he has a voice,” Isaac said, but John put a hand on his chest to keep him back.

He took a step forward, and Houcks took a step away like John carried a disease he didn’t want. “You don’t even know your daughter. She didn’t come to Hambden just to learn from me; she came here to get away from you. You still treat her like some bubblegum princess who’s going to marry a Ken doll!”

Mrs. Houcks tugged on her husband’s arm when he tried to lurch forward, but Isaac lurched forward, too, holding his hands out between the man he loved and the angry father who wanted to rip him apart.

“And news flash, stop calling Demi her best friend. Demi was Janelle’s girlfriend, and they were in love.”

Janelle’s mom shouted, “My little girl is not some filthy lesbian.”

“She spends enough time with me,” John said. “I hear the gay is catching!”

“Why, you little son of a—”

Isaac had to shove against Mr. Houcks to keep a full brawl from breaking out in intensive care.

Anthony didn’t help when he pointed at John and yelled, “Fight him, man! Fuck, yeah!”

“Stay away from my daughter!” Houcks kept pushing against Isaac until a confused security guard showed up and told everyone to calm down. “Arrest him,” Houcks cried. “He should be arrested.” But there was no truth to it, no legal reason. As Houcks leaned back against his wife, face crumpled in grief, Isaac took hold of John’s lapel and pulled him away from the confused, broken couple who’d almost lost their daughter twice.

Halfway down the hall, they heard Janelle’s dad saying, “Monsters.”

Bitter wind tugged at their coats outside, and the sun didn’t dare show its face.

John froze on the pavement and threw his hat on the ground. “Oh, my God, what did I just do?”

Isaac put his hand on his own chest; his heart thumped like a heavy metal drum. “Probably got us both fired. The gay is catching? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“He was thinking Janelle deserves better than those two bigots for parents.”

“Anthony!”

The kid’s eyes went wide at the volume of Isaac’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “Just… Go back inside. Please.”

“Damn,” he said but did as told.

“John, have you lost your mind?” Isaac asked.

John sat on the ice-cold sidewalk and pulled his knees into his chest. He hid behind his hair. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Isaac went down on one knee next to him. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Isaac.” He smashed his face against Isaac’s chest and sobbed. “I’m so tired.”

“Okay.” He put one hand on the back of John’s neck and used the other to rub his quaking shoulders as quiet weeping turned to silent vibrations of pain. “Let’s get you home.”

 

ISAAC’S LUNGS BURNED with every breath as he sprinted through the streets of Lothos. A few snowflakes dawdled at eye level before hitting the ground, the frozen ghosts of rain.

He’d left John with Tommy back at the house because he needed a moment too—a moment to admit he was scared. Janelle’s father was surely making a fuss, probably talking to Meeks, but Isaac didn’t worry about his job anymore. Who cared about his stupid job if John was falling apart in front of him?

John’s summer in the psych ward allowed him to go outside again and return to Hambden as beloved teacher and friend. Then, Isaac came along, with all his closeted hang-ups and memories of exes and abortions. Isaac just had to kiss him in a Columbus hotel room. Isaac had to put him through hell with Simon, with Tommy, perhaps even within John’s own mind, bowed beneath the weight of their secret—a secret that had started with sex and accidentally grown into love, for Isaac, at least. Maybe John didn’t love him. Maybe John would be better off without him.

But, oh, the selfishness of man. Isaac couldn’t imagine his life without John.

Barely paying attention to his route, he stopped when he recognized the cemetery. He’d been there once before, to the place with the weeping angel. Frozen pieces of grass crunched beneath his running shoes as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Unlike in October, the air had no smell. It just smelled cold.

Isaac stared up at the old marble angel with her somber expression, her face once clean white but now dark gray and covered in lacelike turquoise moss. He traced his finger down one of her cheeks, stained with tears, and realized she reminded him of John—standing there strong and tall despite the cold that threatened, beautiful in her melancholy. Then, he knelt.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” He crossed himself. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

The tombstones listened as the angel wept.

 

AS SOON AS he walked in, soaked with sweat and yet chilled to the bone, he heard John’s voice from the living room. Isaac went to the kitchen for a glass of water but halted when he realized both Tommy and Cleo stood at the island, staring at him.

“Dr. Twain?” Cleo asked. She brushed loose pieces of hair out of her face.

“Uh.”

“They’re fucking,” Tommy said.

Isaac rolled his eyes. “We’re not just fucking, Tommy. I love him.”

“Oh, God,” Cleo whispered. “The Brown-Lancaster Debacle.” She looked around the room as though searching for sense. None was apparently forthcoming, because she remained standing there, confused, in a long sweater dress and winter coat.

John walked in and threw his phone on the counter. The sound made them all jump.

“Do you still have a job?” Tommy asked.

“Barely. Meeks said this isn’t the time for further upheaval. Fuck, let’s get drunk.”

“Hang on.” Isaac stepped forward. “John, can I talk to you for a second?”

He nodded shakily before pulling a glass down from above the sink, filling it with water, and handing it to Isaac. Isaac took a sip and set the glass on the counter, tugging John gently by his shirt into the hallway. He whispered, “I think you should go see your therapist.”

John laughed under his breath. “Right now?”

There it was: the façade of levity that made Isaac’s blood run cold.

“I think this would be a really good time, yes,” Isaac said.

John looked away and ran his hand over the back of his head. “I think I really need a drink.”

“John, please—”

He turned and walked away. “Shower and meet us at Joe’s, okay? Allons-y!” he announced to his cohorts in the kitchen.

Cleo scurried after him, but Tommy paused in the hallway long enough to say, “I’ll keep an eye on him. Just hurry up.”

The shower was wasted because even though Isaac washed away the sweat from his run, he sprinted down John’s hill and onto Union Street. By the time he walked into Joe’s, the snow fell with ambition, and Tommy and John discussed something at the bar. Two o’clock drinking during a snowstorm was apparently reserved for the desperate and disturbed, as the bar was empty except for their group.

Before Isaac could join the boys’ conversation, John handed him a bourbon-filled rocks glass and waved him to a back table where Cleo sat poking at a piece of pink chalk. He slid in across from her but kept his eyes on John.

“Look at me,” she said over the sound of the jukebox, Rolling Stones.

He did as bid.

She moved her gin and tonic back and forth. “Are you actually gay, or is this one of those clichéd I’m-gay-for-one-person things?”

He tried not to chug his Knob Creek. “I’m definitely gay.”

She tapped the table. “I did not see this coming.”

He watched John have an animated conversation he couldn’t hear.

“Do you really love him?” she asked. “Like you said?”

“I love him so much that I feel like I’m going crazy.”

This admittance only seemed to upset her. “Well, is one of you going to quit your job? Because you can’t. You’re both really good teachers, and the school needs you, and I will not let you both get fired and destroyed, and—”

“Honestly, Cleo, my job is the least of my worries today.”

She side-eyed John. “He’ll be okay. He’s always okay.”

“I really don’t think that’s true.” He noticed the unfamiliar slump of her shoulders and the lack of makeup. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She stirred her drink and poked at the lime but didn’t consume. “I know there’s supposedly a reason for everything and all the bad stuff just makes us stronger, but… What the hell, Dr. Twain? How come such shitty things are happening to good people?”

“I can’t answer that.” He paused. “But I did pray for the first time in five years today.”

“Why?”

He looked toward John just in time to watch him down a shot of something dark. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m tired of pretending I have control over anything. People make decisions, and everyone else has to live with the consequences. Maybe I was praying for people to start making the right decisions.”

John and Tommy slid in on either side of their booth and handed out shots. Nobody asked about the contents, but everyone drank.

 

WITH A TONGUE like sandpaper and mouth syrup sweet, Isaac woke in the middle of the night to an empty bed. His head already pounded with the impending hangover, thanks to overindulgence at Joe’s and then back at John’s. He wasn’t sure what time it had been when Tommy and Cleo had gone home, but Isaac had passed out soon after. He hadn’t “passed out” in years. He remembered John climbing into bed at some point. They hadn’t touched, but he’d felt John’s slight weight dip the bed and the added warmth of his body. Now, John was gone.

Isaac burped vomit when he sat up and had to swallow several times to be certain he wasn’t about to hurl all over John’s floor. He stumbled from the bedroom and down the hall in the direction of the only light in the house.

John sat at the kitchen table, facing away. The computer glow lit the edges of his hair, but other than that, he was merely a black silhouette.

Isaac almost said his name but stopped when he recognized the video on John’s computer screen. He’d seen it months ago when he’d first done research into the Hambden shooting and the “Hambden hero.” It was the video of Chris Frank holding a gun on John but then shooting himself.

It played to the end, and John repeated it.

It played to the end. John repeated it.

Despite his still-drunk stupor, Isaac had the urge to run to John and slam the computer shut. Instead, he clung silently to the wall as Chris Frank died over and over again.