When Theo got home from the Sigma Sigma house, his clothes were soaked with sweat. He stripped in the kitchen, the lukewarm air from the window A/C like sandpaper against bare skin. Then he stumbled into the shower. His knee wasn’t hurting, but he had trouble walking, as though his joints had locked up. He ran the water cold and stood under it, letting the spray needle his back.
The gun. And Auggie. His mind came back to those two things again and again. He tried to build out from them: Evans had pulled a gun on Auggie; Auggie could have been killed. But his thoughts kept collapsing into those two irreducible facts. The gun. And Auggie. Auggie. And the gun.
He left the shower, the water still running, and went back to the kitchen. He got a White Rascal from the fridge and drank it over the sink, water puddling around him. The house felt cold now, and a part of his mind recognized that it was because he was naked and wet, but even that barely registered. When he’d finished the first can, he crushed it against the counter and got another. Through the glass set in the back door, he could see the line of oaks at the edge of the property, the gnarled limbs, the still-green leaves, the network of branches and twigs. Behind it all was the blue of the September sky. Yes, he thought. Think about that. Twig, branch, tree. Blue sky. He crushed the beer and went back to the shower.
Warming the water by degrees, he felt better. The beer was already rounding off the edges. He could look at the whole thing from a few steps back. He ran the bar of soap across his chest, noticed the way it glided until it got to the chest hair. And then he thought about those little hairs sprouting on Auggie, which was a reminder that Auggie was, when you got to the bottom of it, still a kid. And maybe that was why Theo had come unmoored. Auggie was young. Auggie was just so damn young. And he still loved life, still didn’t understand all the ways it came at you, again and again, until it broke you. He still smiled without even thinking about it. He said what he thought, without layers of self-protection, without the extra decade of social conditioning that would make him rethink, reword, rephrase. He still saw the future like the Serengeti, wide and untrammeled, pick your path, when really it was a rut in the ground that just got deeper, year after year, until you were shooting down a ravine and couldn’t turn back.
Theo hammered the water off. He dried himself with a towel. He had a third beer.
And—he was realizing now, with the help of that third beer—Luke. He mustn’t forget about Luke. That explained why Theo had reacted so strongly today. He had seen Auggie in danger, and he had spent so much of his life trying to keep Luke safe, and Luke had died. So it made sense that Theo would react. It made sense that he would feel a terror so vast that he was close to shitting himself.
Except, a little voice said. Except you’ve seen Auggie in danger before. And it scared you—when the guy tried to kidnap him at the Frozen King, and it felt like someone had knocked the wind out of you. When Jessica slashed at him with a knife, and you knew it was better to die than to let him get hurt. You’ve seen him in danger, you’ve seen him hurt, you’ve seen it all already, and you didn’t react like this.
Still drying himself with the towel, Theo made his way upstairs, a fourth beer in one hand. His nipples were hard. His balls ached. His face felt too warm, and he let the towel drop and finished the stairs naked.
Who could explain why the brain did anything, he wanted to know. In the mirror over the dresser he had shared with Ian, he asked himself: who can explain one fucking thing about how the brain works? Can somebody tell you why you wake up every day next to the same man, year after year, and then he’s dead and you keep waking up and for an instant, you don’t remember that he’s gone? You roll over to bitch at him about stealing the covers, or to tell him it’s his turn to get up with Lana, or just to see his face, and then you remember.
Dropping onto the bed, Theo stared up at the ceiling, the cracked plaster, the nail pops, the signs that the house was shifting, that everything was shifting.
Who could tell you why you woke up one morning, one totally normal morning, just another day, and you’re already reaching for your phone to text him, because he makes you laugh, because you saw something that reminded you of one of his goofy videos, because you can hear his voice in the words? Who could tell you anything about yourself? And if nobody could tell you something like that, if nobody could tell you anything about why you sit differently on the couch to leave room for him, or why you stock Doritos, or why some nights you think crazy things like where you could go on vacation, that cabin at the lake maybe, and what it would be like to sit on the porch, just let him talk until he ran out of things to say—he could talk all night if he wanted, and you wouldn’t mind—if nobody could tell you anything like that, Theo wondered, why should I have any idea why I’m freaking the fuck out?
His breath was coming faster. The room wobbled. He got out of bed, pounded back the beer, and made his way downstairs, almost tripping on the towel. The fifth beer he drank at the table; his naked ass peeled away from the wood when he stood and tossed the empty at the recycling. Miss.
When Theo opened the fridge, the White Rascals were gone. He made his way up to the bedroom. This time he did trip on the towel, and he started laughing as he lay on the stairs, laughing until he couldn’t breathe. His knee hurt, though, and he had to drag himself the rest of the way to his bedroom. Sitting on the floor, he unscrewed the outlet plate. Then he pulled the outlet out of the box. Then he pulled the box out of the wall.
Once, and only once, Cart had searched the house. Just so we can trust each other, Cart said, and Theo had smiled and nodded. He knew firsthand that if you had to search, everything else was bullshit. And Cart had been thorough. Cart was smart, even if he didn’t give himself credit, and he was a cop and good at his job. But Cart hadn’t lived with Luke Stratford.
Theo peeled the strip of tape from the back of the box. He liberated one of the pills—Percocet, plenty of refills, so Cart could take the bottle and Theo could smile and nod—and swallowed it dry. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning.
But it didn’t stop. It got worse, the whole structure tilting like Theo was on the deck of the ship. He was sliding on the floorboards. Another pill might stop it, so he tried that, and then he jammed the box and outlet back into the wall and left the plate for another time. He crawled into bed. The spinning got worse. For a long time, it seemed, Theo couldn’t understand why it was getting worse.
And then it all made sense: he was still in the car. Still in the car with Ian and Lana. Still spinning. This wasn’t the bad part, not really. One bad part had happened—when the semi struck the car—and a lot of bad parts were still coming. But this, the spinning, it was an in-between. It really wasn’t bad.
Except it wouldn’t stop. And somehow Theo got his phone. Then the spinning got worse, and the only thing left in his world was spin and drift.
He came back to a warm hand between his shoulder blades and someone saying, “Get it all up. Good. That’s good, you’ve got to get it all up. Jesus, how much did you drink?”
“Auggie?”
“It’s me.”
Theo thought about this. Then he managed to say, “’m sick.”
“I know. Just aim for the bucket, please.”
When the next wave of puke came, Theo did. He thought he did a pretty good job, all things considered. Then he slept, and when he woke, the house was dark. His head was resting on a ribcage, and he could hear a heartbeat like the secret clock of the universe. He groaned.
“Any more puking,” Auggie said, “and we’re going to the hospital.”
Theo weakly shook his head.
Auggie’s hand settled on the side of his face. “Do you think you can keep down some water? I’m worried you’re dehydrated.”
Theo licked his lips, but his voice wouldn’t come. He nodded.
“Stay right here. Don’t get up.”
Footsteps moved away. The stairs creaked. The boards on the main floor creaked. Old pipes groaned. Then everything in reverse until the mattress dipped.
“Do you want me to hold it for you?”
Theo shook his head. He opened his eyes. Auggie was Auggie, except for a purple bruise like a storm cloud on the side of his face. Something like foam had buried Theo, insulating him, but underneath, embers flickered to life. Hand trembling, Theo took the glass and managed to get a few gulps.
“That’s probably enough for right now,” Auggie said as he took the glass. It clinked against the nightstand. Then Auggie stretched out on the bed, head propped on his hand. “Want to tell me what you did?”
“Drank too much,” Theo said, his voice so rough it was almost unrecognizable.
Auggie didn’t believe him; it was in his face, because he was too young to have learned how to tell all the lies people learned to tell without ever opening their mouths. But he didn’t argue about it either. The silence lasted a minute, then two, a familiar crack coming from downstairs as the house settled, the whine of the window A/C trying to keep up with the muggy Midwestern heat.
“I think I should stay the rest of the night,” Auggie said.
Theo closed his eyes and nodded. After a moment, he felt Auggie against him, one hand pulling Theo to his chest. Theo wanted to fight it because it felt so good. What an insane reason, part of him said. Fighting this feeling every day, every time they were together—it was exhausting. Why not just stop? Why not just let things be easy for once?
Just for tonight, Theo told himself. Just because I’m so tired.
He rested his head on Auggie’s chest. Auggie’s fingers combed his hair back, tickled his neck, traced his shoulder.
“I ruined your night,” Theo mumbled into Auggie’s tank top.
The hesitation confirmed it, but Auggie said, “It’s ok.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
“Theo, it’s ok. You’re my friend. I want you to be ok.” Another of those pauses. “I want to know how I can help you be ok so you don’t . . . so you don’t drink too much again.”
Theo rocked his head back and forth, squeezing his eyes shut.
“It’s ok,” Auggie said, carding his hair again. “You don’t have to say anything.”
A while later, Theo could breathe normally again, and he said, “Your face.”
Auggie laughed quietly. “Turns out I’m not as tough as I thought. It’s just a bruise; I’ll be fine.”
“Auggie?”
Auggie held his breath. Theo could feel it, the way his chest stopped moving. The moment was like one of those secret doors in old movies, the wall that spun around. You stayed in place, but the whole world changed. But only if you did it right. Move a book. Pull a candlestick. Say the magic words.
And then a cat yowled outside, and thunder cracked in the distance.
“Thank you,” Theo whispered.
This was the longest of the pauses.
“You’re welcome,” Auggie said.
Then Theo slept, and in the morning, Auggie was gone.