After his bad trip on Percocet and White Rascal, Theo only spoke to Auggie once before Thanksgiving break. He took a week off from life—Dr. Wagner didn’t even reply to Theo’s vague email about a personal emergency—and convinced Cart to call in sick for a day. They spent that day at a winery in the Ozarks, got a cheap hotel, and fucked and drank until they both passed out. Twice on the drive home, Cart asked if everything was ok. The second time, Theo gave him road head just to get him to stop asking.
The next Tuesday, in class, Theo sat near the blackboard, marking out a clear division between himself and the rest of the class.
Auggie, as usual, ignored the nonverbal warning.
He was wearing a button-up, pinstripe shorts, and dock shoes. He kept shifting his backpack, staring at Theo’s feet, and then blurted, “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine, Auggie.”
“Why didn’t you text me back?”
“I had a lot going on.”
“I was worried about you.”
Dr. Wagner came into the room, set his briefcase on the desk, and opened the locks with two identical snicks. He pulled out papers and began assembling his lecture notes. Even from where he sat, Theo could smell the booze.
“I needed to do some thinking,” Theo said.
“Thinking about what?”
“About what we’ve been doing. I’m done. And I hope you’ll stop too.”
Auggie shook his head. “Orlando needs someone to help him. The murder investigation by the police isn’t going anywhere—”
“You don’t know that.”
“—and I think I could help him get some answers. I’m starting to think that if I can find the right person in the Volunteers, they might be able to tell me who was dealing to Cal—”
“Jesus Christ,” Theo whispered harshly. He shot up from the seat, grabbed Auggie’s arm, and forced him toward the hallway. Several students stared, and one boy even shifted nervously to the edge of his chair.
Wagner didn’t seem to notice. He was already talking. “Today we will be discussing Friar John’s role in act five of Romeo and Juliet. Although I believe I can safely assume that either you have not done the reading or you did not understand it, I will take a risk: can anyone tell us who Friar John is?”
A pretty girl, her hair in a loose chignon—Leah, Theo thought—raised her hand. “He’s the messenger sent by Friar Lawrence. He’s supposed to tell Romeo that Juliet isn’t really dead. He’s unable to deliver the message because he’s forced to quarantine, and that miscommunication is what sets in motion the end of the play.”
Wagner’s sneer faltered and then returned. “An adequate summary, but to call it a miscommunication is erroneous. It is more accurately a failure of communication.”
Then the door swung shut behind Theo. Out in the hall, he shoved Auggie up against the wall. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I know there’s good reason to believe the murder wasn’t a drug deal gone wrong, but—”
“I don’t care about that. I don’t care about any of that. The Ozark Volunteers? The goddamn Volunteers? Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m not going to get involved with them. I just want to know—”
Theo shoved him against the wall again. “That’s involved, Auggie. That’s exactly the definition of involved.”
“Stop pushing me.”
“No.” Theo shoved him again. In his mind, he was seeing Evans with the gun. He was seeing Luke in the hayloft, the flies crawling over his open eyes. “No.” He grabbed Auggie’s shirt and wrangled him as Auggie tried to slip away. “No. No. I’m telling you no. We’re done.”
It took him a moment to realize that Auggie wasn’t moving. A girl in a pink tulle skirt had stopped at the end of the hall to watch them.
“Fuck off,” Theo shouted at her.
She sprinted away.
“Let go of me, please.” Auggie’s voice was calm, but the tiniest tremor underlay it.
Theo released him. The button-up was wrinkled where he had grabbed it.
“You’re right,” Auggie said. “We’re done. I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to keep doing this.”
“Great. I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”
“No, Theo. You and me. I’m done. I’m not going to watch you kill yourself because you’re afraid of getting better.”
Footsteps were ringing off Tether-Marfitt’s stone floors. The echoes got inside Theo’s head, bouncing around with the buzzing of flies.
“Is there anything else you want to say?” Auggie said.
“You don’t want to be seen as a little kid? You’re tired of it? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
Auggie raised his chin but didn’t answer.
“Then don’t give fucking ultimatums like a fucking toddler.”
He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. Toddler, toddler, toddler ran up and down the halls.
“I’m going back into class,” Auggie said, his dark eyes soft and very sad.
When the door clicked shut behind him, Theo marched to the end of the hall, kicked over a trash can, and then chased after the mixture of Starbucks cups and paper food wrappers that had spilled across the floor. He followed one of the cups all the way to the stairwell, chuffing uncontrollably, until he sent it spinning off the landing with one final kick. Then, after a minute to bring himself down, he picked up the rest of the garbage, washed his hands, and went back to class.
Days rolled into weeks. Weeks rolled into months. Late summer turned into fall, and by the end of November, fall teetered on the edge of winter. It wasn’t that nothing happened during those months. Theo spent them working on his thesis, grading papers for Dr. Wagner, continuing his physical therapy exercises, visiting Lana, and building something—he wasn’t sure what to call it—with Cart.
Many times with his brothers, Theo had gone cliff jumping. He had particularly liked a flooded limestone quarry only a few miles from their home. On a perfect day, the sun was hot, the air was humid and thick, and the water, when you plunged into it, crisply cold. The trick was knowing where the water was deep enough—and, therefore safe—versus those spots that looked deep but in actuality concealed rocks that could break your leg or your back or your skull.
With Cart, Theo didn’t know what he was jumping into. They’d go out for burgers at the Mighty Street Taproom, and they’d drink beers and watch the Cardinals, and they’d shout over each other telling Miller to learn how to throw a fucking curveball. But that was buddy stuff, strictly straight-guy stuff, until they got behind a closed door and Cart was on his knees like he’d just finished a cocksucker correspondence course.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Theo said, “I want you to know what I’m about to ask you isn’t meant to be a big deal. I’m just asking you because I think it’d be fun. Do you want to go out to my parents’ place on Friday and do some shooting? That’s what my brothers and I do every year.”
They were on the couch in Theo’s living room. Cart was in sweats, flipping channels, his legs across Theo’s knees while Theo tried to read. They’d just murdered two trays of take-out nachos. Cart’s finger hovered over the Channel Up button.
“I think my parents have stuff that day,” he said and clicked up to QVC.
“Ok,” Theo said. He placed both hands face down on the book and said, “What about sometime around Christmas? A weekend? It would be fun to get away.”
“Maybe.”
“Ok,” Theo said more slowly.
This time, Cart jabbed the button several times in a row.
“Is this too early for you?” Theo said. “Do you feel like I’m rushing you?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“The holidays are busy. Jesus, you ought to know that, Ian being a cop and all.”
“Take it down a little. I’m just asking—”
“I know what you’re asking. Don’t get your pecker in a twist. I said maybe.”
Leave it, a little voice in Theo’s head told him. You’d better just leave it.
Instead, though, he said, “What about Friday the 12th. That weekend. That’s right between Thanksgiving and Christmas. School will be out. Things will be quiet.”
Cart muttered something under his breath and pulled out his phone.
“What was that?”
“I said I’m checking, you dumb hoosier.” Cart scrolled on his phone, tossed it on the coffee table, and said, “Can’t. Department Christmas party that night.”
Leave it, that voice said again.
Instead, Theo said, “Good thing you told me. I’ll put it on my calendar. I’ve got just enough time to get a new dress and heels.”
Swinging his legs off Theo’s lap, Cart sat up. He had patches of red in his cheeks, and he kept jerking on the collar of his sweatshirt, trying to get it back into place. Then he stood.
“What?” Theo said.
“You think you’re so goddamn smart.”
“Come on, Cart. What? It was a joke.”
“Fuck you, you peckerbrained redneck jerkoff rag.” Cart stomped his feet into his shoes.
“Sorry,” Theo said, tossing the book onto the pile next to him. “I’m really sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I thought you might want to take your boyfriend to the department Christmas party.”
Cart flipped him the bird, threw open the door, and left.
For ten minutes, Theo pretended to read. Then he turned off the TV, set the deadbolt, and locked the back door too. Just in case. He turned off the lights. He went upstairs. And he started unscrewing the plate over the outlet.