“I still have Ian’s stuff all over my bed,” Theo said.
“You want to talk about Ian?”
“No.”
Cart’s hand came to rest on the nape of Theo’s neck. He worked his fingers lightly there, tickling the sensitive skin. “If you want to talk about him, we can talk.”
“No, I just. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Maybe you just let him go tonight. What do you think about that? Just for tonight.”
His fingers felt very good; it had been a long time since anyone had touched Theo like that.
When they got to Cart’s apartment, he had to help Theo inside.
“One slice of cake,” Cart said when Theo stumbled on the steps and almost took them both down. “And then we’re getting your ass home. Why the fuck did you drink so much?”
“I was nervous,” Theo said, and he started to laugh again.
“Sweet Christ,” Cart muttered.
Theo had been inside Cart’s apartment plenty of times. They’d come for barbeques, come to watch the game, come to hang out when Cart had a girlfriend, for game nights. A framed poster of a Ferrari—Cart could tell you which one—and a massive TV, leather furniture you could disappear into, a fully stocked bar.
“I’m going to make a Manhattan,” Theo said, heading for the bar.
“Not a chance,” Cart said, steering him toward the kitchen. “I’m serious: cake, and then we’re taking you home. Sit.”
Theo sat.
When Cart brought over a slice of fudge cake from the Wahredua Family Bakery, a single candle stood on top, already lit, the flame flickering.
“I’m not singing to you,” Cart said. “And you can take the rest of the cake with you.”
“I love fudge cake.”
“So blow out the candle.”
“It’s my favorite cake.”
“Just blow out the candle, please.”
“You knew my favorite cake.”
“Jesus, Theo. Make a wish.”
Theo bent; the wish was dark and unformed, exploding in his chest like antimatter as he blew out the flame. Then Cart got a piece for himself, and they sat and ate and talked, the way they always did.
“That was so good,” Theo said when he’d finished, scraping the tines of the fork against the plate, the stainless steel ringing out against the ceramic. “That was so, so good.”
“Well, you’ll be eating it for a week,” Cart said, picking up both plates. “I’m glad you liked it. Let’s get you home.”
“I need to pee.”
“Christ, then pee. I’m not going to hold your dick for you.”
To get to the bathroom, Theo had to pass through Cart’s bedroom: the bed neatly made up with a blue comforter, a particleboard dresser supported on one side by a cinderblock, a picture of Cart’s family taken at a wedding for one of the siblings. A desk. The last time Theo had been here, a handful of pictures had covered the desk, but one was gone now. Theo knew why: it was a picture of Cart and Ian from the time the Courier had run a story about them. They’d literally rescued a woman from a burning building. And now, Theo knew with drunken clarity, Cart had put it away for exactly this moment, so Theo wouldn’t see it if he needed to use the bathroom.
A few minutes later, Theo found it under the bed. Ian and Cart were a matching set: both of them with that skinny country boy build, both of them with their hair buzzed short, Cart with that shit-kicking grin, Ian handsome in a sharp, angular way that still cut Theo to ribbons. Theo stared at it for a while before shoving it back under the bed. His hand brushed something else: cardstock. More by reflex than anything else, he tugged it out from under the bed to see what it was.
It was a manila folder. And inside, it held Robert McDonald’s complete criminal record.
For a drunken moment, Theo couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he connected the dots in a few sloppy lines: Cart had gotten the record, Cart had lied about it, and Cart had kept it and hidden it because he didn’t want Theo to see it. Theo tried to think through the haze and gave up. He was just too drunk. Instead, he took out his flip phone, which, thank God, had a camera, and started snapping pictures. Then he returned the file, peed, and washed his hands. He stared at himself in the mirror: the bro flow of strawberry blond hair, the beard that was always too poufy, the flush from the alcohol, the bleary eyes. He splashed water on his face. He remembered Cart’s fingers tickling the back of his neck. He told himself that Ian was dead, and that things were never going to get any better.
When he got back to the kitchen, Cart was reading something on his phone. “Did you take a dump or something?”
Theo grabbed his collar, dragging him up from the chair, and they stumbled back until Cart was pressed against a wall. He was leaning into Cart—leaning on him, actually, barely standing on his own. Cart’s breath came in tiny, explosive puffs. Theo brought his head closer. He could smell chocolate and champagne. He ran his fingers over Cart’s cheek.
Cart cupped the back of his head and kissed him.
For a moment, Theo felt nothing. Then he was hard, rocking into Cart, yanking on the polo.
“Hey,” Cart said, grabbing his hands, “hey, hey. Slow down.”
Theo stumbled back.
“Hey,” Cart said. “Theo, man, hold on.”
“Oh my God.”
“Calm down. It was just—it wasn’t anything, ok. That wasn’t anything. That was nothing.”
“Oh my God.”
“Ok, let’s just talk about this.”
“I’ve got to go home,” Theo mumbled, and he staggered out into the October night, chased by Cart’s shouts.
21
The key in the lock woke Auggie, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was: there was only the hazy glow through unfamiliar windows, the smell of old upholstery, and his heart hammering in his chest. Then the light came on, and realizations trickled through him: he was at Theo’s; Theo had just gotten home; it was past midnight; Theo was
