Long dark eyelashes sweep across his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut. He sighs and I feel the tension leave his body in a heavy rush. His hand comes up and fists in my hair, holding me close to his chest for a minute. Then he lets go and steps back.
“Tag.” His voice is rough. “I remember you.”
“Of course you remember me, man. Who could forget Tag?” He steps closer and holds his hand out.
Wes hesitates for a second before he reaches out. The boys slap palms, bump fists twice, then pull their hands back with their fingers spread wide.
A secret handshake that neither forgot.
Laughing, Tag slaps Wes hard on the back. He’s about six inches shorter than him, and he has to reach up to clasp his shoulder. “It’s good to see you. Where you been?”
“It’s a long story,” Wes responds. He sounds different—he has the slightest New York accent that wasn’t there before.
“I haven’t been down here in years.” Tag does a small spin, taking in the pile of blankets, the single overturned chair. “Not since you left. We’re mostly all downtown now. No wonder we haven’t run into you, if you’ve been crashing up here.” He gestures toward me. “This your girl? She’s fly.”
Wes doesn’t answer. I look down at the dirty floor. There’s a silence that should be awkward, but Tag laughs through it. “Yeah, man, you haven’t changed. Still all quiet and shit. Don’t let anyone know your business.”
I turn to Wes in surprise. I thought his stoicism was something the Montauk Project instilled in him, but maybe Wes always kept his emotions to himself.
“This place is whack.” Tag wrinkles his nose at the blankets in the corner. “You can’t stay here. Come crash with us. I’m pretty set up right now. Squatting over near Avenue D. Rigged up electricity and everything, man. You got to see it.” He looks over his shoulder, suddenly remembering that he didn’t come alone. “Nik, get over here.”
The girl slides forward. She’s not exactly pretty, but her sharp features and her large brown eyes give her an innocent, appealing quality.
“This is my old pal, Wes. We used to hang with the same posse. Wes and me known each other since we were practically babies.”
“That so?” Her voice is high and a little squeaky. Kind of like a frightened bird. She keeps her arms crossed and her mouth pursed as she stares at Wes and me. All attitude. It’s a strange contrast to her cartoonish voice and cherubic features.
“Wes, this is Nikki. She’s been hanging with me for a while.” Tag hooks his arm around Nikki’s neck. They’re about the same height and both rail thin.
“This is Lydia.” I feel Wes’s hand touch my shoulder. It’s so different from the way Tag curls Nikki into his body that I glance away, swallowing hard. When I lift my eyes, I see Nikki watching me carefully. She gives me a knowing look before she turns back to Tag.
“Nice to meet you, Lydia.” Tag grins. There’s something infectious about it, and I find myself smiling back at him.
“You too.”
“So what’ll it be?” Tag asks Wes. “You gonna stay in this shit hole, or you gonna come back to our crib?”
Wes and I exchange a glance. We’re supposed to be visiting McGregor. But we have five days before our time is up. And Wes has been alone for so long . . .
Wes’s mouth is drawn, and I know that he’s about to turn Tag down to focus on our mission.
“We’ll come,” he says.
I jerk in surprise.
Tag grins even wider. “Wicked. Let’s go now. LJ’s on dinner tonight, and he always manages to find the good stuff.” He takes Nikki’s hand and leads her to the exit.
Wes turns to follow them but stops when I grab his arm. “You agreed to stay with them, just like that?”
“Do you not want to?”
“No, I mean, I do, but . . .” I push my hands up through my bangs. “It’s just not like you. To agree so quickly. I thought I’d have to talk you into it.”
He smirks at me, a very un-Wes-like look. “Well, now you don’t have to.”
He disappears through the door. I stare at his back, wondering what’s gotten into him. That strange moment with his eyes twitching, that manic look when he was dragging me toward the subway, and now agreeing to put off the mission? Wes is not acting like himself.
But if it means he’s willing to open himself up to his old memories, is that necessarily a bad thing? Maybe he doesn’t need to rebreak the bone like I thought. Maybe he’s healing all on his own.
We walk up through the East Village and turn onto a side street off of Avenue C. I edge closer to Wes as we pass homeless kids in roving gangs, old men passed out in doorways, and drug dealers camped out on every corner. They shout at us as we pass. “Coke, smoke? Coke, smoke?” they shout when we walk by.
The buildings on both sides are tall and imposing, throwing deep shadows across the sidewalk. Most of the windows are smashed out or have thick metal grates over them. It already feels like night here, though the sun hasn’t even set yet. I see a drag queen in a huge pink wig tottering down the concrete in stiletto heels. She disappears into a sunken doorway.
Tag and Nikki stop in front of a large brick building. It looks like an abandoned tenement, with several stories and boarded-up windows and doors. Graffiti, bright and garish, sweeps across the light-colored brick.
“This is it.” Tag points at a basement window, where two wooden boards have been pried off and tossed to the side.
Nikki goes first, crawling through the small space. She disappears into the blackness beyond.
Wes walks forward and braces one hand on the frame as he slides in the window. The fluid way he