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.
27
For Thanksgiving, Auggie flew home. The airports were a madhouse, his flights delayed, and the planes fully booked. By the time he got home, it was after one in the morning. Fer was smoking when he pulled up in the Escalade. He was in shorts and a Ramones tee, and his eyes were bloodshot and half closed.
“Are you stoned?” Auggie asked as he got in the SUV.
“I’m fucking exhausted is what I am,” Fer said.
“I could have taken an Uber.”
“Great. Great fucking idea. I’ll go home, and you take an Uber.”
“Jesus, Fer. I’m sorry.”
They didn’t talk the rest of the ride home, but the next day, Fer thawed. Things felt normal. Only they weren’t normal. Everything was different, and everything was worse.
On Wednesday, Auggie got together with Devin and Logan, and they did a reunion video. Auggie had thought it’d be fun to redo one of their early videos with a twist. They agreed, and they shot a version of the too-small shirt gag, only this time, they used their college t-shirts. It was a lot of fun until the end, when Logan threw a fit because, according to him, Auggie always got the best parts, and Devin just made a face like they’d already talked about this a hundred times. Auggie tried to point out all the times he’d written parts just for Devin and Logan. Then, when he got angry, he pointed out that he was the one doing all the creative work. The fight got so bad that Auggie finally left without any of it being resolved, and instead of going to a party with more of his high school friends, he went to bed early. In the middle of the night, he woke up and stared at the ceiling for over an hour. Then he rolled onto his side and deleted the video without posting it.
Thanksgiving started off all right. Chuy was in his room all day, sleeping off whatever shit he’d done the night before. Their mom was in the living room with her boy toy. Auggie and Fer picked up the premade meal, and they worked together in the kitchen to make the dishes that they hadn’t purchased: mashed potatoes and green bean casserole. Fer smoked a joint while they worked, and he looked more tired than ever, but at least he was talking and laughing and giving Auggie the usual amount of shit.
“I don’t get it, Augustus. Why this boner bro who’s like ten years older than you?”
“Dylan isn’t ten years older than me. He’s a senior. That’s, like, three years. Tops.”
“So what do you like about him? Does he have a huge dick or something?”
Auggie flicked mashed potatoes at him.
Laughing, Fer wiped his cheek clean. “Or is he your pussy boy? Auggie,” he moaned, “Auggie, yeah, pull my hair, Auggie!” He ended with a shrill scream.
In the other room, the sound of conversation cut off for a moment, then their mom started speaking again. This week’s flavor was named Carlos. When he laughed at something their mom said, Auggie made a face.