In spite of his best efforts, Auggie opened his eyes. Theo was leaning back in the chair, his expression distant, alone with his ghosts for a few heartbeats.
“I bitched him out,” Theo said. “Jesus, you wouldn’t believe what that poor guy had to put up with from me for the first couple years. I was so insecure, and that was part of the problem, but I also loved him—already, so early it seems ridiculous now—and I was terrified he’d figure out I was the wrong one and take off.”
“So the natural solution was to bitch him out.”
“Obviously,” Theo said, his grin bright and fast and gone. “He just stood there and took it. He apologized. We had dinner. He was Ian, which meant he was charming and funny and softened me up pretty fast. It ended up being a really nice night.” Theo shook his head. “The next day, we ran into his partner at the time—this was before he and Cart were working together—and he asked about the flat tire, if Ian had made it to dinner all right, that kind of stuff. I spent the next six months apologizing.”
“I guess he forgave you,” Auggie said.
“I guess so.”
Turning his phone in his hands, Auggie said, “I think something’s wrong with me.”
Theo cocked his head, but he didn’t say anything.
Now the dam had broken, and the words rushed out. “I’m so messed up. I don’t like boys my age. I . . . I don’t feel that kind of stuff for a lot of people, I guess. I mean, I can tell when I think someone is hot.”
“Robert Pattinson,” Theo murmured.
Auggie slugged him. Then he had to blink to keep the tears from spilling. “And people ask me why I like Dylan and I don’t know. I just feel something with him, and it feels good to feel something for someone else. Someone else who feels the same way. I’m tired of . . . tired of feeling alone, and I’m tired of people seeing me as, I don’t know, not me. Coming out made it better, for sure, but it’s still—I don’t know. I feel like ninety-nine percent of the people I meet still see the cardboard kid from my videos. He’s just a gay cardboard kid now.” Auggie wiped his eyes. “God, see? I’m really, really screwed up.”
In the corner with the potted plastic fern, the custodian was wheeling his bucket back and forth, casting an uninterested gaze around the area, occasionally stopping to swab a patch of linoleum. If the vomit in the fern bothered him, he didn’t give any sign of it.
“So,” Theo said, “a few things. First, you like who you like. You can’t change that, and you shouldn’t want to. It’s a big mix of factors, and you only need to worry about it if you have a pattern of bad relationships. Then, yes, you definitely need to figure out how to break that pattern. If you like older guys, great. I mean—” Red flooded his face. “You know what I mean. And you might find in five or ten years that you like guys your own age. Or maybe not. Maybe you’ll have some weird diaper fetish and you’ll be dating a guy in a nursing home.”
Auggie’s eyes almost dropped out of his head. Then he punched Theo in the arm, counting the blows. By three, Theo was laughing. By seven, he was laughing and trying to pull away. Auggie caught his coat and landed the final punches.
“Ten,” he said. “God, you are the worst.”
Still laughing, Theo held up two fingers. “Number two is kind of an extension of number one: you like who you like, and you don’t need to meet a quota. If it’s one guy a year, that guy better realize how lucky he is. If it’s ten guys, well, maybe you’re the lucky one.” Theo paused, held up a third finger, and said, “Number three is tricky, and you probably aren’t going to like it.”
“I know. I know you think I should break up with Dylan, but you don’t really know him, and—”
“Auggie.”
Auggie stopped.
“The hard part about loving someone, anyone, romantically or not, is that you’ll never be able to explain why you love them. Not completely. You’ll be able to say some of the reasons. And some people will claim they know exactly why they love another person. But the reality is that like any emotion, some of it’s up here,” Theo tapped his head, “and some of it’s in here,” he tapped his heart. “Or in the subconscious, if you want to think of it that way. Or at the level of hormones and biochemistry, if you want to think of it that way. Or in the soul. Don’t feel bad if you can’t explain why you like Dylan. I mean, he’d better have some redeeming features to make up for a pair of friends called Burger and Smash—”
“I knew you weren’t going to let that go. I knew it.”
“—but if you like him, you like him, and if he makes you happy, that’s what matters.”
After a moment, Auggie nodded.
“I don’t know what to tell you about feeling like people don’t know you,” Theo said. “I mean, we all feel that to some extent. We want somebody who will see us, the good part of us. But you’re in a tricky situation because you’ve made one facet of your life very public, and it’s taken over. I know you’re going to hate this next part, but please don’t scream at me. Not in public, anyway. You’re nineteen; you’ve got a lot of time to find people who will be your friends, people who will love you for the real you, including someone to have a relationship with.”
Whistling “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” the custodian shuffled out of the lobby. The puke was unattended. Two shiny patches showed where he’d run the mop in lazy arcs. Auggie waited until he was gone.
“I guess that makes sense,” he said. “Some of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re lucky you have the advantage of all those extra decades of experience.”
“Ok.”
“Even though time has robbed you of strength and speed and good looks—”
Theo sighed.
“—at least you have the small recompense of wisdom.”
“When I get a job,” Theo said, slumping back into his seat, talking to the empty waiting room. “If I get a job, I am going to refuse to teach underclassmen. Refuse. Categorically.”
Auggie leaned against Theo. After a moment, Theo’s hand came up, running over the crew cut. Then Auggie’s phone buzzed.
“I guess I should ask Dylan what happened last night.”
“I’m all out of free advice. Go try Orlando.”
“Oh God, I can’t even imagine.” Auggie picked up his phone and then sat up straight, dislodging Theo’s hand. “It’s from Nia. She says she’ll talk to us.”
12
The hospital room was nominally shared, but a uniformed police officer—Patrick Foley—stood at the door, and Theo guessed that Nia would have the room to herself for the foreseeable future. A second bed stood cattycorner to Nia’s, the privacy curtain pulled back to reveal that it was empty. The bathroom door was open, and although the light was off, Theo could see that the bathroom was empty as well.