Noam wanted to ask why. Why did Lehrer need him there, when Noam was still a seventeen-year-old student? Only he thought he already knew the answer. Lehrer was still fielding suspicion from certain corners over Dara’s disappearance, even six months later. He wanted Noam there as a distraction: Lehrer’s new, improved protégé.
After a beat, Noam nodded. “All right. But only because I want an expensive shirt.”
Lehrer laughed, the tension of a moment ago breaking like pond ice.
He refilled Noam’s glass with water from the pitcher, and when they were done eating, they took Wolf for a walk, then ended up on the living room sofa, tangled together as Lehrer drew heat to Noam’s skin and lit him up like an electrical fire. That night Noam lay awake next to Lehrer, in Lehrer’s bed, staring at the back of Lehrer’s neck and the single freckle next to his third vertebra usually hidden by shirt collars. And he wondered if Lehrer ever tossed and turned till dawn consumed by the same guilt: the deep and unwavering knowledge they both shared, that Dara was what had really brought them together—and that they, together, were the reason he died.
Noam counted his sins.
First sin: he let himself become vulnerable.
It took a month after Dara left before Lehrer called him into his office and sat him down on the velvet-upholstered sofa. Said, “I promised you I wouldn’t go looking for Dara, and I’ve kept that promise. But it’s been three weeks, Noam. I would like to send a team to retrieve his body.”
And even though Lehrer was in his military uniform—this had been before the special election—even though he was as strictly formal as Noam had ever seen him, not one hair out of place . . . somehow, Noam could still tell he hadn’t been sleeping. It was a tension to his features, perhaps, or the way the area under Lehrer’s eyes looked bruised.
He’d brought that image back with him to the barracks, replaying those moments in his mind as he tried to fall asleep: the twitch of muscle in Lehrer’s cheek when Noam agreed. The quiet way Lehrer said thank you, and how the following silence felt like a net ensnaring them together in unspoken sorrow.
Four days later, Lehrer made Noam stay after lessons. Invited him back into his apartment for tea, even. Noam had sat clutching the mug between both hands while Lehrer stood in front of him, said, “I’m worried about you.”
Noam couldn’t remember the exact moment when he started to cry. But he remembered Lehrer on the sofa next to him, Lehrer’s hand warm and heavy on the back of his neck.
“It’s my fault,” Noam had said. “I shouldn’t have helped him leave. Or I should have gone with him to make sure he was okay. And now he’s dead.”
Lehrer’s fingers pressed harder against Noam’s spine, just for a moment.
“I might have been able to save him,” Lehrer said. “If he had stayed.”
Something sharp lanced through Noam’s chest. He shuddered and rocked forward, dragging a hand into his hair. Of course. Of course. Suppressants, and steroid therapy, and maybe he—maybe he would’ve—
Only then Lehrer went on. “But if you had gone with him, he would have died anyway. And probably you would have, as well. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
His hand smoothed down Noam’s back, a steadying weight as Noam’s shoulders shook through his sobs. It had felt like something breaking inside him, the wall he’d built to hold back his misery finally crumbling and spilling all that grief like oil into the sea. Lehrer took the teacup away with a curl of telekinesis and just . . . let him cry, until at last the pain had receded to a low throb in the pit of his stomach.
“I feel guilty too,” Lehrer murmured eventually. His voice was quiet enough Noam almost didn’t catch the words. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t a very good father, I’m afraid, and Dara . . . well. I was so focused on making Carolinia better—on fighting Sacha, trying to bring this country back to its roots. I didn’t have anything left for Dara, after that. I didn’t pay attention to him.”
“You loved him,” Noam said.
“Not enough.”
When Noam finally stole a glance at Lehrer, Lehrer’s gaze was fixed on some spot across the room, shoulders pushed back and taut. For the first time, Noam glimpsed a shadow of what this really was—as if he were watching Lehrer construct this façade in real time, hollowing himself out bit by bit and blotting out the pain until he was all cold logic and utilitarian restraint. Lehrer didn’t become who he was passively. He built this.
And maybe that was why Noam kept coming back. Those days, he’d been . . . well. He’d been fucked up. Constantly. Hungover in class, vomiting between sprints during basic, him and Ames slowly killing themselves with every kind of substance Ames could get her tattooed hands on.
But even when the rest of Noam’s teachers were sick of it—of him—Lehrer was always there. Lehrer always had time to talk or to serve him a cup of tea, even after the election passed and he was officially made chancellor.
And he was there on the anniversary of Noam’s mother’s suicide, when Noam showed up at midnight, trashed off god knows how many tequila shots and swaying on Lehrer’s doorstep as he said, “I kill everyone I know.”
Lehrer had hesitated just a moment, standing in the shadows of his study. “Noam—”
“I killed Dara,” Noam insisted, head spinning and heat prickling against his eyelids. “I killed my dad because I never got him out of that neighborhood. I made my—I made my mother kill herself, because I . . . I . . .”
Lehrer grasped his shoulder, and Noam couldn’t finish. His throat was too swollen to speak. He let Lehrer draw him into the apartment, flicking on lamplights as they went. In the narrow hall past Lehrer’s front door, it felt like someone had struck a match and consumed all the oxygen in the air. Noam couldn’t breathe. And Lehrer didn’t say anything, just let Noam go, just looked at him. Looked at him until Noam couldn’t stand it anymore, dizzy from staring into those creepy fucking eyes.
Finally, Noam managed to choke out the words. “I hate myself.”
“I know,” Lehrer said quietly. “I hate myself sometimes too.”
For a moment all Noam could hear was his own heartbeat. Lehrer’s gaze hadn’t fluctuated—didn’t, even when Noam took a step forward and put his hands on Lehrer’s face, pulled himself up onto the balls of his feet, and kissed him.
Second sin.
They’d had sex that night, and Noam woke up in Lehrer’s bed the next morning with the sheets tangled around his legs and Lehrer already in the kitchen making breakfast. Noam had tried to apologize to him, awkward in sock feet while Lehrer cracked an egg over the frying pan.
“It’s fine,” Lehrer said. “Let it go.”
So what other choice did Noam have? He tried to let it go. He took a shower in Lehrer’s bathroom, standing on Lehrer’s stone-tile floor, used Lehrer’s pine-scented shampoo. Got dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the previous night. Lehrer walked him to the door, and they both stood there, uncomfortable silence stretching out until at last Noam couldn’t resist filling it.
“Okay,” he said. “Bye.”
Only Lehrer didn’t say anything, just nodded, and Noam still didn’t leave. Couldn’t.