Yale put his forehead on his desk, softly, because it was the only place his forehead could go. He said, “If they’re not real, I’m the one who’s getting fired, not you. Not Bill. If they’re mad right now, just tell them to fire me. Blame it on me.”
“Are you being passive-aggressive? What is this?”
“I’ll quit if I have to, alright? I’ll sign a thing. I’ll tell them.”
She said, “You don’t seem okay, Yale.”
“I’m about to pass out, Cecily. And I don’t care about my job anymore. I want to go to sleep now. Can you leave?”
There was a long pause and then she said, “No.”
Later, he didn’t quite remember them leaving his office, but he must have explained that yes, he meant that he wanted to sleep in his office, and no, he couldn’t go home. He remembered walking down Davis Street, an arm around Cecily for support. She was telling him about her couch—that it pulled out but might be more comfortable folded.
The cold air had revived him enough by then that he was able to wonder if this was a terrible idea, if she’d again offer him cocaine and rub his thigh. But she was saying something about her son, how he’d already be home. The Door County behavior must have been the freak-out of a stressed single mother with the rare chance to misbehave. And if she hadn’t gotten the message that he really was gay when he sat outside the Howard Brown party snotting up Fiona’s shoulder, something was wrong with her.
She said, “Your feet must be freezing. Don’t you have boots?”
“These were my lucky Door County shoes. They worked at first. My luck has turned.”
He was glad Cecily didn’t press for details. Maybe she’d gotten the impression he was prone to tears and didn’t want him melting down. She said, “How do you feel about Chinese?”
His stomach responded before his head could, a tidal wave of hunger. He said, “It’s on me. For putting you out.”
Cecily lived on the second floor, in a two-bedroom place with a living room half the size of Yale’s office. Her son, Kurt (“He’s a latchkey kid,” she’d said on the walk), was sprawled on the couch when they arrived, homework spread on the coffee table. He looked straight through Yale—maybe Cecily brought a lot of men home—and said, “Mom, I finished my math for the whole weekend, can I watch Miami Vice?”
“This is Yale,” she said. “He works with me.”
“But can I? I’ll go to bed at nine.”
“We have a guest,” she said.
Yale said, “I don’t mind. I like that show.”
So after they ate—Yale scarfed down helping after helping of mu shu and lo mein, glad he’d paid for it—and after Yale had mindlessly asked Kurt about his classes and sports and friends, they sat and watched Don Johnson and his five o’clock shadow chase a smuggler around an eerily blue swimming pool. Kurt cheered as if it were a live sports match. This was how Yale needed to spend his days, if the next three months were going to pass with any speed. He needed to watch TV and go to movies, mindless entertainment that would keep coming at him. No neurons left for hating Charlie, missing Charlie, obsessing over his own health.
After Kurt went to bed, Yale pulled out the scotch again and Cecily brought two glasses from the kitchen, little red ones with white silhouettes of Greek athletes around the sides. He told her, in detail, what had happened. Because he needed to tell someone, and because she wasn’t part of Charlie’s circle, and because, maybe, it was an offering of sorts. Having ruined Cecily’s life, he could at least lay his own ruined life on the table in front of her.
She sat there nodding, nicely horrified at the worst parts. She was a good person. She showed no sign that she was thinking anymore about her own job, her anger, her terrible day. He was developing a theory about Cecily: The hardness of her outer shell was only to protect a very soft core.
Yale said, “I can leave, if you want.”
“Why would I want that?”
“I mean, you have a kid and everything. If I’ve been exposed to— You know.”
Cecily looked affronted. “I don’t imagine you’re going to have sex with my son.” Then, quickly, “That was a joke!”
“I know.”
“I don’t see how else it could be a problem. I’m fairly educated on the matter. I’m not worried about you sharing the orange juice.”
Yale said, “Thank you. I can’t believe you’re being this good to me.”
“Look, I know how I can come off. To get by in my job, as a woman, I have to be a certain way. But I genuinely like you.” She refilled his scotch, and he was glad.
He said, “It’s been a long time since I had a day that just cuts your life in two. Like, this hangnail on my thumb, I had it yesterday. It’s the same hangnail, and I’m a completely different person.”
The scotch was helping him talk. He wasn’t sure why he trusted Cecily, but he did. They’d done nothing but embarrass themselves in front of each other. Well, wasn’t that how fraternities made kids bond? If they puked enough beer on each other, they were tethered for life.
Cecily said, “I’ve had days like that. Nothing this bad, but before-and-after days.” Yale didn’t know what path Cecily’s divorce had taken, but he imagined it was true. “A change of scene is probably good. You’re not around everything that reminds you. You know, if he’d walked out—”
“Right.”
“Then you’re left with all his things.”
Charlie was the one surrounded by Yale’s things. Charlie was sitting on the bed they’d shared, and beside him was Yale’s pillow, and in the closet were Yale’s clothes. But Yale didn’t feel pity, just gratification. Let him be miserable. Let him hate himself as he publishes hypocritical articles about condom distribution. He couldn’t quite get to Let him be sick. Of course he didn’t want that. Maybe he wanted Charlie to suffer before the doctors came back and said it was a false positive. He wanted him to worry for six months until the researchers suddenly announced a cure.
He said to Cecily, “This disease has magnified all our mistakes. Some stupid thing you did when you were nineteen, the one time you weren’t careful. And it turns out that was the most important day of your life. Like, Charlie and I could get past it, if he’d just cheated. I’d probably never find out. Or we’d fight and make up. But instead, an atom bomb went off. There’s no undoing it.”
She said, quietly, “Doesn’t he need you? I mean, when he gets sick, don’t you think that might change things?”
“I could get sick before he does. This thing doesn’t follow a predictable timeline. And if I do, I don’t know that he’s the one I want holding my hand.”