When Shane sat down on the couch, feeling more himself than he had for nearly two weeks, Andrew came and handed him a mug of hot chocolate, then sat down next to him.

  “You’re looking pretty spiffy there, chief. You got a date tonight?”

  Shane rolled his eyes. “Trying to look like a productive citizen is all. You know—go home, feed the dogs, pay the bills, find the presents that weren’t on the couch and give those out.” He’d meant to send Kimmy her present—a big comfy throw for her couch that he’d bought from a craft fair Benny had dragged him to one weekend—but obviously that hadn’t happened. He realized with a sudden slash of guilt that he hadn’t even told Kimmy he’d been injured and sick. He was going to call her tonight—he’d have to make it sound small so she wouldn’t be hurt.

  “Deacon doesn’t want anything, you know,” Andrew said now, and Shane blushed.

  “Tough. I got him something anyway. And Crick too. I just hadn’t gotten the bags out to organize and wrap and shit.” He’d gotten them a Wii, and it was expensive and it came with games, and he didn’t give a shit.

  “Yeah, well, I appreciate my hat and all, Shane, but you know, you’re part of us. I don’t think you have to be giving us all presents and shit—I mean, don’t worry. It was going to be a lean Christmas, and you’ve spoiled us all rotten, and Deacon doesn’t know how to say thank you for it, but anyone who gives to his girls is pretty much one of his favorite people.”

  Shane blushed and looked away. “I don’t know families,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t know… limits. I just… I’m so grateful for people, sometimes.”

  Andrew nodded, patted his back, and stood. “We’re grateful for you. Man, our best Christmas present this year is that we’re all here. Crick, Deacon—there were times last year we weren’t sure either of them were going to make it. And just when we thought it was smooth sailing, you go and get hurt. Just know that, you know. You got the job. The audition’s over. You’re part of our family now, okay?”

  Shane couldn’t look at him. Crick wasn’t sleeping well—he woke up every night around two a.m., sometimes screaming. Sometimes he just wandered into the living room and sat at Shane’s feet and watched television. Deacon was sleeping worse—he would go to bed with Crick, and then get up when Crick fell asleep to do chores or study for his classes or study the finances for, please God, another way to save his home. He was always in bed just in time to comfort Crick when he woke up. Shane was part of the family, but he couldn’t help them—not in any real way. Apparently, all he could do was sleep on their couch and make their complicated lives harder and drink in the love that saturated the house like a plant took in water.

  “Yeah, well, Merry Christmas to you too.” God—what else was he supposed to say?

  So it felt surreal that night, as everyone was gathered in the living room, finishing up with dessert, to realize that he was a part of this big group of people. Mostly he was a baby seat, but that was nice too. He found that he liked the little people—they didn’t mind if he was weird or awkward, and they certainly didn’t mind the puppets or the pretty dresses or the little wooden toys and blocks he’d given them for Christmas, even if they didn’t know who’d done the giving.

  Still, when the phone in his pocket buzzed, he had Andrew take Parry Angel so he could stand clumsily to pull the thing out of his back pocket.

  He was so nervous about talking to Mikhail that his hands were actually shaking.

  Jon saw him reaching for the phone and moved close enough to mutter, “Go use Deacon’s room. It’s quieter.”

  Shane nodded thanks and pulled out the phone as he was walking down the cool, dark, hallway.

  “Heya, Mickey,” he said into the quiet.

  There was a gasp on the other end of the line, and then Mikhail’s voice, uncertain and wobbly.

  “You really are going to be okay. That is good. I was starting to think they were pretending to be you, just so I would not jump from the ship.”

  Shane laughed. “Nah, Mickey, you’re tougher than that.”

  “So you say.” Mikhail sounded more sad than amused. “I know I’m not so tough. If I was all that hard, I’d be very, very angry at you, but I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry I got hurt,” Shane said, wincing. “I didn’t mean for you to worry.”

  “Yes, well, I’m still angry about that. In fact, it made me a little crazy there for a moment. But that I can yell at you for. This other thing, I cannot even yell at you for. In fact, I was not even going to tell you I knew, but now I find that I must.”

  And then he did. And Shane felt even worse.

  Chapter 13

  You want it, you take it, you pay the price.

  “Prove it All Night”—Bruce Springsteen

  THE day Mikhail and his mother left for San Francisco to board the cruise ship was almost surreal in its pain. Mikhail didn’t think he could have gotten on board the ship—hell, he didn’t think he would have even gotten in the car—were it not for Shane’s friends.

  Andrew had come into his home and charmed his mother and helped the two of them pack. Benny had sent dinner with him, so there was nothing to do but eat and clean up, and even that Andrew had helped with. Jeff had pressed a new phone into his hand with a plan that included texting from the far ends of the earth and even talking without spending too much of a fortune. It was complete with numbers, including Andrew’s, Benny’s, Jeff’s, and Jon’s.

  And, of course, Shane’s.

  So when Mikhail boarded the ship and waved goodbye to his mother’s friend who drove them and smiled and laughed for his mother and threw a flower for good luck, he had a perfect device with which to fuck up his life.

  He could not help it. He left his mother on the deck, swathed in blankets and sipping a fruit drink and looking as happy as she was bemused. Then he went down to the cabin to check his messages, and to see if this big, stupid man who had made him so happy and who had asked for so little in return was going to live or die.

  Benny’s text, “Fever broken. Doing well,” had him falling to his knees and howling into the fluffy pillow on the little twin bed next to his mother’s. And that was when he lost his mind.

  He could barely remember dialing Shane’s number, but what followed was one of the angriest, most vitriolic rants he could ever remember spewing into the world. He was pretty sure most of it was in Russian and the parts that were in English were too hysterical to make out—he remembered swearing a lot, and he remembered screaming “Fuck off!” more than once. He could not help it. All of that worry… oh, oh God, all of that worry. His whole body had been trembling with it. He had told his mother that Shane would be fine and then had lived with the agonizing worry that he would not be, and the tension between the truth and the lie had left him shaking and insane.

  He had pulled himself together for his mother—he had to. It wasn’t until he’d set her up in bed—an IV of fluids provided by the ship’s doctor at her side—and he was alone to hear her breathing in the dark—that the full enormity of what he’d done assaulted him.

  Oh, God.

  The things he’d said.

  He hadn’t been able to eat the next day, and while he smiled for his mother and savored the picture of her, under the sun, the thought of the things he said—what he could remember of them—haunted him. How could Shane forgive him for that?

  Ylena noticed. “You are too sad, lubime. You said he would be fine.”

  Mikhail shrugged and adjusted her blanket. They were not quite south enough for the wind to not cut deeply if he was not vigilant. “I… I did not behave well with the worry, Mutti. I would be very surprised if he wanted to face me after that.

  Ylena waved her hand in denial, and then her eyes turned inexorably to the sun and the blue sky. She seemed to feel an enormous amount of peace out here, her head wrapped in a turban, her eyes protected from the fierceness of the sun. Mikhail found he did not have to protect her from his own problems, her heart was already starting to detach a little from the world and drift to the glory her church had promised her.

  Mikhail was only interested in one glorious thing, and his own stupidity had probably removed it from his grasp.

  When he got the text from Jon, he had already started wondering when Shane would text and say he never wanted to see Mikhail again.

  From Jon—He’s up and he’s asking about you.

  Oh God. How to explain? I left terrible message on his phone. I was insane. He will not want me after I lost my mind.

  From Jon—WTF? Seriously—how bad could it be?

  Oh please. Don’t make him think about it. I called him horrible names. I was so mad. I worried so much. It hurt so badly.

  Jesus. He could never have imagined feeling so naked in front of a virtual stranger whom he did not love. But Jon and Benny and all of Shane’s family had been so very kind. He could not just refuse to respond to Shane’s pleas to talk to him after all they had done for him. He owed them. As much as he didn’t believe in making promises, he did believe in paying debts, and he owed them this much. He knew it.

  Look. I’ll take care of it. I promise. You were under stress—everybody gets a free pass to the zoo when they’re under stress. He’ll never even know the message was there.

  As foolish as it was, Mikhail felt hope. You can do that?

  I promised, didn’t I?

  A terrible hope reared its head. How will I face him after that?

  And apparently Jon’s patience snapped. Goddammit, Mikhail, if you don’t get on the horn I’m going to helicopter out and haul your scrawny ass off that ship!

  In spite of himself, Mikhail smiled through his panic. Shane had the best friends. Tough words for a straight boy.

  Damned spiffy. Now tell him you’ll text later and talk to him on Christmas. It’s all he can talk about and he needs to sleep.

  It was a break. A reprieve. Another stolen week or three or five of Shane’s good opinion, of being surrounded by that sweet glow that made up Shane Perkins and all of the earnestness and kindness that he carried in his heart.

  Okay. Will call on Christmas. Tell him I promised.

  And it was like being released from prison. He did not have to experience the wonders of the ship or the blue sky or the clear horizon alone. He could text Shane, and Shane would be there, delighted, happy to hear from him. Another human on the planet to whom Mikhail mattered. As Ylena drifted further and further away from him on a haze of happiness and (thank the gods) bone-baking warmth, Shane’s immediacy became Mikhail’s lifeline.

  It became the thing that made him real.

  I am on shore—the roads are dusty and I have a terrible urge to buy the cheap dolls they are selling as we walk the road inland. I need to buy you something.

  Only need you.

  Talking pretty will not save you from a tacky knick-knack. Mikhail sniffed and spotted a likely place—it had pottery in it, brightly painted, and hand-woven textiles. He walked in and noted that there were women there—all of them working on something. Some were knitting, some were spinning, and in a small area off to the side, some were even throwing pots.

  This, he thought happily, was a collective. He liked it. The goods were obviously quality, and the women who made them appeared to be the ones selling them. He was wandering around the store when a man looked over his shoulder at the heavy poncho he was eyeing. It was very expensive, but Mikhail didn’t care. He had two gifts for Shane waiting in his apartment—a scarf that Ylena had crocheted at Mikhail’s request, to replace the one that he could not bear to part with, and a homemade CD, with the songs Mikhail had put on the playlist with Shane’s name on it. He wanted something else. All this time of scrounging his pennies, and he finally wanted to squander a little money on someone.

  “That’s kind of pricey,” the man said, smiling slightly, and Mikhail glanced at him. A few years older than he was, dressed well in a button down and khakis, brown hair, blue eyes, and clean-shaven. Mikhail shrugged and looked for another poncho in an earthy red.

  “This is a collective. These women take their profits and feed their families, and they do not work for slave wages. Free hearts make better products.” He had read the sign, printed in English. He happened to believe it.

  The man shrugged. “Yeah, but there’s a place down the street that sells the same thing for less.”

  Mikhail curled his lip. He had seen that place on the way in. “There is a place right here where children don’t have to work for pesos,” he said shortly. He decided he wanted more color. Shane wore dark reds and browns—he had brown hair and brown eyes, and he must have known those colors would look good on him, but they were not the only colors that would do so. A rich purple, perhaps, with a warm brown pattern worked into the weave?

  He browsed happily and was just about to pick his purchase, when the man spoke again with a conciliatory smile on his face. “Are you aware that you are humming and bouncing on your toes?”

  Mikhail blinked at him. Shane had told him he did that when they were at the book store—but Shane had smiled when he said it, and his eyes had crinkled in the corners, and he had looked as though it was an exceedingly charming, wonderful quality. This man looked as though he deserved a prize for perception.

  “Yes,” he said now. “I’ve been told I do that.” And with that he picked out his purchase and went to have it wrapped. He also bought a blanket for Mutti, and although they both would know that it would be his very soon, for this day it would keep her warm as she sat on the deck under an enormous sunhat and gazed happily at eternity.

  He was not prepared for the man to fall in stride next to him on his way back to the ship, nor for him to attempt to strike up a conversation again. Mikhail chatted with him distractedly, and then his pocket buzzed.

  Okay, I’m dying to know. How bad is the knick-knack?

  Mikhail smiled, and he stopped where he was to text back. It is so tacky your hundreds of cats won’t even bother to break it.

  There was a pause, and Shane’s next text had Mikhail making a small moue of sadness. I miss my cats. I hope there’s still five when I get back.

  How many did you want? A dozen?

  Wouldn’t mind. But that’s a lot of cat shit.

  Don’t expect me to clean it. I don’t do windows, either.

  Mikhail barely looked up to see that the man had finally left. It didn’t matter—he had the company he needed right here in the palm of his hand.

  All I’d expect from you is a little bit of time and a lot of skin.

  I could do that. I could even give a lot of time.

  I can wait.

  Mikhail sobered. Shane knew. They both knew. His return home would be… marred. Sad. He would not have any free time until his mother got better, and her recovery would be marked in black.

  I do not want to wait. Stolen time is still time. We may only have moments. I will not throw them away.

  Maybe we can save them, like candy.

  Maybe we can devour them, like steak.

  And so on. It wasn’t until Mikhail had placed his purchases in his cabin and run up to give his mother her blanket that he realized that the man, the one at the store who would not leave him alone, had been trying to hit on him. He thought for a moment that perhaps he should have gotten the man’s name, and then he remembered the man’s ungenerous heart. He would not make a suitable match for Shane, and so Mikhail could not be bothered.

  So he was in a good mood when he brought Mutti her blanket. She looked at it wonderingly and stroked it.

  “So soft, mal’chik—what is it made of?”

  “Part wool from sheep and part alpaca. They are very soft—this will keep you warm in a blizzard.”

  Ylena smiled, then looked up at her son and pulled at the brown scarf he’d wrapped around his neck. “We are not in a blizzard here. I know why I feel as though I need more blankets—why are you wearing that when it must be eighty-five degrees?”

  Mikhail blushed. “I… I simply grabbed it, out of habit. I….” Well, hell. It was his mother. Who would she tell? “I miss him is all.”

  Ylena nodded. “Well, yes. I’m surprised you still have it, though. I keep forgetting he said he would not ask for it back that day.”

  Mikhail frowned and wrapped his hands protectively (had he known it) around the brown wool. “What day?”

  “You know—the day before he was hurt. He brought us both lunch? He went into your room to look, and when he did not find it, he said to forget it. He would not take the scarf away, since you liked it so much.”

  Mikhail blinked. “I did not know he’d been in my room.” He tried to think—was there anything embarrassing? Incriminating? Anything that would scare him and drive him away?

  The narrow shoulders, cloaked and wrapped even in the heat, lifted in a shrug, and Ylena curled her lip in dismissal. “What? He is going to steal from you? I do not think so. For one thing, you counted the money and there was more than enough. For another, this is Shane. Do not worry yourself, lubime. That man would not do a thing in the world that was not to make you happy.”

  And that was when Mikhail knew.

  He sucked in a breath and tried to remember. The bills had been randomly stacked, as he’d kept them, more out of superstition than anything else. There hadn’t seemed to be any new ones, or any that seemed out of place. There had been an unusual number of bills that had been blue of all things, but since the dyes in the clothes at the Faire often ran, this didn’t seem unusual either. But still. Oh God—he had been so worried. So panicked. What if he did not keep his promise? What if this—this lovely interlude with his mother, this time to see her happy and unworried before she left him for good—what if this moment had not been possible?

  But it had been possible. It had been possible because Shane had wanted it as badly for Mikhail as Mikhail had wanted it for himself.

  For a moment, his pride reared its ugly head. For a moment, he contemplated picking up his phone and leaving a message he could never take back. But his mother reached out a hand and patted his thigh reassuringly, and it occurred to him: she had known. She must have known, or she would not have brought it up.