North turned the key; the engine groaned and chugged to life. Easing the Caravan away from the curb, he started down the block. The Caravan died. He turned the key again, and the Caravan coughed and rolled forward. He drove west, with the sun at his back, burning a ring around him when he glanced in the rearview mirror. He stopped at Dirt Cheap, and he stopped again at CVS. When he parked in front of Shaw’s house, he stopped a moment, considering the two doors: the office, or the one that led directly to Shaw’s rooms. He carried both bags to the office door and let himself inside.

  The rooms were dark; the inner office door was closed, and inside North found more darkness. His steps echoed in the silence. He checked the fridge and found a box of baking soda and what had once been a package of seitan strips, now overgrown with mold. Shaw hadn’t been eating—or he hadn’t been eating here, at any rate. Maybe he’d been eating with Jadon. Maybe he’d been staying with Jadon, sleeping with Jadon, building a life around Jadon. North collected two glasses from the cupboard.

  North’s steps hammered down harder as he took the stairs, but when he reached the door at the top, he couldn’t knock. He stared at the old wood and the scuffed paint. Gravity seemed to shift, and for a moment, he thought he might fall.

  “I heard you coming up the stairs. If you’re trying to surprise me, you’re doing a bad job.”

  North tried to work moisture into his mouth. “I know you heard me. I’m waiting for you to let down your guard. Like you did when you thought we were planning Rufus’s surprise birthday party, only it was for you, and you jumped so high that you sprained your ankle when you landed.”

  “I didn’t sprain my ankle. And I didn’t jump.”

  “You flew out of your shoes.”

  “I wasn’t wearing shoes.”

  “You flew out of those ridiculous Japanese sandals you were wearing.”

  “You were the one who peed himself when Peter and Paul jumped out of the bushes on the way back to the dorm.”

  “I didn’t pee myself.”

  “You did. You pissed yourself, actually. Like a goddamn firehose.”

  “I spilled my slushie.”

  “Slushies don’t melt that fast. You were soaking wet.”

  “It was mostly melted from the walk back from the 7-11. It was grape, and I didn’t like it, and so I hadn’t drunk very much. It melted. I spilled it. That’s all.”

  The door swung open. Shaw stood there, his hair spilling over his shoulders like an autumn fire, his eyes dry and clear. He was wearing the sweatband again, with a powder blue tunic that came to the middle of his thighs and, as far as North could tell, nothing else except for a single, Hello Kitty sock on his right foot. He shifted his weight, and from the way the tunic drifted and clung, North could tell he had been right: nothing else. Nothing at all.

  “You don’t own any underwear?” North said.

  “Look who’s talking. If you cough, your dick is going to fall out of those shorts.”

  “You don’t own two Hello Kitty socks? You have one but not two?”

  “Why are you here, North?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d like to come in.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to come in.”

  “All right.” North set down both bags. He pulled out the bottle of champagne he’d bought at Dirt Cheap, and he worked the cork until it popped and ricocheted down the stairwell. Bubbles foamed up and over his hand, and he licked his fingers before pouring. He passed a glass to Shaw and filled the second for himself. Then he clinked his glass against Shaw’s and said, “Cheers.”

  “It was a shit case. I don’t really feel like celebrating.”

  The chime of glass on glass filled the air as North brought their glasses together again. “Cheers.”

  “I don’t want to drink, North.” Shaw’s hazel eyes found a spot on the wall and lingered there. “I feel shitty enough already. Taylor and Waggener are still out there. They got away with it, the whole shitty deal they had going with Shep. They’re covering up something with the Slasher, too, and they—”

  “Not tonight. We’re not talking about any of that tonight.” Once more, North brought their glasses together and said, “Cheers. Now take one drink, dumbass, and celebrate four years of Borealis.”

  Shaw’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked like he might say something. Then his expression shifted, and he took a drink. His mouth twisted as he swallowed. “It tastes like wine. With bubbles.”

  Laughing, North drained his own glass and said, “Well, wine with bubbles costs a hundred and fifty dollars, so drink up.” He poured himself some more. He toasted Shaw again and drank the champagne down, ignoring the waste of a good drink, ignoring the bitterness, wanting only the rush of alcohol.

  With a dubious glance, Shaw took another drink. And then a third. He smacked his lips and said, “It’s very bubbly.”

  “Four years is a long time,” North said.

  “Congratulations to us,” Shaw said. “We’re still alive.”

  “We’re still together,” North said, his lips and tongue slightly puffy, wondering if the champagne was already hitting him. It was a stupid thing to say, and he wanted to blame it on the booze. Then, reaching out to take Shaw’s glass, trying to cover up the words that had slipped out, he said, “That’s probably enough.”

  Shaw moved the glass out of reach and studied North for a moment; then, with a defiant expression, he raised the glass to his lips and tilted his head back. He got down two big swallows of wine before he began to cough, and North drew the glass from his hand, grinning as he watched Shaw try to clear his lungs.

  “No more for you,” North said before draining Shaw’s glass. “Not tonight.”

  “I had a beer with Jadon,” Shaw said between rounds of coughing. “I think I’m really getting the hang of it. Drinking, I mean.”

  North doubted that.

  A minute might have passed; North didn’t know, couldn’t count the seconds because his heart was pounding too fast.

  “I know you’re back with Tucker,” Shaw said.

  North raised an eyebrow.

  “I figured it out. After . . . after what he told you. I mean, it’s the truth. I did it. What he said, with the golf club. I did those things. And you must have realized that he was changing. He learned his lesson. And you . . . you love him, so it makes sense you’re getting back together with him. I know that’s why you don’t want me around anymore, because of what I did.”

  Slowly, North set down Shaw’s glass. Then he stepped over the glasses and the almost-empty bottle of champagne, forcing Shaw back a step. Shaw stumbled; a flush grew in the fierce symmetry of Shaw’s features, along the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

  “I’m back with Tucker,” North said.

  “Yeah. I get it. I totally understand.”

  North took another step. “You understand.”

  With another stumble backward, Shaw hit the bed. He remained standing, barely, and said, “Yeah. I mean, you love him. He’s your husband. You want to make things work.”

  Another step. “I love him.”

  Shaw fell onto the mattress, struggled to sit, and then gave up and slumped back onto the bed. “I don’t blame you, North. If you hate me, I mean.”

  North dropped onto the bed next to Shaw; the slender man’s body was a line of heat burning North’s side. The mattress rocked slightly as North shifted, squirming until he and Shaw were side by side: elbows touching, hips, knees. He could smell Shaw now, the spiky musk of whatever he put in his hair.

  “I would hate me,” Shaw began.

  North clapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet. Just for a few minutes, please.”

  Lying there next to Shaw, enjoying the heat of his body, North stared at the cracked plaster ceiling and let himself drift. He thought of what he’d been thinking earlier—the track of cuts he had given himself, the idea of breaking a rib, of broiling in the car—and suddenly those thoughts seemed like bad edits from another guy’s life. This, here, this was North’s real life.

  When alcohol bulked like a thunderhead in North’s brain, he rolled onto his side, his nose against Shaw’s cheek.

  Shaw mumbled something, and North peeled away his hand.

  “Do you want to keep working with me? After everything I did, do you even want to see me again?” Shaw hiccuped and wiped at his eyes. “I think I’m drunk, North. I feel like shit, but that’s not because I’m drunk. I feel like shit because I am shit. Because I did a shitty thing.” Another hiccup, only now North recognized it for what it was: a sob that Shaw was barely holding back. “And you said you didn’t even know who I am anymore, you said you didn’t even know me—”

  North shushed him, laying his hand over Shaw’s mouth again, gently this time. He turned Shaw toward him; their foreheads met, their eyes close enough that Shaw’s hazel ones blurred and swam and seemed to make a third eye in North’s watery vision.

  “I love you,” North said.

  Shaw opened his mouth, and then his face bleached to white in an instant. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he whispered from behind North’s hand.

  “I know,” North said. “I brought a bucket.”

  He got the bucket out of the CVS bag just in time, and then he held Shaw’s hair and stroked the man’s back while Shaw puked what seemed like an endless amount. Then he helped Shaw to the bathroom, where Shaw brushed his teeth, puked some more, and brushed his teeth again. North helped him back to bed; they lay side by side again, staring up at the ceiling. The backs of their hands touched. It would be a simple thing for North to turn his wrist, extend his fingers, grab hold.

  “If that’s weird for you,” North said, “we never have to talk about it again. I won’t bring it up. I won’t harass you. But I thought you should know.”

  “You were right, though. You don’t know me. What I did to Tucker—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Tucker. I didn’t come here to talk about Tucker.” North’s whole mouth felt dry, puffy, like a cloud in a mirage. “I don’t know everything about you. I don’t know the whole you. But I want to know you. I want to keep working with you. I want to keep fighting with you. I want to keep loving you and getting to know you. Forever.”

  “But you were right. You don’t know me. You wouldn’t like me if you knew me. I feel like somebody else some days. I feel like . . . like there’s this monster inside me, only nobody can see it.”

  A minute ticked past. And then another. North said, “I’ll put a monster inside you.”

  “You’re so stupid,” Shaw said. Then he giggled into tented hands and rolled toward North, his hazel eyes bloodshot now. He brought one hand to North’s chest, the touch zinging through the rough cotton of the tee. He whispered, “I love you too.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I’ve loved you for eight years. I still remember seeing you in the dorms wearing that blue work shirt. It said Mick, like that was your name. You were so hot.” Shaw giggled again, burying his face in North’s side. “What do you think about that, Mick?”

  “Jesus,” North said, stroking a hand through Shaw’s hair. “I forget what a lightweight you are.”

  Shaw’s head came up suddenly. “Will you kiss me?”

  “Sure. Ask me again when you’re not wasted.”

  “North, please. One kiss. I’ve waited eight years for this. Just one. Just one kiss, please.”

  Propping himself on one elbow, North grinned, reaching to gather a handful of hair at the back of Shaw’s head and draw him forward. “You sure know how to ask nice.”

  “Please,” Shaw said, feigning a pout.

  North kissed him. The kiss was minty. It was awkward at first—Shaw too stiff, his mouth rigid, his teeth clicking against North’s. Then, looping another handful of Shaw’s hair, North tilted his head, liking the throaty noise Shaw made as North handled him. He pulled back from the kiss, teasing Shaw’s lips with his tongue, waiting for Shaw to relax, pulling Shaw’s lower lip between his teeth. It got better, a little. But when North finally broke away, the kiss had only managed to be . . . ok.

  Shaw’s breath whistled in and out of his lungs.

  “Ok?” North said.

  “Yeah,” Shaw said, dropping onto his side and shutting his eyes. “Yeah. That was . . . great. Thank you.”

  “You’re shit at lying,” North said, falling onto the bed next to Shaw. “We’ll get better with practice.”

  Shaw didn’t say anything; he almost sounded like he was hyperventilating.

  “Shaw?” North asked, combing back a long strand of reddish-brown hair.

  “I’m just, uh, sick. Kind of. From the wine.”

  “I’ve got the bucket right here.”

  “No, I just—” He cut off, his brow furrowing even with his eyes closed. “I just need to lie down for a second.”

  Maybe the drink had hit Shaw harder than North realized; the breathing, which still sounded slightly panicked to North’s ears, slowly eased, and then with mild surprise, North discovered that Shaw was asleep. He curled an arm around Shaw’s thin shoulders, let his eyes fall shut, and drifted. He dreamed about a house where he and Shaw lived, only the house was full of mirrors, and Shaw refused to walk past his own reflection. It became a kind of nightmare, a kind of maze, with Shaw twisting and contorting around the glass while North tried to point out, with a logic that seemed irrelevant in dreams, that mirrors only showed you what was already there.

  Something about the dream terrified North; he woke with a start, a light layer of sweat covering him, and his skin stinging as the sunburn worsened. Shaw was gone, and for a moment, North glanced at the standing mirror across from the bed, as though Shaw might have stepped through the looking glass and some other Shaw taken his place. Then he heard water from the bathroom, where a line of light shot out under the door. The water shut off. Then the light. Then the click of the door opening, and soft steps.

  “Shaw?”

  “Oh. Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep.”

  Something in the voice was wrong, and again North thought of the looking glass. “Are you ok?”

  For a moment, the silence trembled with compressed energy. Then Shaw let out a soft cry.

  “What’s—” North crawled out of bed, stubbed his toe, and swore. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  He found Shaw in the darkness, catching him around the waist, pulling him tight. Shaw was sobbing, his face turned into North’s shoulder, his frame trembling.

  “Are you sick? Are you hurt?”

  Shaw just shook his head and kept crying.

  For a moment, North only held him, tightening his embrace as though he could crush Shaw to him and keep him there forever. Then, slowly, he carded Shaw’s hair with his fingers, massaging the scalp, sifting the heavy locks. Shaw started crying harder, and a worm of panic ate its way through North’s heart.

  It wasn’t really inspiration. It was more like a stab in the dark—a wild, hopeless shot. North started to sing. Britney. The way he had when they shared an apartment. When he’d keep the door open, turn the shower as hot as he could stand it, and belt out the tunes as loud as he could. “Oops!” and “One More Time” and “Toxic.”

  He was just getting going on “Till the World Ends” when Shaw said, “I’m ok. You don’t have to . . . you can stop singing. I won’t cry anymore.”

  “Maybe I want to sing.”

  Nothing from Shaw except a wet sniffle as he pushed on North’s chest, trying to get free.

  “Where are you going?” North said.

  “To bed. Let go, North. I just want to go to sleep and pretend this didn’t happen, ok?”

  “Pretend what didn’t happen?”

  “This.” Shaw shoved again, trying to break free of North’s embrace. “North, come on. I just—the crying, ok? And me being so messed up tonight. Just let me go, and we can go to sleep, and in the morning it’ll be better.” Shaw ran the heel of his hand under his eyes. “It’ll be better, right?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No. What’s going on? Is it me? Did I do something? Was it that fucking kiss? Because I thought—I don’t know. You asked me to kiss you.”

  “No, it wasn’t the kiss. I mean, yes. It was. But . . . can we do this another time? Talk about it later, I mean? Please?”

  “Absolutely not. I made you cry just by kissing you, and I am a damn good kisser, Shaw. I can’t go to bed like this, with my reputation on the line.”

  “North.”

  North dried a tear track with his thumb. “Come on. Out with it.”

  Shaw twisted, not really trying to get free, but still moving as though unconsciously trying to escape. His breathing quickened again, and his eyes locked onto the rough gray cotton of North’s tee. “I . . . I’ve been having these, I don’t know, panic attacks. Or something. I don’t know what to call them. Not all the time. Just when . . .”

  Nodding slowly, North tried to make sense of what Shaw was telling him. “I thought you and Jadon—” North stopped the sentence and tried again. “I mean, I heard you guys.”

  “You heard?” Shaw groaned, pressing his face into North’s chest.

  “Yes, Shaw,” North said, grinning and lowering his head so that his mouth brushed Shaw’s ear. “Daddy heard everything,” he whispered.

  Shaw groaned again, trying to squirm away.

  Laughing, North caught hold of him. “Stop, stop. I’m just teasing. It was hot. You’re hot. But I won’t joke about it if you don’t like it.”