he’d be the one looking back on this in fifty years, telling Charlie’s story to someone just as Nora had told Ranko’s to him. With less longing, granted. He couldn’t imagine he’d see this as the great lost romance of his life. He wanted to be invisible so he could follow Charlie into the bar, see if he was drowning himself in beer. Instead he walked home, straight into the wind, and by the time he got there his skin was numb.
* * *
—
Yale spent Saturday feeling awkward around Julian, finding excuses to leave the apartment. He’d catch himself thinking about how he’d been spared—and if he’d been spared, what did that make Julian? Chosen? Then he’d sit there beating himself up, and Julian would ask what was wrong, and Yale would say nothing was wrong. Then he’d realize how dumb that sounded, when really everything was wrong—just not as wrong as it might have been.
It was still dark when Yale woke to what sounded like the apartment being robbed, but it was just Julian shoving things into his backpack. Yale stood in the doorway and watched Julian by lamplight, bent at the waist, a white strip of skin above his khakis. Roscoe stood on the bed, kneading the comforter.
“What time is your flight?” Yale said, and Julian dropped the whole bag on the floor, zipper side down.
Julian said, “Shit, shit, shit.” Yale picked up the bottle of eye drops that rolled to his foot, scooped up some of the shirts and socks too.
“Hey, take a deep breath, okay?”
Julian sat on the floor, the backpack between his legs.
“You’re not missing your flight. What time is it?”
“I just need to get out of here.”
Yale said, “Okay. Are you on something?”
Julian didn’t answer and Yale took it for a yes. He handed Julian the eye drops, and Julian looked at them like he’d never seen them before. “Listen, you have your ticket? All you need is ticket, ID, cash. Show me your ticket.” Julian removed it from the backpack’s outer pocket. A United flight that wasn’t till 9:14 a.m. Yale checked the clock on the nightstand. “You’ve got more than an hour before you need to leave. Let’s—look, let’s sort your stuff out.”
Yale sank down beside him. It was like helping a small child, one too winded by his last tantrum to make decisions. They folded the three T-shirts into a stack, laid the toiletries in a row, found the wallet—held together with frayed duct tape, thick with coupons and video store cards and gym passes. Julian pulled them all out one by one and laid them in front of Yale. “This one’s for a free fries. Give this to Asher.”
Yale knew that one of the warning signs of suicide was the divestment of belongings, the careful bestowal of objects—but there was that ticket on the floor by Julian’s knee. He’d be getting on the plane. He’d make it that far, at least.
Julian picked up a white trapezoidal dental floss container and held it in his palm. He said, “Why do I have this?”
“To—I mean, it’s important, right? The whole plaque thing?” He was hoping Julian would smile.
“No, Yale, really, why did I pack this? I’m never flossing again.”
“Sure you are.”
“I’m telling you that I have decided not to. Like, right now. I’ve hated it my whole life, and what’s gonna happen to my gums in the next six months?”
“You’ve got much longer than that.”
“You think any dentist is even treating me again? I’ve got no dentist to yell at me! I’m never going in for another cleaning! I could eat s’mores for dinner every night and not brush my teeth.” He dropped the dental floss on Yale’s lap and grabbed his shoulders. “Ten-year-old me would love this.” And then he collapsed in frantic laughter that Yale couldn’t manage to join.
Yale said, “Do you know when you even got infected? Listen, what if you got it like a month before you took the test? You could have years before you’re even symptomatic. And lots more time after that. By which point—didn’t you always believe they’d find the cure? You’re gonna want to floss, Julian.”
“First of all.” Julian sat up, serious. He wiped his face; he’d been laughing out tears. “I do know when I got infected. Summer of ’82. There was this director I’d been following like a puppy for months, and he finally gave in, pity-fucked me. He died maybe a year later of, you know, ear cancer or something. And