urine, was irrelevant. It was probably just lingering guilt over the whole ridiculous nonexistent Teddy issue, but then again neither of them had moved in a long time, and really it was something else. It was an invitation on Julian’s part. He’d made casual invitations in the past—whom did Julian not invite?—but there was something alarmingly sincere in the unbroken line between their eyes. This was the look, Yale realized with a jolt, of someone desperately in love.
Julian said, “Yale.”
Yale glanced at the door, certain Charlie would burst through, would save him from having to think. But there was no one there, and when he looked back, Julian had taken a step forward, had shrunk the small distance between them by half. Julian’s eyes were wet, his lips parted.
Yale said, “We have to get back out there.”
It hit him, as he reentered the party, Julian behind him, that perhaps Charlie had been onto something after all. And he never would have said “Julian’s in love with you,” because that would’ve made it worse. What mortal wouldn’t fall for that, at least a little bit? To know that someone was longing for you was the world’s strongest aphrodisiac. And so Charlie made it instead about Yale, about not trusting him. There was a lot that suddenly made sense. In the twenty feet between the bathroom door and the bar, his world had shifted on its axis.
He had just enough time to refill his drink and take his place by Charlie’s side before the speeches started. Cecily appeared at his elbow, and this was perfect. He could put in time next to her, clap with her, toast with her, without having to chat, without risking a follow-up conversation about Nora’s son and the angry donor. Someone talked about the history of Howard Brown, and then someone came up to talk about the hotline. Yale tried not to yawn. He looked for Terrence, to see how he was holding up, but he wasn’t in the chair by the wall anymore. Nico must have taken him home.
No.
No, Nico had not taken him home.
And so now, in the middle of some tedious talk about fundraising goals, Yale was suddenly, finally, drunkenly, sobbing.
Wasn’t this why he’d gone upstairs the night of the memorial in the first place? To keep from crying?
Everything would’ve been better if he’d let it out that night. He wouldn’t be a wreck right now, he’d never have scared Charlie like that, they wouldn’t have fought, he’d have gotten to go to Nico’s to pick out some old records or whatever.
Charlie didn’t notice his crying, and Yale tried to back away before he did, before the whole night got messed up. Cecily saw him, though, as he turned, and Fiona saw him, too, so by the time he was at the top of the stairs, they were both with him, each grabbing an arm. “Come outside,” Fiona said. “Come outside.”
Out on the sidewalk, Cecily handed him the napkin she’d been holding around her drink. He used it on his nose, flowing even more embarrassingly than his eyes. “You’ll both freeze,” he said.
Cecily said, “I grew up in Buffalo.”
Fiona sat on the curb and pulled Yale with her. She held his hands and said, “Let’s breathe.” He did, matching his breath to hers. She wore enormous silver hoop earrings that grazed her shoulders. Nico was always telling her she’d get her earrings caught on something one day, a stop sign or a passing businessman. Yale wanted to remind her of this, but instead he lost it even more. Nico had been such a good big brother; his voice always changed around Fiona, got deeper, surer. Yale dug his face into her clavicle. He tried to slurp the snot and tears back in, but he was drenching her.
Cecily said, “Here.” Somehow she had a fresh glass of water for him, with ice cubes.
Yale sipped it, and he said, “I’m sorry. I’ve been holding things in.”
“It’s fine,” Cecily said. And Fiona said, “It’s fine.”
And because Yale was a bit drunk and spewing things in every direction already, he said to Fiona: “I never got to go to his apartment. I didn’t get—everyone left.”
“And it was all my fault,” Fiona said. “I keep thinking about that. I’m so sorry, Yale.”
Cecily said, “Is this what you’re upset about?”
“No, Cecily, I’m upset because I’m thirty-one and all my friends are fucking dying.”
He regretted it an instant later, but then it wasn’t any worse than bawling like a child, and