Yet a Stranger (The First Quarto #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,125

didn’t pull away. Cart was still laughing at his own joke, but all the amusement—and much of the drunkenness—had evaporated from John-Henry’s face, and both he and Cora were watching Dylan as though seeing him for the first time. Theo watched him too. In his mind, Theo kept seeing the drawers snapping shut on Wayne Reese’s fingers.

“Aw, come on,” Cart said. He must have caught the mood because he continued, “Don’t be mad. You guys look like a good fit, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Cut it out,” Theo said.

“You should have seen him last year.” Cart wagged the bottle at Auggie. Something nasty shone in his eyes. “Little Auggie had the worst case of puppy love I’ve ever seen. Followed Theo around with his dick like a tentpole.”

“Cart,” John-Henry said, “let’s get some food in you.”

Auggie blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, Theo’s a really great guy. I hope you know how lucky you are.”

In the background, a synthesized record scratch cut off the music, and then “The Bitch is Back” came on. Patrick Foley, a redheaded officer Theo only knew in passing, shouted, “Fuck this, Billy Joel fucking sucks.”

Cart’s mouth hung open a fraction. His eyes were glazed.

“I didn’t know you and Cart were—” Cora began. She fell silent when John-Henry touched her arm.

“Oh,” Auggie said. “Shit. Oh shit.”

It was the look on Cart’s face, that look of having been stabbed, that roused Theo. “Not funny, Auggie. Not funny at all.” He sounded mechanical even to himself. “You know Cart and I are just—”

Cart turned and stumbled into the press of bodies.

“Jesus Christ.” Theo went after him.

John-Henry caught his arm. “Maybe he needs a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” Auggie was saying. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll find him,” John-Henry said, “give him a chance to cool down—”

“I’m sorry, Theo, I’m so sorry.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Theo said, rounding on Auggie.

“Watch your fucking mouth!” Dylan pulled Auggie back, interposing himself between Auggie and Theo.

“Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out!”

“Everybody calm down.” John-Henry put a hand on Dylan’s chest; the frat boy was pretending to try to get to Theo. Theo ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Auggie, who looked like he was about to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Auggie kept saying. “I didn’t know, I thought—”

“Theo,” Cora said, touching his shoulder, “maybe you should get some air.”

Instead, he plunged into the midst of the party, trying to guess where Cart had gone.

21

The worst part was that Auggie wasn’t even drunk. Hadn’t had a single drop, so he was painfully sober in the car. They drove to Dylan’s apartment in Dylan’s Subaru. The light from the instrument panel illuminated the dust fuzzing the dash. The sitar music they’d listened to on the drive over was still playing, but now Dylan was ranting about Theo, about the party, about Cart. Distantly, Auggie was aware that Dylan’s rage was primarily about not getting to punch out Theo and having Cart suggest he was an owned man. By the time they’d reached the end of the street, though, his voice had become an instrument track for the white noise inside Auggie’s head.

I didn’t know, Auggie wanted to tell someone. Wanted to tell Theo. I knew you weren’t making a big production out of it. But I didn’t know. Although, Auggie thought, a part of him had suspected. He had never seen Theo and Cart out on a date. He had never heard Theo talk about going out on dates. He had seen firsthand at the party how Theo displaced himself, just one more friend who had come to celebrate. He had seen the awkward hug when the two men greeted each other. And a part of him had been tallying that up. But was that the same as knowing? And had he known how badly things would turn out when he opened his mouth? He didn’t know the answer to that either.

When they got to Dylan’s apartment, they went upstairs. Dylan had a hand on the back of his neck. The gesture used to feel protective; now it felt possessive. Burger and Smash were on the couch playing Halo, and they called hellos over their shoulders. Dylan ignored them. He steered Auggie through the kitchen, where empty pizza boxes and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon were stacked on the counters and overfull garbage bags made a maze out of the floor.

His bedroom was the same as ever: slightly stuffy, smelling of unwashed clothes and incense. The macramé mandala on the