Yet a Stranger (The First Quarto #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,141
thought about ignoring it. And then he thought about Fer going nuclear if Auggie missed any sort of contact.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just got to check this.”
Instead of Fer, though, Theo’s name showed on the screen.
“Just a second,” Auggie said. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Hello?”
Instead of a voice, though, the call buzzed with ambient noise.
“Theo?” Someone farther down the quad was laughing, and Auggie put a hand over his ear. “Theo, are you there?”
Mumbled words. The only one Auggie could pick up was “spinning.”
“I’m coming over.” He disconnected the phone.
When he looked up, Ryan was watching him, a quizzical look on his face.
“My friend,” Auggie said. “He’s going through a rough patch.”
“He’s lucky he’s got you.”
“I’m not sure he feels that way. Could I—would it be weird if I got your number? Basically I’m trying to avoid any sequence of events that involves Orlando wrestling me just so I get to see you again.”
Ryan laughed. He took Auggie’s phone and entered his number. “Next time,” Ryan said, “you have to tell me something about you. You can’t just be a super-hot guy who loves Shakespeare and wants to hear bad poetry.”
Wrinkling his brow, Auggie said, “I can’t?”
26
Everything was going fine until the texts from Cart. It was early afternoon, the sun spinning dust motes in the stillness of the living room, oblong panels of light stretching across the boards. The windows were open. The smell of hot tar filtered into the house; a crew was busy patching the road, talking, shouting, the occasional beep of heavy machinery backing up. Theo had finished a draft of his thesis chapter on Romeo and Juliet. He’d decided to celebrate by removing the couch cushions and vacuuming up the various types of crumbs that had fallen behind them.
When the first text came, a mixture of surprise and relief made him take it literally.
I hope your happy.
It was the first communication from Cart since the birthday party—the first sign that Cart was even alive after vanishing completely. Theo had to sit down, forgetting about the missing cushions, the springs hard under his ass. He was still typing out a reply when the second text came.
you are a faggt andi hat faggotes
Theo stopped composing his message. He knew he was clutching the plastic case too tightly; he could feel it flexing, and then the sliding cover for the battery popped free.
you ruined my lif you fuckinng qurrr ihate you som uch
And, of course, there wasn’t anything to say to that, so Theo picked up the cover for the battery and tried to slide it back into place. He couldn’t. Then he could, but the plastic pinched his finger, and he swore and threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall, gouging the plaster, and cracked against the floor. Then it buzzed again.
Sucking on his finger, he retrieved the phone. He read every message as they came in. At least a dozen of them. A part of him understood that Cart was drunk or high, was hurting, was humiliated, was saying things that came out of a place of terrible pain. And another part of him could hear the words in Cart’s voice: You ruined my life. You ruined my life. You ruined my life.
Since Cart had left, he no longer bothered with the electrical boxes or the shower curtain rod or the hollow-core door. He took the brown plastic bottle of Percocet (thank God for refills) and a fresh joint out of the drawer in the entertainment center. He put down two of the pills with a Big Wave; he’d kept them stocked in the fridge in case Cart decided to show up one day. Then he put down another. Upstairs, he smoked the joint in bed and drank another Big Wave. At some point, it seemed like a good idea to throw the half-empty bottle. For a frozen instant, it made a star of beer and broken brown glass against the wall. He was convinced he watched the whole thing in slow motion.
It wasn’t just Cart. It was Auggie, while Theo was tied up and gagged and listening, unable to do anything. It was Ian, and it was Lana, the car spinning. Theo wasn’t sure, but now he thought maybe the radio had been on, and while the tires had screamed across asphalt, Elton John had been singing “The Bitch is Back.” It was Luke, who had died alone in the loft, where Theo had knelt and picked straw out of his hair.