Real Life(12)

“Oh,” Wallace said, laughing nervously because he could appreciate, in this moment, how silly, how ridiculous he had sounded before. “Who knows? I think I’m just clenched up.”

“I think we’re always clenched,” Miller said after a minute, and he squeezed Wallace’s fingers. “I think we’re always tight until we get what we really want, and maybe even then, too. Who knows?”

“Maybe,” Wallace said.

Miller pulled on his hand and Wallace let himself be drawn in. They didn’t kiss or anything like that. Miller just held him until the sound of the music changed. It was time to go back out to their friends. They held hands until they reached the sliding door that opened into the night air, and then, tentatively, reluctantly, they became separate people again.

“See you there,” Miller said to him, raising his eyebrows.

“See you there.” Wallace made his way back through the crowd, his body buoyant but raw. Some inner surface had been agitated. When he sat back down, they all asked him where Miller was, and he could only shrug. “He said he’d be back.”

“How is he?” Cole asked.

“He’s better. He was too tall to reach the faucet, so you know, for once being short paid off.”

“Poor guy,” Emma said.

“He’s fine,” Wallace said, lifting his cup of cider. It was tart, and a little lukewarm. There was the bitter, chemical taste of the plastic. They were all looking at Wallace. Emma’s eyes were wet. Cole kept peeking at him furtively, and Vincent kept swallowing thickly. Yngve was looking at him over the surface of his beer. Scout rolled between Thom’s legs. Her collar tinkled faintly like a little bell.

“What?” he asked. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Cole said. “We just . . . Emma told us about your dad. I’m so sorry.”

Wallace had known this would happen, and yet he felt a momentary flare of anger at Emma. Things moved through the group in this way, information sliding around as if through an invisible circulatory system, carried on veins made of text messages, emails, and whispered conversations at parties. He wet his lips, and he could still taste Emma there. The flare did not subside, but it gave way to resignation.

“Thank you,” he said neutrally. “Thank you very much.”

“It must be so hard,” Yngve said with a shake of his head. His sandy brown hair flashed in the light. His sharp features softened, except for the point of his chin, which always made him look boyish. Yngve had spent the summer before graduate school climbing a mountain after the death of his grandfather, a benevolent Swede.

“Yes,” Wallace said. “But life goes on.”

“That’s true,” Thom said from the end of the table. “Life goes on. It reminds me of my favorite novel.”

“Oh god,” Vincent said. “Not again.”

“‘And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.’”

“That’s very pretty,” Wallace said.

“Don’t encourage him,” Emma said. “He’ll go on all night.”

“To the Lighthouse—it’s actually a line misquoted from a poem,” Thom said proudly. “It’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. Changed my life in middle school.”

Vincent and Emma and Cole all shared a look. Yngve was back studying the grain of the wood through the pale yellow of his beer.

“I’ll have to check it out,” Wallace said. He looked up, and Miller was coming back to them. He had another pitcher of beer.

“Here we are,” Miller said. He sat across from Wallace again, but did not look at him. Wallace felt a little hurt by that, but he understood, could understand, the awkwardness of such things.

“I should get going,” Wallace said. “This has been wonderful.”

“No, don’t go,” Emma said. “We just got here.”

“I know, my love, but before that, I was marooned with these goons.”

“So you don’t love us,” Cole said. “I see how it is.”

“Are you okay?” Yngve asked. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I live across the street. It’s a short commute. I appreciate it.”

“I guess I’ll leave too,” Miller said, which drew a startled silence from the table. “What?”

“Why are you leaving us?”

“Because, Yngve, I’m tired. I’ve been in the sun all day. I’m a little drunk. I want to go home.”

“Then let’s all go together.”

“No, you stay,” Miller said. Wallace was already getting up from the table, hugging Emma and Cole and Vincent. They all smelled like beer and salt, sweat and good times. When they shook hands, Thom gazed into his eyes for a long time in what Wallace guessed was an attempt at solidarity. “Wait for me,” Miller said.

“You live in the other direction,” Wallace said, pointing.

“But we have to leave through the same entrance.”

“Okay then,” Wallace said.

Miller repeated Wallace’s good-byes, and they walked out to the street together. Overhead, there were a few bright stars in the sky. The music swept the air, echoing through itself into a blurry medley of indistinct sounds. People were getting into and out of cars, so there was a bit of activity. Wallace and Miller stood under an overhang, half in shadow.