Real Life(48)

“Why?” Emma asks, now that she’s settled in and gotten comfortable.

“Bathroom,” he says gently, as gently as he can. And he slides away and pushes himself up. Roman is still watching him as he climbs the back steps and enters the house. He can feel the weight of his gaze, the pressure of it.

Wallace manages to make it to the bathroom, where he vomits. All of the food from dinner comes up. It’s a mess in the bowl. His stomach heaves until he feels hot and flushed again. His head is on fire, and every breath makes another part of him ache. He hates Roman. He hates him so much he could kill him with his bare hands.



* * *



? ? ?

HE’S SITTING ON THE EDGE of the tub, sucking on an ice cube he scooped from the metal bowl in the kitchen, when he hears a gentle tap at the door. He assumes it’s Emma, so he doesn’t say anything. She’ll either get the hint or come in. He circles the ice around his lips and on his tongue. He’s trying to get himself to cool off. There is another tap, more insistent this time, and then Miller’s voice: “Wallace, you still in there?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you need it?” he asks.

Miller opens the door and comes in. He sits on the toilet lid. “What happened out there? I looked up and you were gone.”

“Nothing, just feeling kind of funny, so I came in.”

Miller puts a hand to his head and frowns. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”

“No. On both counts.”

“You feel warm, though.”

“It’s summer,” Wallace says. He sucks on the ice cube, and Miller watches intently.

“Do you want to lie down? It’s cooler in my room. I have a fan going.”

The thought of being apart from the rest of them, being alone in a cool, dark place, sounds perfect.

“Yes,” he says, and Miller rests a hand at the base of his neck.

“Okay,” Miller says. “Let’s go.”

They go up the stairs, in the dark house, and they take a left at the top. Miller’s room is long and angular. There is a circular window through which he can see the lakeshore at some great distance. There are maps and postcards on the walls, and books in a cramped case under the windowsill, where there are pillows and a thick flannel blanket. The bed is large and comfortable, with a big quilt. The room smells like Miller—oranges and salt. His bike is propped against the closet. The floor creaks under their feet.

“Here you go,” he says, pointing to the bed. This room is much cooler. There is a fan in the other window, drawing the air in. He goes to turn on a light, but Wallace shakes his head.

“No, that’s fine. Please leave it.”

Wallace climbs onto the bed and lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, which seems too low for Miller.

“Do you want me go?”

“You would miss the party,” Wallace says.

“I want to stay.”

“What about the ice girl?”

“Ice girl?”

“You know—she was chipping ice earlier. She came for you. You shouldn’t disappoint her.”

“Zoe, you mean? Oh, she’s fine.”

“She thought you were funny. I saw.”

Miller is standing at the door with it closed, playing with the noisy little knob. “I don’t know what you want me to say about that.”

“Nothing,” Wallace says. This fight is already taking what little energy he has left. He puts Miller’s pillow over his face. It smells so good, so like him.

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay. It’s your house.”

Miller gets into the bed next to him and lies on his side. He puts a hand on Wallace’s stomach, which makes Wallace insecure. He wants to push Miller’s hand away from him, to be alone, to be perfectly alone. Miller comes closer, rests his face in the crook of Wallace’s shoulder. He throws a leg over Wallace’s leg. Like when they were in Wallace’s bed.

“Someone could come up here,” Wallace says.

“I know.”

“You didn’t want people finding out.”

“What’s to find out? Yngve and Lukas do this all the time.”

“But we aren’t them. We weren’t like this before.”

“How were we like?”

“I don’t know, meaner? You picked on me a lot.”

“I didn’t. You picked on me. You were always scowling in the hallways. I thought you hated me for a long time.”

“How could anyone hate you?” Wallace asks. “You’re so likable.”

“I try to be.”

Outside, someone’s car is having a hard time getting going. And someone else’s children are running in the street. These are the last days of summer, the last days when day will be longer than night. It seems like such a waste to spend it inside with someone who is maybe sick, maybe not.

“You’re going to miss the party,” Wallace says.

“I don’t mind. It’s over, anyway.” Miller’s voice is warm on his skin, and Wallace relents. It would be too much to give it up, to be alone in the dark, now that he has been with Miller in the dark. What he fears, though, and it’s a cold, grinding, glittering fear rising in him, is that now he’ll never be able to face the dark alone again. That he’ll always want this, seek this, once it’s lost to him.