Real Life(53)

“Don’t lie. You don’t have to lie. We’re friends. We’re all friends here.”

“Is Lukas here?”

“Yes, upstairs,” Yngve says, but then, catching himself, he says, “Oh, no. He’s with Nate.” There is something in his voice, not sadness because it would be too easy to call it sadness, or regret. There is something about the way he says it, the way he turns back, as if he convinced himself that Lukas is upstairs asleep, safe and sound, as if by some trivial bit of magic he made himself believe that. Some act of sleight of hand, and now, facing the truth, the voice turns soft, tinged at its edges, like turning your palms up, caught. Yngve’s eyes are red-rimmed, glossy, blue-gray like river stones.

No wonder the house is so quiet.

Wallace offers some water to Yngve, who smiles and takes the glass. A look of annoyance flashes across Miller’s face, but then it’s gone, as if he’s thinking how trivial, how childish, let him drink. Yngve drinks as if he’s under a clock.

“Well,” he says. “I’m going up to bed.”

“Okay,” Miller says. “Sleep tight.”

Yngve says something in Swedish, kisses Wallace’s cheek, and then is gone. They listen to Yngve going up the stairs, his weight coming in even intervals, plodding up and up, growing fainter and fainter until it is indistinguishable from the mass of the house itself. Miller nods to the space beside him, and Wallace slides over to sit next to him. Miller takes some of the blanket, the way Yngve did.

Wallace puts his leg across Miller’s, and Miller puts a hand on Wallace’s knee.

“You left me,” Wallace says.

“I left a note.”

“Did you?”

“No,” Miller says, laughing.

“I didn’t look, anyway.”

“Did you sleep well?” Miller asks. “Are you feeling better?”

“I did. I am,” Wallace says, though he’s getting nervous again. “I thought I had scared you off.”

“No,” Miller says. “You couldn’t scare me off.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. It’s okay if you’re freaked out or whatever. It’s a lot, I know.”

“I’m not,” Miller says. He’s fumbling with the edge of the blanket, not looking at Wallace. His neck is red, his cheeks are red. The boyishness, the part of him that’s always hesitating, faltering, is so evident now. Wallace kisses his shoulder.

“Okay,” Wallace says. “That’s good. I’m glad. It’s just that you didn’t say anything after.” He’s putting himself out there, laying his uneasiness at Miller’s feet to acknowledge or ignore. He could take Miller at his word, believe him, that the silence is nothing at all. He won’t push. He will let it go. He will be easy. He will be calm.

Miller does not respond. He’s back to looking outside into the dark. It’s hard to see anything out there, only the faint outlines of shapes and figures. He is flexing his hand again, the knuckles thick and hard. The tension runs up his arm to his shoulder, where Wallace can feel it throbbing. It isn’t an angry silence. It isn’t like that at all. But there is something in it, a gathering of something hard and unyielding, a knotting sensation.

Has he done this? Has Wallace caused this? He should have been firm in his resistance to remain silent on the matter of his past and his history. He should have kept his mouth closed.

“Well, I guess I better get going,” Wallace says, lightness in his voice. Miller’s hand finds his under the blanket.

“No, you should stay. It’s already late.”

“My walk isn’t that long,” Wallace says. “I’ve already put you out.”

“You haven’t.”

“I have—and I don’t want to. I don’t want to be a hassle.”

“I wish you would stay,” Miller says firmly. “I want you to.”

“You’re being nice. You don’t have to be. It’s fine.”

“I’m not,” Miller says. “I’m being selfish. I want you to stay.” Miller is looking at him now. Whatever the silence might mean, there is such sincerity in his voice and his gaze that Wallace relents. Miller kisses him.

“Okay,” Wallace says. “I’ll stay.” Miller takes his hand, and Wallace enjoys the lovely weight of his fingers, their warmth, their texture. He puts his head against Miller’s shoulder. He wants to sleep, could sleep.

“If you’re tired, we can go upstairs.”

“This is fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to stay down here because of me.”

“Didn’t you just say to stay?”

“I did, but—”

“Okay, then,” Wallace says, cutting him off. Miller laughs at him. The nervousness abates, and so does the nausea, the churning sense of being gossiped about. You have to learn to trust people, to believe that they mean you no harm, Wallace thinks.

“I’m sorry,” Miller says after a few moments. “For before, for not knowing what to say.”

“It’s okay,” Wallace says. He’s already forgiven whatever harm the silence did. He’s already over it. He will survive.

“I’m sorry all that happened to you, that I made you tell me.”