Summer Sons(36)

“Phone?”

“On the coffee table. The clothes are in the wash with some, like, color-safe bleach I found, but they’re probably done for. Blood all over the fucking place. Blood on my seats.” He waved an accusatory finger in Andrew’s direction as he left the room.

Andrew picked up a pancake and tore off a bite. Dry and sweet, the cakey texture clung to the insides of his cheeks. He sighed and grabbed the milk from the fridge while he balled up the dough to swallow in lumpy pills. Riley dipped into the kitchen long enough to toss his phone on the table, then disappeared up the stairs with a heavy tread. Irritation carried in the thump of his heels.

One pancake forced into his queasy stomach, Andrew swiped the password in and winced: seventeen messages, most from Halse. He thumbed the thread open and read a chunk, skipping from Where you at to Riley hasn’t answered, you dead? and Make it home? and Jail y/n and Fucker that kid you broke owed me money I’m never going to collect it now.

The most recent were from the morning, reading If y’all don’t answer me I’m coming to visit and Suit yourself.

The ominous feeling in the pit of his belly jumped at Riley’s voice from the stairwell: “FYI, we’re talking about last night and the incident in the car now.”

“No,” Andrew said automatically.

“Yes, we are,” Riley said, mimicking his tone as he sat on the stairs, visible from the table. The distance was the sort a person might leave for a feral dog while attempting to coax it to a meal. Andrew’s hackles rose. “I took care of you all night, and I’m saying we talk about it. After the shit with Eddie, I don’t care how awkward it is for me to ask what the fuck is wrong with you. I’ve been letting this weird shit go—”

“I said no,” Andrew cut him off.

“And I said yes,” Riley snapped.

The silence dragged.

“Points of order,” he began, lifting three fingers. He ticked one down and said, “The—the ghost, I guess, you epic fucking idiot.” The second finger dropped as he continued. “Your general brain state, centering the part where you’re living in his bedroom.” The last finger: “That shit about being straight, and about me, we cover all that too.”

Andrew’s jaw went loose as he tried to find his response. How about the part where he hid all of this from me and he’s dead now. Gasoline and fire, humid nights, knuckles on the bridge of someone’s eye socket. A shiver, indiscriminate between fear and vulnerability and anger, sparked in response. The Eddie he knew wouldn’t have stomached anyone questioning their straightness, but apparently he’d left that shit up to interpretation once he got to Nashville. If the wrong person had gotten the wrong idea, said the wrong thing, maybe that explained his corpse.

He started out, “What the fuck did he do to make everyone think we—”

The front door banged open. Riley jerked upright with a curse as Halse rounded the corner into the kitchen. The purple hat had made a reappearance. He tilted his chin to give them each a long, judging stare from under the brim. Andrew plucked another chunk off of a pancake and popped it in his mouth, holding eye contact.

“This is domestic,” Sam said.

Riley walked down the last two stairs. “Not a good time, Sam.”

“I drove here from the middle of nowhere to check y’all were in one piece,” he said, flicking Riley’s nose hard. The other boy lurched and snorted, wrinkling his face in affront. “Since neither of you could be bothered to answer me after you drove home shithouse wasted and”—he pointed at Andrew—“potentially concussed. How’s that brain doing?”

“Fine,” Andrew said. He ate another bite and drank from the gallon of milk.

“So he’s fine,” Sam said. “What about you?”

Riley shrugged eloquently. Andrew kept his eyes on Sam to avoid his roommate’s glower, the interrupted conversation echoing in the confines of his head. After the shit with Eddie. Had Riley thought of something, remembered something, about Eddie’s last weeks? The daylight and the cold breakfast and Sam’s grating concern all jammed needles into his temples.

“The two dudes you whipped the shit out of weren’t important, by the way. Good riddance,” Sam said.

He pulled out a chair and sat catty-corner to them both, knees spread, forearms draped over his thighs. The hole in one knee of his jeans was lopsided. Andrew continued the methodical process of feeding himself. Sam waited another beat, then jerked his thumb in Riley’s direction. “So was it because they called him a faggot, or because they called you a faggot?”

Andrew pushed his chair out without finishing his final bite. Sam barred his path with an outstretched leg as he casually took off his hat. He occupied the room with an atmospheric pressure. Andrew’s hands shook, throbbing with pooled blood and lymph. Again: if Eddie had been in his shoes, if Eddie had heard that kind of talk—

Sam continued, “I’m not complaining. I hear it was a good show, you wailing on ’em. I’m just curious about your motives, because you’re half the size of that Mikey motherfucker.”

“Stop it,” Riley said. Sam opened his mouth again, but to Andrew’s surprise, Riley cut him off: “I’m not kidding, shut up. Have some decorum, Jesus.”

Sam subsided. The pressure of his presence decreased a measure. A path of bruises climbed the side of his neck, patches in the shape of tooth marks, but otherwise he seemed as fresh as a summertime boy could be: sweat on his temples, a sleeveless shirt hanging loose across the bumps of his ribs and the plane of his chest. Andrew stood next to him, words and silence battling in his throat.