←

Cleaned Up

The blizzard of static on the TV screen buzzed on, going to fuzz on Monty's glasses. A technicolor line scrolled. The snowstorm warped, jittered, then settled back into the rhythmic downward flow. His eyes hurt, right down to the roots, deep into his skull, aching, aching, until he could just puke. That's what he felt like. Puke.

The leaning towers of pizza boxes and foil-swaddled Pyrex stacked on the counter reeking of green bean casserole and Brunswick stew churned in his head. Everyone's favorite dishes that he'd have to scrape and scrub and give back with a beaming smile and exclamation of how great the casserole was and how it really saved him a lot of trouble because of course he didn't feel like cooking, (and of course he wanted nuked three-days-old green bean casserole instead of hauling himself to McDonald's to gag himself on a hot burger over the steering wheel) lying, lying, lying through his teeth and praying the lies wouldn't catch in his wad of spearmint gum so he could maintain sober eye contact without going watery.

That casserole spurned him out of the armchair he'd been sinking into for the last two hours. A tsunami of heat overwhelmed him, jerking his shoulders back taut and tightening his teeth until his jaw hurt. He yanked a bowl across the counter and ripped the tin foil off. Swerving past the marble island he stomped on the trash can pedal to make the lid gape and banged the dish on the edge. The casserole slid out, halfway intact like a sheet of ice, and then broke into clumps that fell on top of the layer of wadded paper towels and crushed greek yogurt cups. Soggy butter cracker crumbs showered down. Monty thrust the dish across the counter and grasped for another one.

His gut knotted up and the vinegar bite of puke seared his tonsils. He gritted his teeth harder and shook a peach cobbler out on top of the casserole. His eyes flooded. He clanged the Dutch oven against the trash can and the stainless steel buzzed like microphone feedback, zipping up into his skull with the night of missed sleep and the day full of visitors knocking on his door and the dozens or millions of thoughts and prayers bestowed upon him and all those teary fractured smiles and the casserole, the god-blessed casserole—

A sob cracked like a walnut in his mouth, hard and dry and sharp. His eyes flooded. He banged the Dutch oven on the trash can over and over until his arms trembled. He shoved it onto the counter and staggered to the sink before his knees buckled. Clutching the edge of the counter, he locked his elbows stiff and hung his head, staring into the polished chrome sink bowl. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. Each breath cut into his sternum. Tears puddled in the concave dips of his glasses, fogging up like a rainy summer day. Snot poured and he just let it. Nausea and vertigo spun in his head like a steamy rinse cycle and the static crackle of the TV pitched upwards into a screamy hum that carved out his eardrums and by the time the fifth knock pecked on his apartment door he couldn't deny it'd happened.

He gazed down the sink drain, his mouth slack and going gritty. Another drop hit his glasses and the puddle overflowed and plattered against the chrome. There was no way. It was after ten. Nobody would be that inconsiderate, and Dad wouldn't be back from Tallahassee until at least two in the morning.

Another knock. No more insistent—just as calm and lazy as the first time.

That surge of exhaustion wracked Monty again, squeezing him in an almost-empty toothpaste tube grip. His lungs and spleen and heart and everything were all clumped up together, right in his throat like a plastic bag of giblets, and he was going to heave-hyuck it all into the sink. Right now. He clutched the countertop and his knuckles went ashen. Finally he drew a shuddering breath and swallowed back the sour grit. He swept off his glasses and flipped them, slinging off the sticky puddles, and didn't bother cleaning them on his shirt. He cast them onto the table and scrubbed his arm over his face as he stormed to the door and fumbled with the lock and yanked it open a six-inch crack.

His fingers froze on the doorknob. All the helpless rage and stress and sick compressed into an icy little neutron star and fell into the pit of his gut. City's vacant white-blue eyes stared back.

Monty's throat tightened up again and he leaned away, easing the door an inch closer to shut. A set of black sweats—clean, suspiciously stiff, like he'd swung by Kmart to grab them just for the occasion—hung off City's yardstick frame, making him look more like a scarecrow than ever. He'd scraped his mess of hair back into a witch's-broom ponytail the way he did whenever he tried to slick up because nothing short of Portland pozzolana could cement those electrocuted cowlicks. Monty's eyes burned like he'd massaged dimes of shampoo into them.

"I didn't think I even needed to tell you not to come." He pulled the door another inch shut. City's piano-key smile stayed steady. He slid his sneaker over the coir doormat and wedged it between the door and the frame.

"City—"

Monty pulled the door again and the corner of it tightened against City's sneaker. The rubber squeaked.

"Hey, man. Just let me in, okay?"

"You're higher than the Apollo 11. I'm not letting you in my house."

"Creep," City said cheerfully. "Wanna breathalyze me? Should I piss in a cup? I cleaned up for a reason. Now open the door."

He lunged forward a bit to get his knee in the door too and elbowed his way past Monty. Monty stumbled against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, tensed his shoulders hard as a brick, and clicked the door back into place.

"Woof. Potluck," City said. "You've got all those little old church ladies wrapped around your finger like 18K gold, man. Can I grab one of those muffins?"

"I don't care. Help yourself."

City snagged a chocolate muffin from the wicker basket and perused the dishes on the counter. He tweezed at his paper wrapper and chewed away nonchalantly as he examined a big glass Pyrex of baked spaghetti. On a whim, he picked at the water-speckled plastic wrap and peeled it away from a corner.

"Jesus, dude. How long have you let this stuff lounge? That was good spaghetti. Big old pieces of sausage in there."

"I don't know. I've been busy. It hasn't been out that long."

City cracked open the green lid of a polka-dot bowl. "Man," he said through a mouthful of half-chewed muffin. "Potato salad. Nice one, Moe. Have any deviled eggs or turkey sandwiches to go with it? I'd love to spend a week on the can with my face in a bucket."

Monty folded his arms tight and leaned his hip against the island. City popped open a few more lids without commentary, smacking on his muffin like cud. A picnic stink hazed the kitchen. Somehow, all the tension that squeezed Monty's heart relaxed, and it was as sudden as a caplet of nitroglycerine melting under his tongue. His brains swam and his muscles went to pudding and the throbbing all-over ache dulled to a static thrum of relief, like taking the weight off a sprained ankle. He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids to seal back the new flood.

"I figured you wouldn't be taking care of yourself," City said. "You get what I'm saying? With all this going on. The fact that you even have this stuff stacked to kingdom come in your shiny little showcase kitchen tells me everything I need to know. Somebody get Better Homes on the line. Their favorite subscriber has flipped his dome. Man, it's ripe in here. Do you still have that cinnamon apple spray under the sink? Actually, wait, never mind. I'm bagging this stuff and hauling it out. Tell your landlord 'you're welcome' and she needs to blow me in the morning."

City ripped a garbage bag from the roll and began scraping the dishes clean, stacking them by the sink.

"Run some water for these, will you? Soap me up, Scotty." He gave Monty his prizewinner smile in passing, scooting by with the soggy garbage bag hanging over his shoulder.

The door banged when he went out. Monty lingered in place. He could bolt for the door and lock it. City couldn't stand on his front steps all night.

Wearily, Monty dragged to the sink and turned on the tap. His thoughts mingled with the harsh blast of hot water. The weight was all in his head now. He was tired. He'd never been so tired in his life. The sink filled. He watched it distantly.

Footsteps thumped behind him. City sidled up to his elbow and reached past him to twist the tap.

"Eureka, dude. Let's not drown Archimedes. What'd you do with your glasses?"

"I'm . . . not sure. No. Never mind. They're on the table."

"Did you take them off so you wouldn't have to see my face in crisp 20/20?" City said halfheartedly. He plucked the big Poindexter glasses from the placemat and held them up, squinting through the smeared lenses at the overhead light.

"You couldn't see the Statue of Liberty pointblank through these. No wonder you took them off." City caught the hem of his sweatshirt and buffed the glasses carefully on the fleece lining. He peered through them again, then handed them back. Monty silently accepted.

"There ya go, ladies. Monty Montgomery has been found in the kitchen of his own home. I barely recognized you." The joke lulled. "It has been a long time since I've seen you."

The solemn moment flitted by like a butterfly. City brushed past Monty again and parked in front of the sink. He squeezed half the bottle of green detergent into the water, sloshed his hand through it to rake up suds, and began piling in the crusty dishes.

"Hey, it feels like I'm back in eighth grade shop class. Cleaning dishes after making scrambled eggs with you breathing down my collar and telling me all the ways I'm doing it wrong. Well, guess what? Beggars can't be choosers. I can't remember the last time I washed a dish." He scrubbed in silence for a minute. "Uh, you wanna grab takeout or something? Burgers? I think all your food is en route to the greenbox. . . . Monty?"

"You really need to go," Monty said. It barely came out. God, don't let him see I'm about to cry. He swallowed. He would've rather swallowed a mouthful of thumbtacks.

City's shoulders stiffened. He kept scrubbing hard slivers of lasagna noodles from the side of a ceramic dish. "Way to treat the guy who's washing your pots and pans. Really?" His tone was light as ever. "At least wait until I rinse. I promise I'm not leaving any of the gunk caked on."

"I can finish it."

"Just like you could put your buffet in the fridge to keep it from rotting all over the place. Yeah, man, I know."

"You've gotten most of it done. I can finish it. I'll do it. I've got it."

"So do I. I'm not holding it over you, Moe. We all know how you are about favors. You scratch my ass and I'll scratch yours or whatever."

"That's not what I'm talking about and y—" Monty's voice finally broke in his throat. He pressed his lips together until they ached like a new bruise. City blurred into bokeh and suddenly Monty wanted to cry, to cry in a way he hadn't all day, or all week, in a way that he couldn't tell was agonizing or gut-wrenching or euphoric.

Part of him stood here half-dead, strung out on Peruvian coffee and handfuls of ibuprofen and crawling to the tail end of the worst week in his entire life. Another part of him was somewhere else and he didn't know where. Home? Home but not his. He was somewhere comfortable that felt like the peace of waking from a post-holiday nap at grandma's house, drowsing to the lull of gentle conversation and laughter from the other room. And City was there, clean and warm and solid and real and somehow different.

If he woke up to feel an ounce of that peace again tomorrow, he'd be okay. He'd make it. It made his chest cave into a sob that hurt right down to the grit in his bones.

City looked over his shoulder. His face was pinched.

"I'm not leaving. Okay? You're a prissy, stubborn, stuck-up prick who wouldn't ask for help if you were dangling over hell by a thread. The more you push me out, the worse off you are. I haven't seen you in months—you don't answer my calls, and you know? That's fine. Sure. I thought you were just really trying to straighten up, you know? Get your tight laces even tighter to give your mama some peace of mind. Whatever. But then Church is the one to call me and go 'Hey, make sure to wear a suit to the funeral, if you show up in jeans I'll kill you—oh, didn't Monty tell you? Mrs. M never got discharged, she finally flatlined, graveside on Friday'?"

Monty dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, biting hard, leaving dents in the meat.

"I know you're screwed in the head, dude. I'd be upset if it was only me getting snubbed, sure, I resent that but I get it. But Church said you stopped answering his calls, too. Straight to voicemail. Said you switched it back to the default message, like you don't even want people to hear a recording of your voice. I know it's bad when you ignore Church. And the little pissant told me to leave you alone. That you need space. Time to grieve or whatever. Sigmund Freud is my baby brother, right? Well, you've got space and it's crawling with fetid potato salad."

Potato salad echoed hollowly up to the gross white popcorn ceiling. A drop of water fell from the faucet and plinked into the greasy suds.

"What gives, man?" City said at last.

Monty knuckled at his eyes behind his glasses, knocking them askew on his nose. He pushed them back into place with his palm, fidgeted, then clasped his arms at his front and pressed in hard to keep from spilling his guts.

City sighed. He turned back to the sink, knocked the tap back on with his wrist, and ran a platter under the stream.

"You look like a wreck. Frazzled out the wazoo. You got a Coors or something in the fridge? Grab a couple for us and let's just—you know—chill." He said it lamely, somehow, as if repeating a word he didn't know. He dunked another dish.

Monty trudged to the fridge and sank down to squat in front of the open door. He stared past the blinding white LED for a long time, reading the label on the mustard over and over. He extracted a couple of mismatched cans.

"When'd you eat?"

Monty flexed his fingers around the icy can. He brought it to his forehead tentatively. The cold burned away some of the migraine tension.

"This morning," he said. He breathed through his teeth. Reluctantly, he returned the can to the fridge.

"And you had all that food here. You just needed to grab a spoon. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink, huh? Jeez, Moe. Dial Brickhouse and gimme the phone."

Monty sighed. He snagged the landline from its cradle. City nodded to the side. Monty held the phone to City's ear. City tilted his head to sandwich the phone in Monty's hand between his cheek and shoulder. He leisurely continued scouring the dishes.

"Hey, how are ya? Nah, thanks, just a couple of large supremes. Wait, actually, add a Coke on that. Twenty-three Willowwood. The duplex, yeah. Thanks."

Monty had told City at least a dozen times that he didn't like supremes. He withdrew the phone. City waterboarded the last bowl and ripped a paper towel from the roll to mop up the pools on the countertop.

"Stop watching me. It's not like I'm going to rub holes through your marble. Wow, that sounded great. Go find us something to watch and I'll be there in a minute."

Monty habitually hauled for his overstuffed leather armchair, back to the cocoon of argyle blankets. He paused. Watched his chair for a while. He sank onto the sofa instead. The beige cushions were still firm and scratchy. He leaned back. The same old static snow swept across the TV screen.

City banged some cabinet doors. Mugs clinked. The coffeemaker sputtered and gurgled. A cabinet banged again. Someone pounded on the door. This time Monty stayed in place. A sleepy calm enveloped him, the same kind he felt when wrapped in freshly laundered bedsheets, finishing another chapter of The Day After Roswell by orange lamplight with an emptied mug of chamomile tea still warming his hand. City's sneakers scrunched over the kitchen tile. A bag rustled. City murmured something and the door shut. Monty dozed. He only jolted blearily when the cushion dipped beside him.

"Hey," City said. "Pizza's here." He pushed a plate onto the table, bulldozing a stack of magazines out of place. One slipped and plopped onto the floor, pages lolling. He offered a big mug, the one with the chip in the handle and the faded sunset skyline with "I Heart Miami Beach" emblazoned along the rim. Monty took the mug and held it to his face. Steam glazed his glasses. He sighed.

"Pop these too." City put his fist over Monty's extended palm and dropped in a few ibuprofen. He leaned over, his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling between his thighs.

"Snow simulator, huh? Nice. I heard it snowed in Palm Beach in the 70s."

"Yeah. I think so."

"Yeah." City clapped his hands to his knees and smoothed down his sweatpants. "Mind if I surf? I can't eat unless I'm watching something."

"Go ahead." Monty pulled a slice of pizza from the plate. Any other time, he would have labored over digging out the olives and clumps of hamburger, maybe more to exaggerate a point in front of City than anything. Now, he chewed away, and chewing on damp apple-crate cardboard would have been no different. Just like the coffee, it tasted of nothing. Bland and faint and faraway. He took another slice.

City jabbed his elbow into the heap of throw pillows and leaned back, resting his chin in his hand. He scrolled through the channels. Light flashed in a multicolored strobe over the walls.

"Look at the size of those whales. If I was Captain Ahab I'd crap my pants. You like that nature documentary stuff?" Before Monty could answer, City flipped onwards. "Man. I remember when MTV didn't suck. Move over, will you? I want to stretch. And you need to relax a little, my guy. Have you ever seen a chiropractor? If you sat on a tack you'd turn to rubble."

City tucked his arm around Monty and towed him closer with an enthusiastic squeeze. Monty's cheek hit City's shoulder. On impulse he turned his head, hiding his face in City's collar. He did smell like Kmart. The faint staleness of smoke underlaid it.

Monty's eyes stung again and he screwed them shut. The bridge of his glasses bit uncomfortably into his nose but he never wanted to move again. He drew a shuddering breath. City clutched him a little closer and rubbed his sleeve in a lazy back-and-forth sweep. Monty held that breath until rhinestones speckled the darkness, and when he let it go, he melted. He folded his arm over City and sank into him. The sobs didn't sicken and overwhelm him this time. Padded out by pizza and coffee, all they did was clog up his head like a bad cold.

City balanced the remote control on his knee and wrestled with his sweating Coors can. He cracked the tab one-handed and drained half the can in one chug.

"You know? This isn't so bad. Under the circumstances, I mean." He paused. "I mean . . . yeah. It's been a while."

Monty's thoughts drifted, vapid and flavorless. How long had it been . . . ? It didn't matter.

City tightened his arm around him. His heartbeat thudded gently under his collarbone, right against Monty's ear.

"I've had . . . " Monty's voice came out in a gravelly sludge. He swallowed. It was bitter. Pizza sauce basil. He tried again. It took more effort than a 5K run. "I've had a lot going on."

"Hey, I know. It's fine. I haven't been walking up Easy Street myself lately either." He drummed his chewed-off nails against the side of his can. "But this is nice."

Monty's heart doubled over itself and wrung out. He tensed. "You can't stay."

City sniffed. He twisted the tab on his can. When he lost his grip the tab snapped back into place and pinged off the aluminum. "I told you already. I'm not leaving you alone. You're a trainwreck."

"I won't be alone. Dad's on his way." Monty mumbled into City's shoulder, squeezing the bulky loose folds of his shirt. City felt so thin under it. He'd always been lanky, but Monty could barely find him under the rolls of stiff fleece. Had he been this thin the last time they'd talked?

"I can bail when he pulls into the driveway, then." City helped himself to the last musty swallow from his can.

"I'm serious, City."

"Same here."

Monty pressed his nose harder into City's shoulder. His hands weakened. "He's going to lose it if he sees you." The words droned, flat and tired. "He's already running 150/90 on a good day. Don't make it worse."

"I don't think he'd be upset at me for being with you when you need it." City picked at the tab again. A brief silence dragged. He laughed in a curt puff. "I'm not even doing anything. This isn't high school. Hell, it's not even U Miami. Nobody snuck in with me. There's nothing in my pockets besides my wallet and keys. I haven't smoked in—god, I don't know. All week. Maybe last week."

"I smell it on you." It eked out, barely audible above the murmur of the WTVJ segment flickering on the screen.

City went quiet. He rolled his shoulders, jostling Monty's head.

"It, uh, sticks around in my car, I guess." He tilted the can to his mouth again, draining any leftover drops. He lowered the can and locked his fingers around it. The aluminum dented with a pop. "Lingers. You know. In the carpet and everything."

"Yeah."

"Monty—" City caught himself, then went on. "Man. It's not like I'm the washed-up lowlife junkie that got your mom's car wrapped around a telephone pole."

A brick sank low into Monty's guts. He sat upright. Peeling away from City left him cold; a prickly, numbing, crawling cold.

"I never said that."

City just looked at him. The empty eyes were tired and dry and dark underneath. He'd never looked so tired before. If he had, Monty would have noticed. He would have asked about it. He would've asked if he was okay.

"It's . . . City, you know how my dad is. And my mom. She—they both cared. He cares. It was never against you, not even back then. They wanted me to focus on other things and keep my life on track, and I couldn't . . . do that with you. There were too many close shaves. It wasn't personal. It's not that they didn't like you. They just worried. They worried a lot."

"And yet I need to get out because the sight of me will give your dad a stroke?" City reclined again, still talking as calm as a weatherman. "Because however you slice it, I'm still a job-hopping gutter-brained crackhead like the dirtbag that put your mom in the hospital? Is that what he thinks, or is that what you think?"

"City . . . " The cold crept. He was exhausted.

"Hey, don't worry. It's fine." City snagged the remote again. "What time'd you say he's supposed to drop in? I'll be out of here. He'll never know I came by."

Somehow it hurt. The agreement. Resignation. Leaving. It hurt like doomsday was at 2AM, like if he let him go he'd never see him again. And all that peace and warmth and contentment would leave with him, again, and Monty could keep scraping at everything in his life to unearth something, or anything, that felt the same, and he'd never be able to find it.

"Thank you for doing my dishes. And for the pizza. And for thinking of me at all. I appreciate that. I really do." He lowered his head. Cat hair littered his pants. He plucked a few. "I think I can manage from here onward, though. Don't take time out of your day to stop by again. Will you promise me that?"

"And will you shut up?" City said amicably. "Bailey doesn't mind if I come over to help you out. Or to hang out. People get it. And to be honest, it's not that serious anyway. The thing with Bailey right now, I mean. It's open. Not like you're going to blow anything up for me if I'm staying late at your place."

"Yeah," Monty said quietly.

City swirled the drops in his can. "I'm not sure what you've thought, but it's never been serious. With anyone." He laughed, then swiped his finger across his nose. "You're the only bitch I'd ever wash dishes for."

Silence fell again, scratchy and heavy like an old quilt. Another news segment flashed onto the TV. The ribbon rolled at the bottom of the screen, the words a gray cloud. The audio cut in, and the reporter strolled past a backdrop of a taped-off street corner.

"A twenty-eight-year-old mother of five was held at gunpoint here on Chaplin Avenue yesterday afternoon. The single mom claims she was walking back to her apartment when the suspect grabbed her from behind and demanded her purse. The victim also alleges that the suspect stated 'I know where you live, and I know you have children.' Police have not yet been able to identify the suspect, but . . . "

"Peachy," City said. He clicked through a ream of channels rapidfire. "Isn't that always so wild? I think about that sometimes. What if that was the only time he ever pulled the stunt? Maybe he felt like scum afterward and swore it off. Shapes up real good, clean-cut, you know. But then no matter where he goes, his friends start holding their purses real tight or double-checking their pockets. Hell, maybe it goes on for years, and he never thought of stealing another dime, but everyone always hangs onto their stuff when he's around. Who's he straightening up for?"

He paused, his thumb over the button. A row of contestants on some old '80s game show were bickering. The audience roared. A few blistering whistles cut through.

"Makes me wonder. I mean, at that point, why not go big? He should go to Union Bank and stick 'em up for the whole kaboodle and let the PD blow his spud right off his shoulders."

City stuck two fingers against his temple in a pistol gesture. "Ka-pow." He grinned. "It's crazy."

The blank platinum-blue eyes held neither mirth nor intent. He flopped back into the cushions and folded his arms behind his head.

"Want some more coffee? I chucked that Coke in the fridge if you'd rather have that."

"No. Thanks. I'm all right."

"You sure?" City hiked one leg to rest his ankle on his knee and bounced it idly. His sock flared from beneath his hitched pants leg. Neon yellow, bright enough to stop traffic. Patterned with the pickle-in-sunglasses mascot of the theme park. He'd had those for years.

Monty's throat tightened again.

City's chin rested on his collar, squishing his face into a pout. He watched his sneaker laces swing as he jostled his foot.

"Remember when we used to rent Blockbuster tapes every Saturday?" He hummed a fond note. "Crunching your pretzel sticks during the whole movie. God, that got on my nerves so bad."

When no rebuttal fired back, City bounced his foot with more restrained agitation. "It was nice, though. You were clingy."

Monty averted his gaze.

"I liked it. Clingy isn't that bad, you know? If someone is reaching out and hanging on it makes me feel like they don't—I mean, like they want me around. And it's not just a formality or whatever. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of a douche. So when someone holds on, it's nice."

He sighed again. When he stretched, his heels scraped the carpet. "Every time you leaned on me or fell asleep on my shoulder I just wanted to kiss you so bad. I guess I figured that if I did I'd never want to kiss anyone else. I remember being hotshot fifteen and thinking that if I ever had to see you fall asleep on someone else's shoulder I'd wanna unzip 'em scalp to balls. Some things change, others don't."

He turned his head until his cheek pressed against his shoulder. He watched Monty with a sleepy Chesire smile.

"You've always been too good. But y'know something? If I had the chance to do it all over again, I don't think I would."

Their eyes drifted back to the television. Heat crawled up Monty's face, snaking through his nerves, tingling and searing. His stomach churned the coffee and pizza like a butter barrel.

The hour slugged by, dull as fog. Monty's eyes unfocused. He watched the pops of light over the walls more than the TV screen. City sat beside him, motionless, maybe dozing, maybe dreaming. Monty counted each soft breath. When he passed eighty, the numbers jumbled, and he counted the same one over and over again. Maybe if he counted each breath the same, somehow time would waft to a stop. Eighty-five, eighty-five, eighty-five. But habit won and he rolled onward to eighty-six, and eighty-seven, and he gave up.

The cushion beside him scrunched. City sat upright. He stayed in place for another agonizing, sleepy minute, all hunched up in his loose sweats, and his breaths thinned.

"Welp." He clapped Monty's knee and gave his leg a little shake. His voice scratched. "Guess I need to get out of here. You were serious about your dad coming, right? Wasn't a ruse to chase me off?"

"No. I promise."

"There ya go. Take care of yourself, bud." City shook him again and stood. He tucked his arms behind his back and stretched, then slid his hands into his pockets.

"City," Monty called, and a sudden rush of embarrassment at his own desperation made him clamp his teeth into his tongue. He chewed a couple times, then sagged back into the couch.

"Thank you."

"Don't worry about it."

"City . . . Friday—"

"Hey, you can relax. I won't be there."

"Thank you," Monty said again. It was barely a whisper.

City pressed his fists deeper into his pockets and lingered for a moment, then turned. His footsteps thumped. The door creaked and shut.

Monty stared listlessly at the table. The plate was still stacked with rubbery cold pizza. City had never taken a slice.

Monty sank forward, his elbows on his knees, and pressed his face into his hands. The apartment was suddenly huge, and open, and cold, and a thousand eyes watched him. A loneliness closed him off. The TV droned into silence and the mingling scents of dish soap and pizza and City's musty clothes faded. Home may as well have been a universe away. Monty dug his fingers into his eyelids until there was nothing but brain-splitting tessellations of yellow.

City had never kissed him. And he'd never asked if City was okay.

←