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Later on, the doorbell rings.
The gusts have died down outside, but the snow’s still falling. I’m on West’s couch, my laptop warming my thighs, my thoughts on Romantic poetry, Grecian vases, Mont Blanc. I’m gazing at the back of West’s head where he’s sitting on the floor by my hip, working out practice problems for his physics final. I’m trying to decide whether the sublime might actually be this moment. This glow in my body, my affection for his ears, the way my fingers want to rest on him when I’m thinking about the next paragraph I’m going to type.
The doorbell doesn’t make any sense at all. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go outside in this weather or what possible reason a person who isn’t West or me could have to be here.
He’s standing up, though, almost immediately, sliding his phone out of his pocket, checking his texts or his email.
Oh, right, he’s a dealer.
“You expecting someone?”
The bakery was busy last night, a lot of students wanting to ensure they had enough supplies to stay high through a month’s worth of encounters with their parents or parties with their old friends from high school.
“No. ”
He goes to the door, opens it, and blocks my view of the fire escape. He’s up on the second floor, the apartment above a store that sells gifts and women’s clothes. The landing outside is small, and the couch has a better angle on the door than my nook at the bakery. I can see two figures beyond West.
I’m not sure why I get up. Because I don’t want to feel apart from him today, I guess. Because I’m getting less willing to turn my eyes away from things that make me uncomfortable and simply pretend they’re not happening.
This is going to sound strange, but it’s a little bit because of West’s penis, too. By which I mean: I was afraid to touch him there without clear guidelines. Afraid I wouldn’t be any good at it, or I’d mess it up. But look how well it turned out when I did, right?
I’m afraid of this part of who he is, more afraid than I was of touching him. This West who breaks rules, who could get arrested or sent to jail—I don’t even know why he does it. Just for the money? Because he wants to? Because he wants to prove he’s not afraid?
Or maybe he does it because he likes it. He has an expertise that I don’t share—words I don’t know, mysteries of seeds and resin, weight and cost. He has that voice he uses when he’s dealing. I think it’s why I asked him to get me high when he came to my house. Because I want to know all the parts of him. Even the ones that scare me.
Anyway, I don’t sort through all this consciously. I just duck under his arm, smiling, touching him, staking a claim on this evening and this part of his life, on him, on everything.
And then I stop short, the smile falling off my face.
It’s Josh at the door, talking to West. And leaning against the rail behind him, wrapped in his winter coat, a hat, the scarf that I gave him last Christmas—it’s Nate.
He looks as shocked to see me here as I am to see him. His eyebrows draw together, his mouth going tight and white around the edges—pain—and then just as quickly it’s gone and he’s trying and failing to look indifferent.
The conversation dies.
“Hey, guys,” I say cheerfully. I’m not sure how else to play this. Someone has to smooth over this awkwardness, and I guess it’s got to be me. “Getting something to tide you over the break?”
“They’re not getting anything. ” West’s tone is caustic. He looks at Josh. “What part of ‘Text me first’ and ‘Don’t come around where I live’ was so hard for you to understand?”
Josh’s chin comes up, defiant. “We just thought of it when we drove by. I figured you might be here, with finals going. ”
West shakes his head. “I told you how it works. ”
“Yeah, but—”
“I set the terms,” he says curtly. “Not you. ”
“We’ll buy a whole ounce,” Nate says. He’s lounging against the railing, faking relaxation. His expression is all holier-than-thou, and I recognize it as the face he made when he wanted me to do something for him that I didn’t want to.
West has never looked at me like that.
“I had some of what you sold Marshall,” Nate says. “It’s good shit. He says it’s one fifty for the half ounce. ”
“I’m not selling to you. ”
“I’ll pay you four hundred. ” There’s something smarmy in the way Nate says this—like he’s trying to figure out West’s price so he can
pay it and then look down on him for being hard up enough to let himself be debased.
