He worked harder than he ever had at Gwynns, and he liked it, back in the grind, working at the club all day, classes in the evenings, studying, drinking coffee, weaning himself off the cigarettes, and if he couldn’t stop himself from exploding every once and a while, and he cried and raged it was just—just a part of the experience. College stress, and running the books for Colin, and forgetting to eat, now that Jack wasn’t there to—

He tried, peering into the cracked mirror, to apply concealer over the scar on his lip. It didn’t work. He cried, briefly, and decided he didn’t need to look at himself that much, anyway.

He started writing to Genni again, and Phillippe, and Tom. Genni was always complaining about Phil; Phil was always raving, in his mannered and loquacious way, about Genni. It came as no surprise, whatsoever, to get a gushing—and far too detailed—review of Phil’s performance in bed. Apparently they’d spent a “truly magical” weekend romping around Europe, and that was that.

He knew that they would last. It was guaranteed—that they would be able to have—

And Tom—Tom’s dad had been just as guilty as his own, but was stupider, and got caught for far more, and wasn’t as nice when he was screwing people over. So Tom was miserable, that first year after school. Everyone they knew hated him.

He’d always protected Tom, sort of. Tom was smart about simple things—which were, in many ways, more complex—like having friendships and loyalty and affection; but he wasn’t particularly smart when it came to school. He was a fantastic lineman—no one could dare to get through his solid bulk—and he was brilliant with a packet of instant noodles and pilfered spices from the school kitchen. So Theo had looked out for him with homework and tests and extra lessons, and Tom cared for him in turn. They were friends, true friends.

That—real friendship—had always been hard for Theo.

Theo had nearly forgotten to think about Tom when he ran away, and he carried guilt for that; he’d abdicated his responsibility. So he wrote to him, and encouraged him, and Tom did run away. He moved to New Orleans—away from Baltimore, from the social circle of people their dads had fleeced, from dirty looks and drinks spat in—and Theo kept writing from Cork, helped him manage the money he had left, looked out for him again. Tom went to culinary school, and he promised to send back pastries with buttery dough and dark chocolate and orange liqueurs.

He was learning how to be happy. Theo hoped he was able to do the same.

And Tom met a French-speaking Creole woman in his cookery classes. He wrote to tell Theo, stunned, that he thought he loved her.

And that was good. More than good.