“I wish that it were just shame.” Theo shrugged, unhappy. “Shame I could deal with, or at least reconcile. But—”

“You still want him. He’s the one.”

He hated hearing it. The idea seemed so childish. “What did it feel like? Before you and Genni—”

“Mm.” Phil aimed a lazy smile over at a rowdy group taking shots, inspiring a bit of a sputter from a man in a tight tank top. “You know. I wanted her, wanted to be hers. And I was willing to wait.”

“Yeah.”

“But I had hope, Theo. I’m not sure if you do.”

Theo’s heart kept beating, too hard, in the back of his throat. “Maybe I’m meant to be alone.”

“No one should be alone.”

He was suddenly angry. Why was Phil pushing this? It was too—it was unfair.

“Life isn’t perfect for everyone, Phillippe. Not everyone gets their happy ending.”

Phil was unmoved by his tone, implacable, like a stone wall holding back high tide. “You’re right. I still think you deserve one, though.”

Theo thought about the nasty person he had always been, and that feeling in him which meant hating everyone, and that desire to throw things and make a mess and ruin his life and be his own ruination. He’d tried, tried to be good, tried to be more; he feared himself. And maybe that was why Jack had—

That last fight, when he said those things, reverting to a self he thought he’d buried—

“God, do I?”

Phil swallowed the last of his scotch. “You do.”

Theo laughed a little, bitter, finished his own drink.

“You’re not going to pull tonight. Never intended to.” Phil put his glass down, ice rattling.

“No.” Quiet, guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh well.” Phil’s teeth shone against his lips as he smiled. “Worth a try. And I’ve gotten a good view of the merchandise.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Phil stood, tossed down a fifty-dollar bill, winked at the bartender. “I am what I am.”

Theo was, too. All these years later—he was the same.

They wound their way through the crowd, and Theo felt like the night was grabbing at him, all of these hands and hips and mouths, and each brush of someone else’s body was like fire, like life, like dying, all at the same time.

It had been so long. His skin was ravenous.

He remembered another nightclub, and the cold concrete of the toilet floor, and looking up into blue eyes.

The foul-fresh air of Baltimore at nighttime jolted into him as they stepped out of the dark and into the glimmer of streetlights. Phil’s dark skin was rich and flawless in the glow, his own pale and wan and aching. He went home, as always, alone.

God, how he wanted.

Gardner was half a breath away from his face.