Today.

Lance calls Niall back, heart pounding with worry that Robbie will return and overhear. So, he sits on the toilet in the bathroom, the door closed, and keeps his voice quiet. He can make this quick. He may have miscalculated the extent to which Niall could overreact to Lance leaving him, but at least that means he knows exactly how badly Niall wants him back. He can use that.

The phone only rings once before Niall answers. “Lance? Is that you, Angel?”

The endearment has always grated, but it’s nauseating now, in Robbie’s home that smells of Robbie; looking at Robbie’s toothbrush on the bathroom counter, next to the one he took out of a new box for Lance.

For a moment, Lance isn’t sure he can do it. A couple of days ago, Lance’s whole sense of self rearranged; the man who knew how to play Niall like an instrument stepped aside for the guileless, artless boy who ran barefoot in these meadows and waded in this creek.

But he can shift back, and he will. It’s the only way he can give whatever is beginning with Robbie a real chance.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I’ve been calling and calling. I was worried sick. What were you thinking?”

Lance makes his voice low and apologetic, or maybe even afraid. It’s not hard to feign those feelings when they’re all part of the tumult of conflict in his head. “I didn’t realize the phone was working. When I looked at it a few days ago, it was disconnected.” He tries to tamp down the accusation in his tone when he adds, “And then I got arrested—for stealing your car.”

“Well, I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?” Niall sounds put out, like Lance is a petulant child and Niall’s a reasonable adult. “If I just let you have your tantrum without consequences, how would you ever learn?”

Lance closes his eyes. “You’re right. I messed up. I was being…immature.” He swallows and tastes acid. “But, honey,” he adds, his voice low and wavering, “I’m in really big trouble now. They put me in jail. And today I’m supposed to go back to court.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Niall says with calm condescension. “If you’ll behave yourself, we can work everything out.”

“You mean you’ll call the police here and explain?”

“I won’t have to call them. I can speak to them in person. I arrived last night.”

Six years ago.

Lance stares at Robbie’s throat as he turns away from the door and faces Lance, right arm crossing his chest to hold his left elbow in a posture Lance recognizes from years of observation: Robbie’s flustered.

Lance sits on the edge of Robbie’s bed, which is neatly made, as though Robbie hasn’t slept in it. The room is built into a curved sort of turret of the house, creating a small, semicircular area that Robbie uses as an office. The desk lamp is on. There’s an open book on the surface, as well as a notepad.