The thrum of the shower had become a kind of white noise in North’s head, and for a moment, he was inside that glimmer, could practically feel the paper and adhesive coming up under his thumb nail. They’d talk. And at some point, North would just start talking about all of it. And he’d tell about Tuck. And he’d tell about the lies. And he wouldn’t cry—Christ, the time for crying was long past—but Shaw probably would. Shaw would probably cry so hard he refilled his own teacup. And—this part of the glimmer was new, something that North hadn’t even realized he’d added since the day before—Shaw would tell North the truth too. He’d tell the truth about what he’d been struggling with since Carl’s death. He’d tell the truth about being a virgin. He’d have some bullshit explanation about how he was still processing, and then he’d laugh nervously, and neither of them would know what to say. And then—here was the real fantasy, the thing North had dreamed about, on and off, since second semester of freshman year—then North would know exactly the right thing to say, and finally Shaw wouldn’t look at him like North was some kind of an obnoxious brother. That glimmer-dream always ended the same way: North setting down the bottle of Schlafly, slowly, carefully, and then rising, the couch shifting under his weight, and then peeling Shaw’s long fingers away from the porcelain, setting down the cup, and—

In North’s head, the blanked-out roar of the shower swallowed everything else. He worked his jaw, trying to get moisture in his mouth, and got up from the chair. He crisscrossed the office a few times, trying to get the circulation back in his legs, trying not to feel like he’d been rolling gravel around inside his mouth for the last hour.

When North was sure it was safe, he left the office. Pari was asleep in her chair, her head thrown back, her silken black hair spilling behind her. The bindi today was neon blue. She was clutching a thick textbook in her lap, and the page was open to a timeline of events in the Vietnam war. Christ, North thought, and he did his best to walk quietly. The last thing they needed was another round of final exams.

North took the stairs less quietly, and when he got to the top of the stairs, he rattled the doorknob. Then he pushed into the room without waiting for an answer, and the rush of the shower was louder here, and Shaw was naked in bed, a thin fold of the sheet pulled over his crotch and the rest of his long, lean body sprawled open on the bed. North coughed; he felt like he had a piece of that same gravel stuck in his throat.

Blinking up at North, Shaw arched his back lazily. North ignored him for the moment—fuck, that was a lie, every sense was attuned to Shaw like he was hooked up to electrodes—but something was different in the room. The bookshelves looked the same. The dresser looked the same. The copies of Goethe looked the same. That painting of the Mississippi, the one that looked to North like something worthy of Turner. Even the dirty clothes were the same—well, the sock was gone from the mirror.