“I know.”

“You probably ate paint chips when you were a kid.”

North took a step toward him. “Yep. Lead paint. My parents would sprinkle them in the crib at snacktime.”

Something about North’s movement startled Shaw, and he retreated. “You were probably dropped on your head.”

North took another step. “My mom apologized for that about a hundred times.”

Shaw took another step back, but North caught his wrist. Shaw couldn’t move. He felt like he was hanging from a power line. Somehow he managed to say, “You probably got kicked by a horse.”

North was close enough that the smell of American Crew and good leather seemed overpowering. He smiled, and the cuts on his cheek started bleeding again. “That’s about the only reason that could explain why I like you so much.”

And then he placed a bandage in Shaw’s hand and raised his eyebrows.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“It’s ok. Sometimes I like it when you chew my ass.”

“And you deserved it.”

“And I deserved it.”

Shaw affixed the bandage and studied North, turning his head gently with a touch to his chin. “Tucker’s going to be pissed.”

North opened his mouth. Shaw could feel the silence cracking between them like a frozen river. And then the pigeon took flight with a clap of wings, and the fire escape groaned. North shut his mouth and shrugged.

“North,” Shaw began.

“Have you heard from Matty?”

Shaw dropped his hand. “No. Pari said he left this morning.” He took a step back, and then another, and then he left the bathroom.

It was a long time before North followed.

In their office, Shaw worked at his MacBook, trawling through the public view of Mark Sevcik’s Facebook page again. There were the early pictures with the Cardinals jersey. Then the softball pictures. Then the Dungeons and Dragons posts. Xbox. E-sports. Interior design. And then a blank space. Then the love of his life and his new passion as a sound engineer.

Shaw hesitated. Something bubbled in the underwater portion of his brain, and he grabbed a pad of paper, began sketching. This kind of thing—a kind of free association activity that combined drawing and writing, what North had once described as “that fuck-ugly doodling you did on my diploma”—always seemed to help Shaw uncover the sunken, hidden realizations happening in his subconscious. So he let his hand move, and he let his brain drift.

Six months ago. What had happened six months ago? That answer came easily enough—a slight hiccup interrupted Shaw’s scribbles, and then his hand resumed. Six months ago, Mark Sevcik had decided he wanted to be a sub. So he’d gone to Lee Brueckmann. He’d signed over everything. And then, a few months later, in typical Mark Sevcik behavior, he realized that being a sub wasn’t the transformational, totally satisfying experience he had hoped, and he’d decided to leave.

And that was when Mark Sevcik reappeared on Facebook and announced that he had met the love of his life.