“I think you might need time for detox. Maybe some recovery time in a treatment center.” North’s thumb kept scraping that hot line up the side of Shaw’s neck.

“Of course,” Shaw said into the pillow.

“We’ll have to make some pretty big lifestyle changes.”

“That would really help.”

“If you want, Pari and I could do an intervention.”

“I think Pari would only like an intervention,” Shaw said, “if it was for her.”

“Well,” North said, “I’ve got a list of grievances.”

Shaw lifted his head, and even though the whole room looked like it was under water, he could see that typical North smile lightening those ice-rim eyes, crinkling the corners, without ever touching his mouth. North had matching black eyes today, and a fresh split across the bridge of his nose covered by tape. Shaw wanted to ask when North had found the time for more boxing, but all he said was, “I don’t think you’re supposed to call them grievances.”

“I’m running this intervention. I can call them whatever I want.”

Shaw dropped his head into the pillow again.

“I’d like to take you all the way back to Labor Day, freshman year.”

“Please don’t,” Shaw said. “I’m not ready for time travel.”

As North spoke, he peeled back the wet cloth, and his fingers took up a light massage: kneading the sensitive flesh at the base of Shaw’s neck, the touch dry and rasping—workman’s hands, the thought flashed along Shaw’s synapses like brushfire. “The setting: your dad’s lake house at Innsbrook,” North said. “More specifically, the docks. The characters: Kingsley Shaw Wilder Aldrich, North McKinney—”

“North Ebenezer McKinney,” Shaw said groggily into the buckwheat.

“That is not my middle name, but a very nice try. Tucker Laguerre, Rufus Johnson, and a host of Chouteau bros that you decided to invite for some reason I will never understand.”

“They were cute. And we were all trying to make friends.”

“Well, there was that one Ladue boy you wanted to lick the sunscreen off.”

“Percy was cute.” Shaw found himself dragging the word out in response to the pressure of North’s fingers. “And he read me a poem by Lord Byron.”

“Well, you are a slut for poetry.”

“I would say I’m a—”

“Slut. For poetry.”

Shaw had a brilliant rejoinder, but then North’s fingers dug deeper, and he moaned into the pillow.

“And,” North said, “if you’ll recall, after the equivalent of approximately three-quarters of a wine cooler—”

“I’d been pregaming. I had a big glass of orange juice that morning, and it was old. I think it was kind of fermented.”

“—you managed to wind up naked, in the bathroom, puking into one of Tucker’s shoes. A very, very good first impression, by the way, on my future husband.”

“His shoes were white.”

“Uh huh.”

“And big.”

“Uh huh.”

The deep tissue drag of North’s fingers was hypnotic, and Shaw was surprised that the worst of the hangover was receding. “Anybody could have mistaken them for the toilet. And anyway, Tucker was being a total asshole to you that day, and he kept trying to get his hand down Percy’s swim trunks because he said he wanted to find out manually if Percy was cut or not.”