He went to sleep with the certainty of all this, the feeling that he should stop insinuating himself into Ben’s life, that he should give up on friendship; and yet the thought of that made him unhappy, because Ben’s friendship felt real. Light from the balcony seeped through the shade, yellow and warm, and he stared at the strip of light that fell across his middle, the shadow beyond, for an hour or more, until he felt himself drifting.

JANUARY

The first Sunday in the semester, when the phone rang early, Ronny stumbled over his shoes trying to answer it, groggy and cotton-headed, and nearly knocked his head on the closet. Kelly was snoring in his bed, his girlfriend wrapped around him—Lucinda, a woman from Puerto Rico who cursed at Kelly in Spanish when he made her angry, which happened frequently. They were sound asleep, the wastebasket stacked with beer cans. Surprising they weren’t scattered all over the room, along with sticky beer stains; Lucy must be a good influence.

“I wake you up?” Ben asked. Low and heartfelt, the tone.

It had been weeks. Ronny had given up, turned to stone. He thought so, anyway. But the sound of Ben’s voice. “You there? Is this Ronny?”

“Yep. It’s me.” Speaking quietly as Lucy peered at him over Kelly’s hairy shoulder.

“Need to talk.”

“It’s been a while.”

“I know. Can you come over? Tate’s out.” He sounded flat, almost lifeless.

“Sure thing,” Ronny said. Feeling a quickening in himself.

When he hung up and grabbed his coat, Lucy was rearranging herself with her back to Kelly, who grunted but never opened his eyes. She was watching, eyes barely open. Ronny waved to her as he was going out. Closing the door quietly, the hall cold, the balcony colder, January and icy. He rushed along the balcony to the stairs, the iron rail numbing to his hand.

Ben’s door was open. He was standing there in boxers, nothing else, a sight that caught at Ronny, made his heartbeat change, the smooth skin, the shapes, the face, Ben’s hair a mess. He closed the door behind Ronny and locked it, leapt into his bed, and pulled the covers over his shoulders, lying there grave and still. Ronny hovered, sat on the edge of Tate’s bed, unmade and littered with socks, mail, papers, a wrapper from a PayDay candy bar.

Ben patted space on his own bed, said, “Come over here. I won’t bother you.”

He was staring into the gap between the window and the blind. Ronny did as he was asked, sat down gingerly, Ben’s big thighs wrapped against him. Ben said, “I just need you right now, Ronny. Okay?”

“What’s wrong?”

“It was a shit Christmas. Mom’s sick.” There was a break in his voice at the end, and he clamped his lips shut, taking one breath after another. Ronny lay his arm along Ben’s side, leaned back against his belly, the thick blanket and sheets between them.

“Bad sick?”