I freeze with a fry in my hand and Connor’s words ringing in my ears. Still, I’m not sure I actually believe them.

Give me that again, I say.

A big smile creeps across his face and he repeats, Well, that designer, Maurice, came into the store last month, and we started talking about fashion trends and you know, other stuff, and then we kinda started spending time together. He’s into clean living and all of that. Not even pot, just a glass of wine on occasion. How wild is that?

Anyhow, his designs are doing really well, and my friend Brandon is coming back to New York and needs me out of his apartment, so I had to find something anyhow, and we decided it last night. I’m moving in.

With Maurice the shoe guy?

Yeah.

You don’t feel like you’re maybe rushing it or something?

Life is short, Michael. Seriously, you should see this place. Also, Maurice is hot. And talented and not only as a designer, if you catch my drift. So what the hell? I mean, I’ve been spending all my nights there anyhow.

Well, that explains why you haven’t been returning my calls, I grumble. I thought you were really sick again or something.

Instead of confirming or denying the point, he stares at me with a goofy grin on his face. So even though I think he’s being ridiculous, and even though living with someone doesn’t mean he won’t be doing drugs or having sex with a million people, it seems like a start.

But look, he says, I want you to meet him.

I wait for him to follow his words with something snarky, but nothing comes, so I lean over and put my hand on his forehead like Mom used to do when we were kids.

You’re feverish, right? I ask, even though his skin is cool. My brother has never gone out of his way to introduce me to anyone before. Not even Tony who was apparently worth getting kicked out of the house for.

Connor doesn’t even bat my hand away; he just grins wider and says, I’m not. At least I don’t think I am. My glands are still a little sore, but I went to the doctor last week, and they can’t find anything. Go figure. But anyway, the store is having its annual open house next week. Let’s all meet up.

I stare at my brother, wide-eyed. Trying to process everything he’s told me.

Then I tell him I’ll be there. There’s no way I’m missing this.

I get in to see James for ten minutes before he’s released. His arm is in a sling. His face is a mass of bruises. Stitches crisscross his swollen lips. I wonder what the club kids or those newspaper writers who are always talking about his cheekbones would think if they saw him now. If they saw him damaged and discolored.

His eyes aren’t quite focused, and it disturbs me in a way that must show on my face. It’s the medications, the nurse explains.