Page 99 of The Pairing

“You better, if you want to pass this time.”

Theo snatches their phone up and ends the call.

The others barely seem to have noticed, and Theo laughs it off, but they won’t look at me. They drain their glass, mutter something about being tired, and they’re gone.

I’ve only seen Theo cry three times: when they fell out of a tree and broke their arm at age nine, the first time they saw me after my mother died, and the day I left for New York. It’s not that Theo doesn’t experience huge emotions. They just muscle it down.

They’ll squint and scrunch their nose, as if they’re annoyed to waste energy on something so useless, then their face clears, and they keep going.

Right now, they’re making that face.

I found them upstairs, tearing apart their backpack to get to their dopp kit. They’re at the bathroom vanity now, peeling off their clothes.

“Theo, is there—are you okay?”

“Yeah,” they grunt, stepping out of puddled linen and throwing on a T-shirt. “I’m just really tired all of a sudden.”

“We can talk about it, if you want. You can tell me.”

They try to open their kit, but the zipper is stuck.

“I don’t,” they snap.

With a furious yank, their kit explodes open and expels its contents all over the floor. They swear and fall to their knees, chasing bottles and tubes.

“Theo,” I say, getting down beside them. They swat my hands away. “Theo!”

At last they go still. They sit back on their heels and look up at the terra-cotta ceiling, lip balm and toothpaste clutched in their fists, their face a vivid, mottled red.

“I’m—Ifucked up.”

“Okay. What happened?”

“It’s not even something that happened. I think—I think it’s something I am. I’m a fuckup.”

“No, you’re not,” I say, not even beginning to know where this is coming from. I gently work their fingers loose, one by one.

“I am. I’m a fuckup, and I can’t stop being one, no matter how much I grow and how hard I try—and I try sofuckinghard—” Their voice breaks. They choke it back. “I can’t change the fact that it’s me. I’m me, and that means I’ll keep fucking up forever.”

“That’s not true. You—”

“I’ve failed the sommelier exam three times.”

That finally pulls my attention from their lip balm. I sit back, watching a muscle clench in Theo’s jaw.

“I’ve been lying to you.” Theo’s voice is flat, sour. “I didn’t plan to lie, justimply,but you were so impressed when you thought I had, and I’m taking it again when I get home, so I thought, you know, if he asked me a month from now it would be true. But, honestly, I’ll probably find some new way to fuck it up, so I might as well come clean.”

“Okay.” I blink slowly, processing. “Is. . .is that all?”

Theo scowls, like this was the wrong thing to say.

“The bus bar is fucked too.”

Oh, no. “Fucked how?”

“Upside down. Out of money.Negativemoney.” They start snatching things up and hurling them into their kit. “I get all these big ideas, blow my entire budget on artisanal pickled kumquats and imported Persian saffron for one fucking cocktail, lose track of client emails, and it all gets fucked. I lost that big wedding gig because I got sidetracked withyou.” Their eyes flash—I can’t tell if that’s a confession or an accusation. “And now I—I don’t seehow it’s not over. That gig was going to save me. I’m gonna have to sell the bus just to pay off my credit cards. So, I lied about that too. I’m nothing I told you I was. There you go.”

They zip the kit up, climb to their feet, and drop it on the bedside table. Then they sit on the edge of the mattress and draw their knees up to their chin, looking absolutely furious with themself.

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