Page 59 of The Evening Wolves

“Are you safe?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know.” John-Henry had to wet his lips; they were cracked, and they stung after his tongue passed over them. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck are you sorry for?” Emery asked. “All you did was run off and nearly get yourself killed.”

The call disconnected.

John-Henry let his head fall back. The adrenaline rush from the fight was fading, and in the aftermath, his body was exhausted, and the shakes were only part of it. He felt sick to his stomach, his skin clammy. Moments from the fight flashed at him: that first, bad tumble; pain flowering in his shoulder; the realization that he might lose this fight, and the struggle to hold on to the belief that he could win.

He tried to steer his thoughts onto new tracks. He was too tired to process Emery’s anger, and anyway, even if he hadn’t been, he was too angry himself for it to have much of an impact. Angry at himself. For the childlike outburst. For how quickly it had escalated into a fight, when he and Emery had been doing so much better. For the fact that he couldn’t explain, not in any coherent way—couldn’t even put into words—why it felt so important to pull Colt and put him into another school. Because they did it to you. That was part of it. Because they’re doing it to me. That was part of it too. Because they’ll do it to him, and it doesn’t matter what we say or do, we can’t protect him from that. That was part of it as well. But it was so much more. It was this newfound sense of helplessness. And it was the anger.

The anger ran so deep. The injustice of it all. The unfairness of it. He could hear the childlike petulance of his thoughts. And he summoned the old mantra: I will not be that boy. I will be who I want to be. For a long time, willpower had been enough. He had resolved not to be what his parents wanted him to be: entitled, selfish, spoiled in the truest sense of the word—his emotional maturity forever stunted, his capacity for love and compassion and understanding ruined, and ultimately, his independence and personhood and individuality crippled. It had taken him a long time to put into words why he had thrown away what his parents and so many other people had considered a perfect life, but he had understood even as a teenager, in a way below words, that he was being poisoned. That he was, in fact, poisoning himself. And it was making him sick, even though he couldn’t have told anyone the particular symptoms, or explained what was wrong, or what he wanted to be different. He only knew that there was something different out there. Something more. He had tasted it that night on the football field, the stadium lights like mercury on his face.

So: BJs with his dormmate; the police academy instead of law school; then Emery; and then coming out, whatever that meant at his age, when you were already spending twenty-three-hours a day with the person you loved most in the world. And all of it had cost him something; he wasn’t a fool, and he wasn’t blind. He’d known every time he broke the rules that he was going to pay for it. But the price had always been worth it because what he got in exchange had been so much better. He’d learned to be responsible, to think for himself, to choose kindness and integrity over importance and celebrity, to be himself. That last most of all. With Emery, in a way that might not have been possible with anyone else, he could be himself. Goofy. Smart. Messed-up.

But this—this wasn’t the same. This was someone hacking at the foundations of his life, and all the resolve John-Henry had mustered in the past was crumbling. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he was a good person, and he deserved a good life, and the price he was being asked to pay didn’t lead to a better, more enriching life. It led only to—what? He couldn’t picture it, refused to let himself. He closed his eyes. He thought of how the night had rippled outside Brey’s house, the whole world shuddering, the clack of the branches like dry bones.

He must have dozed because the rap on the window made him jolt upright in the seat. The distant security light was still enough for him to make out a familiar silhouette.

“Ree?”

In answer, Emery tried the door. It was locked, and John-Henry, still waking up and not quite sure if this was a dream, fumbled to unlock it. Emery opened the door on the next try and crouched so they were at eye level. Then he pulled out a flashlight and shone it in John-Henry’s face.

“What is happening right now?” John-Henry asked, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“I’m inspecting you.” Emery took John-Henry’s free hand. It jostled his injured shoulder, and John-Henry hissed. Emery passed over the flashlight and directed John-Henry to hold it steady as he palpated John-Henry’s hand. “Who?”

“I don’t know his name.”

Emery grunted. He must have been satisfied with whatever he found because he released John-Henry’s hand, and the movement made John-Henry gasp again. Emery’s dark brows drew together. “What?”

“It’s—”

Emery didn’t wait for the answer. He got hold of John-Henry, turned him in the seat, and began pressing on his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Ah, shit, Ree! I think I separated my shoulder. What are you doing?”

“I’m sublimating my rage by determining the extent of your injuries.”

“Oh good, because for a minute there I thought maybe you were torturing—” He cut off with a wordless shout. His eyes watered.

Emery released him with another of those wordless grunts. It was, to be fair, almost a shove, the force of the release rocking John-Henry in the seat. Emery took back the flashlight and shone it in John-Henry’s face again. The reek of the Port-a-Potty filtered through the night—faint because the air was too cold to carry the smell, but even a whiff was unmistakable.

“Describe him.”

John-Henry held his hand up again to block the light. “No.”

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