Page 13 of The Evening Wolves

“It’s because the doc never had any big brothers to mess with him,” North explained as he grappled with Shaw. Then he shouted, “Don’t grab my dick, you pervert!” A moment later, he and Shaw stumbled into the closet door.

“You need to send these people home,” Glenn said to Emery, his voice low.

“Oh, we are home—” Shaw cut off with a squeak as North began shaking him inside the snowsuit.

“Emery said we could stay here,” Jem said. “Well, actually, Colt did, but he’s mini-Emery, so it counts.”

“Everybody go back to the living room,” Emery said. “North, knock it off.”

Because North was constitutionally incapable of acting like an adult, he did stop wrestling with Shaw—but only after he shoved Shaw into the coat closet and locked the door. The others drifted back into the living room.

“I’d like a moment alone with my husband,” Emery said.

Grace Elaine waited a moment, long enough to make it clear that it was her decision to leave and not Emery’s request. Then she and Glenn headed deeper into the house.

Emery studied John: the dark rings around his eyes, the poor color that even John’s golden complexion couldn’t hide, the hint of tension in his jaw. John met his gaze for a moment and then looked away.

Touching his cheek, Emery said, “You’re home.”

John nodded.

A million things jostled to come next: I was so worried, and I can’t believe this is happening, and Are you ok, which was quite possibly the stupidest question ever, and I’m sorry, and I love you.

Before Emery could say any of those things, John took his hand and moved it away from his face. His fingers squeezed Emery’s for an instant. Then he let go, and the air felt cool on Emery’s skin where John had touched him.

“Pizza sounds good,” John said.

Emery blinked. He opened his mouth to say—what? Then he shut it again.

John smiled again and started toward the kitchen. “I guess I should hope Colt left me some pepperoni.”

Emery followed.

Auggie and Theo sat at the counter, and as John plated a slice of pepperoni, Auggie said, “John-Henry, we’re so sorry.”

John nodded and smiled. “I appreciate that.”

“Nobody is going to believe this,” Theo said. “Anybody with half a brain will know this is made up.”

“Thank you for saying that.” John took a can of Four Hands out of the fridge and popped the top. He sipped foam from his knuckles. “But somebody did believe it, Theo. Lots of people, it turns out, believe it. A grand jury. A prosecutor. Men and women I’ve worked with for my entire adult life.” He smiled again. “But I appreciate you saying that.”

Theo looked like he’d been slapped. Tears filled Auggie’s eyes, and he tried unsuccessfully to brush them away.

“John,” Emery said.

John lifted the can of Four Hands and took a long drink. Emery remembered how he looked with a beer—he remembered, more or less, everything about his husband. It was the curse of being in love, knowing the shape of him, the space he filled, the geometry of his body, no matter where he was or what he was doing. It had been a long time since he’d seen John with a beer, but in that moment, it didn’t seem long at all. It seemed like yesterday.

When John lowered the can, he ran the back of his hand across his mouth and met Emery’s eyes, his gaze cool and flat.

Emery looked away first. “You should eat something.”

John took a bite of the pizza. He chewed. Swallowed. The sounds seemed magnified, even with the chaos in the living room filling the house. Auggie slid off the stool, the legs screeching against the floor, and said, “Excuse me,” as he hurried out of the room.

Theo cleared his throat. “Why don’t I—”

“What’s that?”

Emery glanced over and saw, too late, the pile of rags and bottle of acetone he’d left by the back door.

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