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TWENTY-THREE

Fifteen Years Ago

APRIL

It’s past midnight, and Jethro is on his couch with a full flask of whisky.

That’s right. His couch. Not their couch. He’s painfully aware of how alone he is without Clay tonight.

After a truly hideous playoff game, he’s bruised, both mentally and physically. He should be drinking a lot of water and going to bed. Except the bedroom isn’t his favorite place in the apartment anymore. And forget the kitchen. There’s nothing in the fridge except for stale pizza leftovers.

So here he is, marinating on the stupid sofa, emptying the contents of his flask way too fast and stretching out his legs because there’s nobody around to take up the other half of the space. He might sleep right here. It would be easier than standing up and going to bed.

His ancient laptop is open on his gut. His sloppy fingers somehow find their way to the AHL stat sheets, where he looks to see how Clay’s game went tonight.

The Blizzards won 4-1, advancing to the next round. He clicks on the score to get a breakdown, and a headline jumps out at him. ROOKIE CLAYTON POWERS SCORES HIS FIRST AHL GOAL.

Jethro isn’t surprised. Not even a little. This is exactly what was meant to happen. Clay’s the only one who couldn’t see it.

He raises his flask to the empty living room. “Great job, you preppy fucker,” he announces. “Told you, dumbass.”

He closes the laptop and sets it on the wobbly coffee table. Then he opens his phone and squints at the text thread he had with Clay. There’s almost nothing there. When you spend 24/7 with somebody, you don’t need a lot of texts. Their last exchange was Clay asking Jethro to pick up some mesclun, and Jethro asking what the hell that is.

The last message says:

Clay

NVM I will get it myself.

Jethro finds himself tapping out a delayed response.

Jethro

U could have just said lettuce.

Saw you got a goal 2nite.

Told you! This is how hockey works.

Next year U will be in the big show. I will be here on the couch.

We lost 2nite. I got shelled.

He takes a gulp from his flask, and it burns going down. He’s trying to get the cap screwed back on again—a guy has to be careful not to spill his last few swallows of whisky—when his phone beeps. It’s shockingly loud in the stillness of the apartment.

He fumbles for the phone, which is trying to hide between his body and the couch cushions.

How many did you let in?

We lost 4-0. We’ll be out after the next one.

Way to fight for it.

Fuck u! Really fuck u. I am fighting.

Got it. Not sure why you’re texting me. I’m just your old roommate. You could be using this time to find a new one.

Not getting a roommate.

No? Are you afraid he won’t cook for you and suck you off? Or maybe you’re afraid he will.

I think it’s the second one.

You got used to having me around. You liked it. You liked me. But you wouldn’t say so to my face.

That’s fucking cowardly.

Now you’re congratulating me from a safe distance. So gratifying.

Jethro reads each new text as it pops up. And each one fills him with growing irritation.

Was just trying to say good game. UR the one who made it weird.

And that’s your whole issue. You’re afraid of things looking weird. You’ll throw away something good just to make sure it doesn’t look weird.

Jethro tries to think of a way to defend himself. He tries several times to type out something that makes sense. But it’s no good. In the first place, he’s drunk. And in the second place, part of him worries that Clay has a point. What they had together was really good.

But he’s not like Clay. He doesn’t have a guaranteed bright future with a solid family who will support him if shit gets rough. Jethro only has hockey. He can’t afford to fuck that up.

He backspaces over another rambling explanation, types Fuck you, and hits send.

It’s callous, even for him. So he types: I’m not getting another roommate because I can’t have you.

But it’s the kind of text he’d regret in the morning, no matter how true it is. So he backspaces over that, too. He blocks Clay’s number, so he won’t be tempted to send it anyway. It’s better to be callous than stupid.

And pining for Clay is stupid.

So he just won’t.

He falls asleep clutching the flask in one hand and the phone in the other.