“Tyler.”
He said nothing, just kept crying.
“Tyler, come on. It’s okay. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”
I waited. A minute passed. His breathing slowed and evened out. A space opened and filled with quiet.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” He sounded flat, spent.
“What’s wrong?”
“I know I’m fucked up. I don’t know why I act that way. I shouldn’t drink. I’m such an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole.”
“I can’t stand the idea that you’re disappointed in me. I hate it.”
“Tyler.” Something released in me, a latch letting go. “You could never disappoint me.”
I poured a whiskey and crouched to scan my record collection, untouched for months—a year? I needed something to help calm me down, even out the emotional upheaval of the night. I pulled an album and set it on the turntable. I lowered the needle; the comforting crackle. I stretched across the couch, the music cocooning around me.
Soon there was a tap at the door.
Tyler’s eyes were swollen, his face puffy. He looked hollowed out, beautiful. I pulled him to me, holding him to my chest in the fold of my arms. He poured heat against me, pushing into me, burrowing. I kissed the top of his head, petting his hair and the back of his neck. I would have taken all of him into me if I could.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
He pulled back, smiling. “I hope not.”
“Did something happen tonight?”
“Yeah. It’s stupid.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” He laughed. “Is that okay?”
“It’s okay.” I noticed then he’d brought a duffel bag with him. It was packed full, heavy on the floor beside him. “What’s with that?”
“I can’t deal with the dorms right now. Could I stay here? Until I go home?”
I looked at him, his patchy face and bloodshot eyes.
“Of course.”
He threw himself back at me, quick and ferocious, wiry arms wrapped tight. I kissed his head again—once, twice, and then once more.
He settled into the couch and I rummaged around in the kitchen, returning with a bowl of warmed-up pasta in each hand. We didn’t really talk, just sat together, eating and listening to the music. Tyler ate with abandon, legs folded under himself, wiping tomato sauce from his face as he went. The record reached the end, the needle making a soft, swooping sound as it circled the vinyl edge.
“Should I play the other side?” I asked, getting up.
Tyler nodded and said through a mouthful, “I like it. What is it?” I flipped the record. An orchestral bloom filled the room. I passed him the album sleeve. “I’ve never heard of them,” he said.
“Are you kidding me? This record saved my life in high school.”
“What do you mean?”
