"Two weeks, Pratt. Two weeks he was—and I was—I wasbusy.I was pouring fucking Manhattans for a bridal shower in Providence. I ran a Sunday brunch shift for people who wanted me to smile. I wasbusy."
He raised his hand to his mouth, pressing a knuckle against his lower lip. He pressed harder and then lowered the hand.
"He used agun."
Sully's body flinched when he said it.
"He could have called."
He stepped closer to me. "Fuck, what am I saying? I could have called him. I said I would, and I didn't. I didn't call, Pratt. I fucked up—so bad."
He hung his head, and his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, his eyes were damp.
"He could have calledme. We had a thing. When we were sixteen, we got lost in a mall in Burlington because I told him I could get us to the food court without looking at the map. I drove us there, and then we lost each other. When we finally figured out where we were, we both swore—we swore this—that whichever of us was more lost, the other one had to come get them. Wherever. Whenever. It didn't matter. We shook on it in a fucking Orange Julius."
He laughed once, bitterly.
"Orange Julius, Pratt. That was the whole promise. And he didn't call. He had to be lost. He used agun."
Tears streamed from both eyes, and he didn't wipe them away. He let them fall.
"I'm so angry at him." Sully turned to look at the corner of the room again. "I know how that sounds. I told Nora, but she didn't flinch. I am — I'mfuriousat him. For fifteen years, he was six houses away, and then he wasn't anywhere, and he did that on purpose, and he didn't even—"
He stopped and sat down . It wasn't on the couch or in a chair. He sat on the floor, hard, with his back against a chair. He pulled his knees up and crossed his forearms over them.
His voice was softer. "He was my best friend since I wasnine.And I—"
His shoulders shook again.
I moved to the floor, my back against the couch. I didn't cross to him or reach for him.
He focused on me, looking into my eyes.
"The last time," he said. "Last time. A last fucking supper. It was a diner outside Alewife. He ordered eggs, wheat toast, coffee with half-and-half in it because his mom did it that way. He always ordered that. I had a turkey club. We talked for two hours about—"
His mouth twisted.
"—about a guy we went to high school with getting engaged. I wondered whether I should get a permanent place in Providence or keep subletting. He told me his boss was an idiot. Bosses were all idiots then. He said Springsteen's late albums were depressing. I couldn't disagree. He walked me to my car, and he said for me to call. I said, yeah, definitely. I got in the car, and I drove to Providence. I meant it. Fuck, I meant it, Pratt, but I didn't—"
He lowered his head onto his arms.
"I didn't."
The sounds he made sounded like an animal in pain with snuffling attached. The Boston album ended somewhere in the middle of it, and the silence on top of Sully's crying made it even harder to sit through.
"Cath sent his records. That's his mom. He said they were mine, but they were really his. I meant to see her in Boston and get them, but I can't go back. Not to the house."
He looked up again. "You know how I play Fleetwood Mac, right?"
I nodded. "Rumourswas one of the albums she sent. Bryan was always crazy about Fleetwood Mac. We were at that concert together, and he'd won a backstage thing on a radio station, and Stevie signed the album in silver marker. He wore — " He stopped.
His voice was thinner when he started again. "He wore a t-shirt he'd made himself in silver fabric pen to match, Pratt. He made a shirt. It saidGold Dust Womanon it, and theWwas crooked because he'd run out of room. He was so proud of that fucking shirt. He wore it in a pic I have somewhere, and he is so—his whole face—"
He pressed his forehead down against his arms.
"Nobody else knows about theW.Nobody. Not his mom or sister or anybody else at the damn funeral. I am the last person alive who knows about theW."
His entire body shook from his shoulders down to where his heels pressed into the hardwood.
