I hadn’t heard from Charles in some time, as I had expected from him. An amount of time which, through every day that passed, I became more and more acquainted with the monster that was my own mind, the extent to which I wished to hush it, the extent to which I longed to hear Charles’s voice. My house grew quiet, it seemed the birds did too. My mother was upset he had left town, upset that we couldn’t just be friends again, upset that I was failing my classes.

More important to me, though, was that night I continued to return to, that night by the pond— sweet smell of summer, the world seeming infinite and bright— when Charles told me something I’ll never forget, and when I, in my fury, couldn’t help but do the very same to him.

* * *

He had returned from his trip to Europe, and before dinner that night, we snuck away, down to a spot we’d loved since we were boys. Maybe it was the privacy it granted, or how loudly the bugs hummed in the summer, or how calm the water always seemed. I had loved Charles for a few years— the way he smiled, the way he read aloud, his hello, his gentle manner. His eyes. The way he smoked. His introspection. The way he drew me in. Our closeness. I loved him fully and, I suppose, for some time, I had begun to believe he loved me back. I don’t know what convinced me of this. Almost comical, looking back on it.

Our long walk had left both of us tired, but still we marveled at the scene together.

“Damn,” Charles said, his hand on his hips. “I missed it, Jack, I really did.” He looked at me, that way he always did.

I said: “I missed you, Charles, I really did.” Smiling up at his pale face, I remember thinking this response was extraordinary clever. Ha.

For a while we sat there together, passing back and forth a bottle we had stolen from my mother’s liquor cabinet. I still remember the striking green of the bottle.

“Tell me about France.” I said hastily. I looked at his eyes. “Tell me about Vienna. You’ve barely said anything about it, and you were gone three months.”

He laughed, grabbing the bottle. There was a long silence.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, “about Elise.” He looked at me and smiled. He had put an emphasis on Elise, a French name; he said it as if it were difficult to pronounce for an English speaker, which it was not.

I felt my face drop. I was curious. I felt like I was little again, putting a cup to the door of my mother’s room, trying to listen to her short conversations with my relatives. He didn’t say anything for a while. I had guessed what it’d be, but I prayed prayed prayed I was wrong.

“She’s marvelous. French. Reads like it’s her job. She spent nearly all my time in Europe with me, traveled with me. Her brown hair, it’s cut really 60’s, super cute. She reminded me of you,” he said. He sounded disingenuous, something I’m sure nobody but me would’ve picked up on.

I stared at him, searched his face with my eyes. Total silence.

“We’re getting married.” These words hung over me for a while. Something rippled the water. Instantly and without thinking, I began shaking my head without making eye contact with him.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said.

“I’m getting married,” he repeated.

“No you aren’t,” I said. I shook my head more rapidly and turned to meet his gaze. “You can’t.”

“In October. She’s coming here, to live with me. You’ll love her, really.”

“You aren’t marrying her.” I said. “Three months. Hardly,” I mumbled to myself, now staring at the sky, a hopeless dark blue.

“What?”

“You’ve hardly known her three months.” I scoffed. “Do you even fucking love her? You hardly know her!” My voice was suddenly louder.

“I know everything about her. And I don’t need your input, Jack. I don’t need it. I’m getting married, like my father always wanted. If this is about some childish shit, Jack, I swear to God—“

“It’s not.”

“Then what.” He took another sip of the bottle.

“You know,” I said, after a second. I held his gaze.

“I don’t.”

“You do.” I nodded at him and stood up.

He stared.

Finally the words came out. “I’m in love with you, Charles. I love you, I love you, I love you.” I stared at him, tears in my eyes. “I love you, Charles. I love you. I love you.” This last word was broken up by a sob of my own.

He stared.

“I never loved anyone as much as I love you, Charles. I want to hold you. Kiss you.” I felt tears streaming down my face. “I love you, Charles.” My voice had fallen to a whisper.

“What are you doing,” he said.

“I don’t know. But I’m in love with you, Charles. I have been for a while.”

“What do you want me to say? This is insane, Jack. I’m getting married.”

“I can’t watch you get married.”

“Elise doesn’t care about that.” He paused, looking at me fully. He looked as though he were going to cry, too. “I don’t either.” He looked down.

“We’ll run off, to New England. There I can love you. My parents don’t have to know. And you’ll

love me back. We’ll write stories.”

“Jack, I’m flattered. But you know, I’m not…”

He meant to say ‘gay’. He never did.

“I love you, Charles.” I couldn’t make myself stop telling him this.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry.” Now he stood up too, stood close to me. I remember seeing the fireflies twinkle on and off and wishing I could do the same, wishing I could dissapear, wishing I had never told him in the first place.

“You’re a great friend. But Elise, she’ll be a great wife.” I shook my head back and forth. “I don’t love you like that, Jack. We aren’t kids anymore. I don’t understand why that’s so hard for you to grasp.” The latter of this felt like a sharp stab.

He turned away from me abruptly, taking a gulp of the stolen liquor, returning to where we first sat. I felt my face wet with tears.

“I love you, Charles,” I whispered.

And there was an awful silence that could be heard a mile away. A recognizable silence.

I stood at the edge of the water.