“Where are you from, Oli?” Lark asks. He has folded his knees up to his chin, shuttered himself.

“I grew up outside of Annapolis. In Maryland,” Oli tells him.

“Were you glad when you left home for the first time?”

Oli shrugs. “Well, I left in stages, kind of. I went to Johns Hopkins for undergrad, so I could go home every weekend if I wanted to. I didn’t feel away-away until I moved up here for my Ph.D.”

Lark nods, waiting for a real answer to his question, patient. He likes to listen to other people work through their feelings. Lark is glad that even someone as normal-seeming and high-functioning as Oli cannot always grasp the contours of their feelings at will. Often, Lark needs to search for the edge of his emotions, really look to understand how he feels. It has become even harder to know himself since he started taking antidepressants. At least his worst thoughts have grown more sluggish, less likely to suddenly overwhelm him before he can name and understand them.

“I was glad to go,” Oli tells him, finally. “But mostly because I was ready to feel like an adult, you know? My parents are great, but by the time I was twenty, I always felt bad about everything they did for me. I was a ‘troubled teen,’ as they say, and I felt kind of smothered.”

Lark is surprised by this description of a young Oli. He is a kind and mellow adult who wears button-downs under sweaters, has his red hair cut into a classic short-back-and-sides. He drinks one glass of white wine at parties and makes considerate small talk. “I can’t imagine that,” Lark says. “Were you very different? When you were younger?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I listened to emo music and was an angsty, closeted gay,” Oli laughs. “It seems kind of silly now.” In the silence Lark leaves him to continue, he says, “I was cutting, a little. When my parents found out, it became a big deal. I think I would have just stopped, eventually. But I also realize that I can’t know that. I might not have.”

“It’s good that they cared,” Lark says.

“It is. But it was good for me to get away, too. I think I learned more about who I was, who I wanted to be, once I only had myself to depend on day-to-day.”

Lark thinks maybe that was where he went wrong. When he left home, he expected he could depend on his friends. He needed to lean on Max especially, who was once his co-conspirator but had become his navigator, his guide. There was no reason for him to go alone.

I was alone in the backyard, sitting in the unmown grass and watching the sun go down behind the suburban tree line. Dana snapped a picture behind me, the shutter whir just audible, before she sat down too.

Are you okay? she asked. Everybody’s wondering where you went.

I sighed and fell back into the grass. The slanting sunlight was in my face, and I had to close my eyes. Just tired.

I’m not surprised. You’ve been up a solid eight hours.

Haha, so funny, I deadpanned, though Dana wasn’t far off. It was four weeks after my mono diagnosis, and even though I looked better, my lymph nodes no longer rounding out my face, I still felt terrible. My fatigue had become something of a joke, with friends drawing on me, stacking things on me, shaking glitter over me while I slept. After a month of this, the novelty had worn off for everyone, and the unrelenting malaise had become more worrying than endearing.

Dana let me doze while she took the DSLR from around her neck and flipped through photos of a short set Squires of Gothos had played in the living room. She held the camera over me so I could look up at her favorite shots on the preview screen. One showed Max at the microphone with bright streaks of make-up that turned his hard features into a mask, dilated pupils making the eyes look hollow and uncanny. Dana particularly loved an almost tender photo of Max smearing blacklight-blue face paint across my cheekbones. Max smiled, two painted fingers extended like a benediction; pale and exhausted, I leaned into his touch.

I preferred a more joyful picture of me and Max leaping into the air, our hair floating in a moment of anti-gravity, confetti flashing gold around us. It had just been a handful of shiny paper and craft store sequins, but in the tight frame of the shot, it was enough to transform the dusky house party into a proper gig.

They’re good, I said. I still had sparkles in my hair and fluorescent paint over the bridge of my nose.

Thanks. I’m hoping I’ll be able to get work shooting gigs when we get to Portland.

You will, if you want to, I told her. She was talented, I thought, and she knew how to make others see it. Are you still thinking about art school?

Dana frowned. No. I mean, we’re leaving tomorrow. Doesn’t seem practical.

I didn’t say anything, but I had to bite my tongue about what I thought was practical.

You’re not excited? she asked, after a while. Max is. I am.

I didn’t say anything, even though I knew we were going, and I did want to be gone.

There were fireflies appearing, night turning the grass blue.

I couldn’t say I was excited.

What are you doing out here? Max yelled. He was running down the lawn towards us, carrying disposable flutes of Cava. You’re missing the toast.

Dana got up first, ran up to kiss Max, while I followed achingly behind. When I reached them, Max tried to give me a drink, and I reminded him, as I seemed to nightly, that I wasn’t allowed to have alcohol.

I’m going to head to bed, anyway, I told him. I’m tired.

Not already! Max threw himself at me, his embrace locking my arms to my sides, rocking me back and forth. I was unmoved. The party’s just started. Our party.

I’m tired, I repeated into Max’s shoulder. I’m tired, and I’m running a fever.

Max pouted but let me go. Have you said goodbye to everyone?

I shook my head and looked towards the house.