1

Nico

“You can drop me here,” Nico said. For the fourth time.

Emery glanced out the driver-side window. Where the exit ramp merged onto Kingshighway Boulevard, a panhandler shuffled from vehicle to vehicle, carrying under one arm a crate lined with a plastic bag. He had his jeans belted below his ass, so two scrawny white cheeks poked out into the October sunlight, and the cardboard sign on a string around his neck said, VET – PLEASE HELP. A chicken poked her head up from inside the crate and glanced around, beady eyes jerking this way and that, and then bit the man. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Nice try,” Emery said, and then, to add insult to injury, he hit the automatic locks. Not because of the panhandler, Nico thought with dismay veering toward hysteria. To keep Nico from escaping.

“Honestly,” Nico said. “You can—”

“If you say it again,” Emery said, “I’m going to help you move into your dorm.”

Nico managed to stop himself.

The light changed, and they drove on.

It was a beautiful October day: cool, crisp, the sunlight cut so clearly that it looked like a pane of glass. On their left, Forest Park was a mixture of harvest colors: the golden brown of prairie grass; the reds and golds of oak and maple; the slate of the creek’s slow-moving waters. From living in the Midwest all these years, Nico knew the fall could be a mixed bag—some years, the heat and humidity lingered until it was almost November, and others, the cool came quickly. And others, he thought drily, you got both, what they used to call an Indian summer. But today was perfect.

“You’ve got your laptop?”

“Oh shoot. Was I supposed to bring my laptop?”

Emery, of course, ignored that. “And your phone?”

“Only the one I’ve been playing on for the whole drive.”

“What about chargers for all your devices?”

“What are chargers?”

“Keep being a smartass, Nico. I’d love to meet your dormmates.”

Nico tried to imagine that. Bull-in-the-china-shop wasn’t exactly right, because Emery wasn’t a bull. But he could visualize, quite clearly, some degree of smashing.

“I’m sorry.” They rode to the next stoplight in silence, and Nico added, “I’m nervous.”

Emery grunted.

On their right, the massive complex of Barnes-Jewish Hospital slowly gave way to condo buildings, apartment buildings, and hotels. And then, in the distance, Nico spotted a limestone turret, and his heart began to beat a little faster. He began working his way through his mental list: he had his phone, he had his laptop, he had his chargers—

“What’s so special about this conference, anyway?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been to plenty of conferences before. They were never slumber parties. And you certainly never got nervous.”

“I did, actually. I threw up. A lot.”

Emery side-eyed him, and Nico recognized the look—he’d encountered it before, basically anytime someone knew he modeled (even if it was only occasionally) and heard the words throw up. It didn’t help that Emery was, especially for an ex-boyfriend turned friend turned boss, annoyingly perceptive.

“Not an eating disorder,” Nico said. “Just nerves. And I don’t need you worrying about me.”

“You’re too skinny.”

Annoyingly perceptive, Nico amended, about some things.

“You’ve lost weight since we broke up.”

“Because I was so devastated I couldn’t eat.”

“Hardy-har. You bought new clothes because the old ones don’t fit anymore.”

“It’s a, special seminar,” Nico said. “Some of the top scholars in the field are here. It’s a mentorship opportunity. And a networking opportunity. And they publish an edited collection. And honestly, if I want to get into a PhD program and eventually get a job, this is a make-it-or-break-it opportunity.”

What he didn’t add was what he’d been thinking to himself more or less since he’d gotten the acceptance email: to get someone to take me seriously as a scholar.

“Why in the seven fucking hells would you do a PhD program in the humanities? Look at Theo. Look how well that turned out for him.” Emery seemed to consider it for a moment. “Why don’t you get a PhD in biology?”

“Oh, sure, get a PhD in biology.”

“I didn’t say it was easy. But at least it would be worthwhile.”

“I don’t know, I’m kind of busy right now. Maybe I’ll get one next year.”

Emery gave him a flat look.

Ahead, the campus of Chouteau College was taking shape. The old limestone buildings stood apart from more recent construction—in contrast to the towers of glass and steel, the campus, with its neogothic turrets and spires and leaded-glass windows, looked like a place outside of time. Part of that, Nico had to admit to himself, was the tangle of excitement and nerves in his gut. But part of it was the chilly sunlight, and part of it was the confetti of brightly colored leaves papering the old brick walkways, and part of it was how, when the wind moved the branches of the old trees, the shadows rippled, and it made him feel, only for a moment, like they were underwater.

“Do you have your wallet?”

“I don’t carry a wallet. And you know that.”

“I was hoping you’d come to your senses. Do you have your license?”

Nico waved his phone to display the cardholder attached to the back.

“Credit cards?”

“Ready to go and loaded with debt.”

“They’d better not be after I spent three Saturdays in a row helping you consolidate—”

“It was a joke!”

Emery glowered at him. “Cash?”

“Nobody carries cash anymore.”

“You should always have a couple hundred dollars in case of emergency.”

“I’ve got Apple Pay, Em. I’ll be fine.”

“Textbook?”

“Believe it or not, nobody writes textbooks for seminars on Christian existentialism.”

Emery thought about that. “They should. That seems like an untapped market.”

The next stoplight flicked to red. The campus was cattycorner to them now, and on the sidewalk, a young woman in what Nico thought of as a pioneer-type dress (to the ankles, to the wrists, gingham, even a bonnet) had set up a makeshift plywood stall with a sign that said GOATMILK FOR SALE – NO FREE SAMPLES. Next to her, chomping on what appeared to be the college’s expensive landscaping, was a goat.

“She’d better have a permit,” Emery muttered. “And a pasteurizer.” His gaze flicked to Nico, cool amber chips raking him up and down. “Did you pack warm clothes?”

Nico touched the corduroy shirt jacket, worn over a favorite Kumbia Queers t-shirt. “This is super warm.”

“Real clothes, Nico.”

“These are real clothes.”

“Those jeans are riddled with holes.”

“That’s how kids wear them these days.”

Emery snorted.

The light changed, and they drove on.

“Condoms?”

Nico choked on his spit.

“Do not make me ask again,” Emery said.

“This is why I should have driven myself.”

“You can’t drive yourself because your car is in the shop because you refused to let me take it in for an oil change, and then you refused to let me put a reminder in your phone to have the oil changed, and then you refused to tell me how many miles you’d driven—”

“All right, all right. I know. It was my fault. I was irresponsible and immature, and I screwed up, and you’re being so generous, and I totally appreciate it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“No, Em. I didn’t pack condoms. Believe it or not, I don’t go to prestigious seminars to hook up.”

Emery looked at him.

Heat rose in Nico’s face. “That was one time. And I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Then allow me to remind you,” Emery said drily, “that on the off chance opportunity strikes—”

“It won’t. This is important to me, Em. This is a big deal. And I’m not going to screw it up.”

“Perhaps your goal should be not to screw anything. Not until I’ve completed the full vetting process.”

Nico sank down in his seat. He reached over as unobtrusively as he could and tried the door handle. Still locked.

“We’re still in the maintenance phase on Prowler,” Emery said, reaching back to grab The Binder off the seat behind him. Nico could only think of it in capital letters now: The Binder, Emery’s contribution (if that was the right word—single-minded mission might have been a better description) to get Nico happily paired up. It was approximately four inches thick, stuffed with printouts—articles and research and a surprisingly large number of photos of porn stars, which Emery had once, disastrously, used to try to figure out “Nico’s type.” They’d been sorted by body type and then by dick. There had been organizer tabs. “But,” Emery continued, “it wouldn’t hurt you to start thinking about how you want to tweak your Hinge profile. You liked that marathoner. His average mile time—”

“Okay,” Nico said, yanking on the door handle again. “We’re here.”

Emery held out The Binder.

“Uh, you know, I’m going to be super busy.”

Emery pushed The Binder at him. Well, pushed sounded like something a normal person would do. Emery pressed The Binder against Nico’s body until Nico gave up and took up. “I want you to send me a list of the changes and a draft of the new profile. Maybe you should mention running; that can be your hobby.”

Fortunately, the next turn took them onto the campus proper, and the next brought them to a stop directly in front of Harlow Hall. Like the rest of campus, it was an imposing limestone building with pointed windows and architectural elements that Nico guessed were supposed to suggest flying buttresses. A couple of boys—undergrads, clearly, with their flannel and beanies and, unmistakably, clove cigarettes—stood outside, but otherwise campus was empty. Fall break meant the perfect opportunity to hold the seminar on a beautiful campus without the inconvenience and distraction of, well, students.

Emery parked, and together, they got Nico’s luggage from the back of the van. The flannel boys were laughing and talking to each other in low voices, and from the snatches Nico caught, they thought it was fucking hilarious that Emery was dropping Nico off.

With a glance at the suitcases, Emery said, “I could help you get everything upstairs.” A smile teased the corner of his mouth. “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

“I’ll be fine, Em. Thank you again for the ride.”

“Of course.”

They shared an uneven beat of silence, and then they spoke at the same time.

“Be careful—” Emery said.

“Have a safe drive—” Nico began.

Nico laughed. Emery didn’t, but Nico recognized the amusement in the cold autumn fire of his eyes.

He had barely made it halfway to Harlow when Emery called after him. “Did you remember clean underwear?”

The boys in flannel cracked up over that one.

Nico turned back, and at that distance, he honestly couldn’t tell if Emery was giving him shit or, worse, this was a legitimate question. The boys in flannel were practically crying. One of them dropped his clove cigarette.

“I’m all set, Daddy,” Nico called back, and it was worth it when one of the flannel boys actually fell over. Doubly worth it because of the unmistakable tightening of Emery’s jaw. “Love you!”