Alfie Alder had spent his summer up to his elbows in dishwater, washing the endless supply of salad forks and wine glasses and dessert plates and butcher knives that clattered into "his" sink. The only good part of working at The Peppermill—aside from the fact that some measly pay was better than none at all—was that they didn't care if he listened to music, and so, all through May, June, and July, Alfie washed dishes as he took himself on a musical tour of the Niobrara Public Library's CD collection, listening to Nirvana and Chopin and everything in between on a battered Walkman that had once belonged to his cousin.

With the music turned up all the way, it had almost been enough to drown out the constant loneliness he'd felt, an ache so ever-present he'd hardly bothered to notice it after a while.

Despite working there for three months, Alfie had never actually eaten at The Peppermill. It was the nicest restaurant in Niobrara, with a host and tables set with two different kinds of forks and heavy velvet curtains that had been collecting dust for, in Alfie's estimation, about three thousand years. It was the kind of place families like Wynn's ate at on special occasions.

For Alfie, celebrating special occasions meant eating ice cream out of the carton on the couch with his mom as they watched horror movies from the fifties. He'd always thought this sounded like a lot more fun than sawing at a steak, wearing a stiff dress shirt, while tinny piano music tinkled in the background.

The pay, of course, was exactly as shitty as the pay for most other high school jobs, but Alfie had been obsessed with watching his runaway fund, as he sometimes thought of it, grow—however slowly.

And run away was exactly what Alfie planned to do, sooner rather than later. He'd always known he'd never stay in Niobrara, that he'd end up dead before thirty by his own hand if he remained in a place like this.

But the last summer had only confirmed that, if Alfie wanted to survive, wanted to exist in any meaningful way beyond simply breathing and eating and going through the motions of a life, he had to get out.

And he'd vowed to himself that, when he escaped, he'd rescue Wynn right along with himself.

Away from Wynn's dad, for whom Wynn never seemed to be enough.

Away from their classmates, who'd made Alfie's life a living hell since they'd been old enough to know what hell was.

Away from the sun-bleached sky and the endless plains. Away from the bite of the wind in the winter. Away from the buildings that all seemed to slump as though they were too tired to hold themselves upright.

Away from all that—but towards something better.

Together.

* * *

Alfie didn't want to like Rebecca Benson.

She was, after all, the third wheel in their senior AP biology lab group. It should have been just Alfie and Wynn, but then Matt Hamlin dropped down to standard biology, and Mr. Grand had blithely suggested that Rebecca join in with Alfie and Wynn.

Alfie had been wearing his most lethal look, but Wynn had smiled and waved her over, and then there were three heads crowded around the microscope instead of two, and there was nothing Alfie could do about it.

Out of the three of them, Rebecca Benson was the only one who actually belonged in AP biology. Rebecca Benson wasn't valedictorian—that title had always belonged to Brian Krespe, who wore headgear and was the only person at Niobrara High with fewer friends with Alfie. But Rebecca was a straight A student, student body treasurer, and though she was never the lead in the school plays, she always had minor roles.

Alfie, meanwhile, was barely scraping a C average, and shouldn't have been in honors classes at all. But the administration had figured out long ago that putting Alfie in the classes his grades actually merited only ended up with one very bored Alfie doodling on his desk in permanent marker until they agreed to move him to more challenging classes.

Not that Alfie paid attention in those, either. By the time he'd gotten to senior year, he had only one goal in school: survive until graduation. After that, he'd be out of school, out of Niobrara, out of this godforsaken, sun-and-snow-battered state.

Wynn probably shouldn't have been in honors, either, but, of course, he'd pushed himself to get into the higher level classes in a futile bid to win his father's approval. And even though Alfie was still a teenager—an age not known for self-awareness and compassion—his heart had always ached watching Wynn chase after something he'd never get.

And it seemed everyone knew that—Alfie, their teachers, Alfie's mom, even Wynn's mom. Everyone, except for Wynn himself.

But Wynn had doggedly weaseled his way into every AP and honors class he could. Wynn was smart, but he wasn't good at test taking, and Alfie at least had the good grace to feel a snag of guilt every time he got a higher grade on a test that Wynn had spent weeks studying for.

But here the three of them were, AP Bio lab partners, which was how Alfie found himself sitting on the bleachers on an unseasonably blustery day in early September, next to Rebecca Benson, as they waited for Wynn's football practice to be over.

Dark clouds had been scudding across the sky all day, swollen with rain but never making good on their threat. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the next morning they'd be filing into the classroom to sit down for a very large exam that Mr. Grand had been making ominous remarks about all week. Alfie hadn't been planning on studying, but Rebecca had suggested they review the material, and Wynn had eagerly agreed.

So, of course, Alfie had agreed, too.

Wynn had practice, because he had practice every minute of every day, it seemed, so Alfie and Rebecca had agreed to wait for Wynn before they all went to Wynn's house to study. Ostensibly, Alfie and Rebecca were studying on their own while Wynn was dodging fat drops of rain on the football field, but somehow they'd ended up on the bleachers, the metal cold and hard against Alfie's bony ass, watching.

Rebecca's long, dark hair had come loose from its plait, and the wind kept whipping it into Alfie's face. Her shampoo smelled like rosemary, and she was hugging her jacket closer around her, staring intently out at the field, her eyes tracking Wynn as he ran drills.

Rebecca realized Alfie was staring at her, and she glanced away from Wynn, her wind-chafed cheeks going even pinker.

"He's really good," she said, playing with the fringe of her scarf and chewing at her lip. Something in Alfie's chest grumbled and rolled over—he hated that she was pretty, he hated that she was nice, and he hated that she was a girl, and therefore could fall in love with Wynn, a boy, right here in the open, under the sky, in front of the whole football team.

"Yeah," Alfie grunted. He wished he had his sketchbook. He'd known Rebecca for years—everyone knew everyone in Niobrara, which was yet another reason Alfie needed to get the fuck out—but he couldn't remember a time when they'd ever had a one-on-one conversation.

"So, um, are you guys… going to the homecoming dance?" she asked.

Alfie's head snapped up, and he stared at her. She was still watching Wynn carefully, a blue-and-gold blur out on the field, and it took Alfie a second to realize that she hadn't been asking if they were going with each other.

"Dunno," Alfie said.

Rebecca didn't seem to notice her hand sneaking up to twirl in her hair, pulling at it thoughtfully.

"So you don't know if… Wynn has asked anyone, or anything?" she said, clearly trying to keep her voice casual.

The kind of voice one might use to pretend they couldn't care less something that meant the whole world to them.

It was a voice Alfie himself used a lot when the topic was Wynn.

"Dunno," Alfie said.

Rebecca licked her lips.

"Okay," she said after a moment.

Alfie stared out at the field. If he did have his sketchbook, he'd be trying to wrangle the lines and angles into the correct perspective instead of having this excruciating conversation with Rebecca. But after all that had happened at Chris Ross's party, Alfie had at least learned not to bring his sketchbook with him anywhere public. He hated that he'd let Chris Ross and his friends—who were currently also on the field with Wynn—take drawing away from Alfie.

It was the only thing he had, other than Wynn's friendship.

"Are you going with anyone?" Rebecca asked. Alfie softened slightly. He knew Rebecca was trying to become his friend. And, in fact, Rebecca had always been kind to Alfie—one of the few people besides Wynn who'd ever bothered.

And he knew if his mother could see him, she'd smack him on the shoulder and tell him he had no right claiming that everyone at school hated him when he wasn't doing much to make himself likeable.

Alfie raised an eyebrow and looked over at Rebecca.

"Do you really think I'm gonna take someone to the homecoming dance?" he asked.

Rebecca shifted uncomfortably, looking at some point on Alfie's forehead instead of meeting his gaze. He felt a little guilty—Wynn had gotten good at telling when Alfie was joking, even if said jokes didn't land, and it had been so long since Alfie had tried to have a conversation with a peer he'd forgotten that, to most people, he was a locked goddamn box.

"I—"

"I'm joking," Alfie said, cracking a wry smile, and Rebecca relaxed visibly, offering him a small grin.

"Oh," she said.

"But I'd rather gargle bleach than go to that thing," he said. "Seriously, a bunch of sweaty teens dancing to shitty music from shittier speakers in front of our teachers? Fuckin' awful."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds awful," Rebecca said, still with that tentative smile. "It's fun. Haven't you ever been?"

Alfie rolled his eyes, any patience he might have found replaced by irritation. Rebecca Benson wasn't popular, but even Brian Krespe, whose mother still picked out his outfits for him every day, had heard the gossip about Alfie. She was playing dumb—and though Alfie knew she was probably just trying to be nice, it felt like pity, and he didn't want anyone's—especially Rebecca fucking Benson's—pity.

"Who are you going with, then?" Alfie asked, and Rebecca's smile tensed.

"Er—um—no one yet," she said, looking down at her hands. "No one's asked me."

"Rebecca," Alfie said, in his most deadpan voice. "Are you waiting for me to ask you out? Is that what this whole lab partner thing has been about?"

Rebecca's head popped up, and her eyes went very wide.

"Oh—Alfie, I mean—I appreciate that but—I don't know we would—I meant that, uh—"

"I'm joking," Alfie cut in. "Again."

"Oh!" Rebecca's mouth fell open, and she blinked a few times, trying to recover herself. "Oh. I see."

"You should probably just bank on ninety percent of what I say being complete bullshit," Alfie said dryly. He didn't particularly want to be friends with Rebecca Benson, but it looked like it was happening anyway, so he might as well do what he could to minimize damage.

With any luck, Rebecca would realize that being friends with Alfie was way more trouble than it was worth, and she would leave him alone.

He turned away slightly, hunching over against the wind, and Rebecca gave up on trying to interact with Alfie. He knew what she was doing, whether or not she knew it, too, but Alfie was never going to give his blessing for Rebecca to fall for his best friend. Not when he'd fallen for Wynn a long, long time before her.

Alfie knew what he was, knew who he loved, and though he'd never said it aloud to anyone—not even Wynn, the only person he told things like this to, and especially not to him. It was simply a part of the fabric of his being, in the same way that he was left-handed and had a freckle on his lip that had cropped up one summer and never gone away.

He didn’t have a problem with his sexuality—but everyone else in Niobrara did.

* * *

It had only taken three weeks for the last summer to go to shit. The first three weeks had been idyllic—though they didn’t have much time together since Wynn was so busy, they'd met up every chance they could, drinking warm, flat beer at the summer spot or getting brainfreeze from strawberry shakes at the Starlite or finding refuge from the heat in the air-conditioning of the movie theater.

And then Wynn had convinced Alfie to come along to Chris Ross's party.

Alfie had always known his friendship with Wynn was an anomaly. Wynn had everything Alfie didn't—money, a normal nuclear family, a house that was cool in the summer and warm in the winter. But Wynn had never seemed to notice the things that everyone else at school hated Alfie for. Or, rather, he did notice these differences. But he'd always seemed to like them.

Alfie didn't really get it—after all, Alfie barely liked himself, so it seemed improbable that someone like Wynn would want to spend any time with him. But, since those early days of elementary school, Wynn seemed blithely unaware of the rest of the town's decision to shun Alfie.

And so, somehow, Alfie—the least popular kid—had somehow ended up best friends with someone who, while not "popular" in his own right, was still adjacent enough to the cool kids that his and Alfie's friendship was odd.

So, no, Alfie hadn't exactly been invited to Chris Ross's party, but Wynn had, and he'd slowly worn down Alfie's resolve, claiming that there'd be a fire pit, a pool with two diving boards, and Chris Ross's parent's expensive alcohol, and they'd spend the evening under the stars, tipsy and covered in melted marshmallow goo and blissfully happy.

Alfie couldn't exactly say no to an offer like that.

Of course, though, it hadn't gone that way at all, and Alfie had spent most of the summer cursing himself for ever hoping the night might go any differently than the way it had. And, that summer, damp with suds and dishwater, he'd slowly come to the realization that his fatal mistake had been to forget that he was Alfie Alder, and that he would never truly have a place with these people.

Even if Wynn—sweet, naïve, well-intentioned Wynn—seemed to think the others just needed a chance to get to know Alfie.

Even though they'd had Alfie's whole life to get to know him, and had never bothered.

The night had started off well enough. Alfie had gotten a few strange glances from classmates when he'd shown up, lurking behind Wynn like a shy kid hiding behind his mother's legs. But by the time Alfie had downed his first beer, he found himself relaxing slightly—he didn't let his guard down all the way, of course, but at least he could draw more than just a shallow breath.

Chris Ross's house was in the nicest part of town—nicer, even, than Wynn's neighborhood, where the houses were new and hulking and all the yards seemed hell-bent on proving just how much money had gone into the landscaping. This area of Niobrara had always been unsettling to Alfie—overgrown doll houses, silent and sterile and not his world at all.

Alfie had no intention of swimming, of course, and even Wynn couldn't coax him into the water, so while Wynn and Peter White kept trying to outdo each other with increasingly complicated dives, Alfie had wandered off, knowing the last thing he needed at the moment was to sit and watch Wynn's athletic, half-naked form slipping in and out of the water.

His feet took him out towards the barn, which, when Alfie pushed open the heavy door, he discovered was not a barn at all, but a garage for Chris's father's painstakingly preserved classic cars. Alfie didn't give a shit about cars—he hadn't learned to drive and he wasn't planning on it—but the lines of the old cars were intriguing to him on an aesthetic level.

Alfie had his backpack with him—he'd spent the whole day with Wynn and hadn't been back home since he'd left that morning—and so he had his sketchbook, too. He sat on an overturned bucket in front of some kind of convertible, cherry red and glinting brightly even in the dim light. Alfie hadn't wanted to turn the light on—it would have glowed like a beacon, and he didn't feel like calling attention to himself—so instead he sketched in the semi-darkness, his eyes adjusting as they sought out the contours of the car he was focused on.

And, after a while, Alfie realized he was having fun at a party, even though he was barely even at the party, technically speaking.

But then Chris and his friends showed up.

One moment, Alfie had been engrossed in his drawing, hunched over his sketchbook, his hand flying across the page, and the next, he was squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh flood of light as the barn suddenly echoed with loud, beer-slurred voices.

"The fuck are you doing here, Alder?"

Alfie's blood froze.

"Just leaving," Alfie muttered, not making eye contact as he hastily tried to shove his sketchbook into his backpack.

"No, no—" Chris said, and suddenly he was right next to Alfie, looming over him. "Seriously, what the fuck are you doing out here, you little creep?"

During the course of their sixth grade year, Chris had grown to well over six feet, and since then he'd acted as though his height and bulk had given him some kind of divine mandate to rule the school.

Alfie hadn't bought it, but the rest of their classmates had, apparently, Wynn included.

"Don't worry about it," Alfie said, still not looking up at Chris, who was almost a foot taller than him. "I'm on my way out."

"I don’t think you are," said Nate Evans, and then Alfie realized he was surrounded. He shivered, his hands shaking enough that he couldn't manage the zipper on his backpack. He didn't like being around Chris and his friends even under the best circumstances, and being alone with them in a barn when they'd been drinking didn't seem like the best place for a twerp who never knew how to keep his mouth shut.

"Get out of my way, Nate," Alfie said wearily.

"You hoping maybe some guy might get drunk enough to let you suck his dick?" someone else said.

Alfie bristled.

"Seriously? That's the best you can come up with to insult me?" Alfie said.

"I bet he's hoping Wynn will finally fuck him," Chris said. "Isn't that right? You're not subtle, Alder, following him around, drooling on his dick."

Chris stepped closer to Alfie, towering over him in a clear bid to intimidate Alfie. Alfie glared up at him, gritting his teeth.

"You're really goddamn boring, Chris," Alfie said. "All of you are."

"Tell me, Alfie, do you know how pathetic you seem?" Chris sneered. "Like, are you aware of it, or do you genuinely think you have a shot with him?"

Something inside of Alfie broke.

"No," he snapped. "But at least my mom didn't have to kill herself to get away from me."

The look on Chris's face was almost worth it.

Alfie knew instantly he'd gone too far, but the rageful, cagey thing inside him didn't care. Alfie had been the subject of rumors for years in Niobrara, and he knew their power. And everyone knew, too, that the "undisclosed medical condition" Patricia Ross had died of was a bottle of prescription pills.

It was an evil thing to say, but Alfie had been backed into a corner, and hate was his only weapon.

Chris's stricken expression vanished, replaced by what could only be described as loathing.

"Let's see what's in that faggy little notebook he's always got," Chris snapped.

"No—" Alfie said quickly, clutching at his backpack protectively, and he realized a fraction of a second too late that this was the worst thing he could have done—

They pounced.

And then Alfie's backpack was being ripped out of his hand, and Chris Ross's forearm was pressed against his throat, pinning him easily against the wall of the barn as Nate Evans unzipped Alfie's backpack with such fervor he nearly ripped it.

Nonononono—

Alfie wasn't even sure if he was saying anything out loud, because his windpipe was being crushed by the hulking quarterback's arm, and there was no way Alfie could wriggle free from it, no matter how much he kicked and scrabbled at Chris's arm.

He knew what they'd find, he knew what was in there, he knew what it would mean if Chris and his friends were running amok through pages that amounted to the contents of Alfie's soul—

"Holy shiiit," Nate said slowly, drawing out the syllable in the most excruciating way. "Chris, check this out."

And then Chris was gone, and Alfie collapsed back against the wall, gasping, his hands flying to his throat.

"Jesus Christ," Chris drawled, and before Alfie could even catch his breath, he flung himself at Nate.

"Give it back—"

"I don’t think so, little man," someone else said, shoving Alfie away like he was some tiny, ankle-biting dog. Alfie fell back, landing hard on the concrete—he'd have a horrific bruise, he knew right away—and a second later he was back up, again throwing himself towards his sketchbook in vain.

Someone was still holding him back, a huge hand planted firmly in the center of Alfie's narrow chest, as Alfie struggled. Time seemed to slow, and Alfie watched in horror as Chris held the sketchbook up for the rest of his friends to see, flipping through page after page of drawings.

Alfie knew the contents of his sketchbook was incriminating at best—damning at worst. His sketchbook was, after all, the one place in Niobrara he could be completely himself. Where he could celebrate the things he loved, could make sense of the world around him.

And, therefore, the majority of the sketches were of men, painstakingly rendered reproductions of Renaissance paintings and statues, which Alfie had copied from an old art history textbook he'd found at the thrift store a few years ago. He'd spent countless nights, his mom at work or already fast asleep, pouring his heart into his drawing, practicing until the sun began to lighten the sky again, sketch after sketch of well-muscled thighs, of the graceful arch of a tossed-back head or the dark trail of hair creeping down from a navel.

Damning indeed.

"I mean, we all knew he was fuckin' queer," someone said with a cruel laugh. "I guess this is just proof."

"Give me that—" Alfie said.

"No way," Chris said, his voice a poisonous mix of derision and glee. "God, Jenny is gonna flip when she hears about—holy shit, is that Wynn?"

Alfie almost threw up. In alongside the decidedly homoerotic collection of figure drawings was study after study of Wynn—Wynn valiantly pushing a lawnmower in the summer heat, Wynn looking out the window of Alfie's bedroom at the rain, Wynn's handsome profile in a full smile when he'd sat for a portrait in the art room one free period. Wynn was more than used to Alfie drawing him—he'd spent plenty of hours patiently holding his hands in some particular pose just so Alfie could figure out how to draw whatever he was working on at the time.

And, unfortunately, by now, Alfie was good enough that there was no mistaking that the boy in the drawings was Wynn.

"Jesus, it is—holy fuck, Alder, you're one twisted fuck—"

"He's obsessed—"

"What a goddamn freak—"

"It's just practice—" Alfie said, his voice strangled. "He knew—"

There was a loud ripping noise, and Alfie's eyes blurred with tears as a sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.

"Stop it—fuck you—" Alfie yelled, struggling even harder now, but his whole world was cruel laughter and the sound of paper ripping and the impenetrable wall of football player between him and his most prized possession.

And then Alfie was on the ground again and they were gone. He could hear them crowing triumphantly as they hurried back to the party to spread the news of what they'd just discovered.

Alfie wiped at his eyes, furious at himself for crying. The torn and crumpled sheets of his sketchbook lay around him like snowfall, and Alfie realized that they'd taken the rest of the sketchbook with them. He could feel the enormity of the situation banging at the door of his mind, demanding to be felt, but he couldn't bring himself to, not yet—not when he was so far from the safety of his house and his bed.

He scrambled to pick up the fallen sketches, now streaked with dust from the barn floor. He shoved them in his backpack unceremoniously, wanting to get out of there before anyone came back. He knew there was no hope in hell of getting the rest of his notebook back. He would hardly be surprised if Chris and his henchmen made copies and plastered them all around town.

Peter White's brother had given Wynn and Alfie a ride, so Alfie walked home, alone in the dark. The slap of his sneakers against the pavement wasn't enough to drown out his thoughts.

He felt horror like he'd never felt it before, a dizzying disbelief as though he'd suddenly found himself plummeting from a cliff.

Alfie didn't know when or how, but he did know that his life was about to get much, much worse.

* * *

Alfie stared down at his copy of The Sound and the Fury as he and Rebecca waited for Wynn's practice to end. His eyes skated over the words, but he didn't take in a word, lost instead to months-old memories of when things had gone from bad to worse. He would have watched Wynn, of course, who was agility and speed and a strange kind of grace on the field, but Alfie didn't have the luxury of staring doe-eyed at his friend the way Rebecca did.

"I think they're done," Rebecca said, nudging Alfie with her elbow. He looked up and saw the team trudging off the field, wiping sweat and the occasional raindrop from their brow.

Alfie grunted and shoved his book back in his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder.

The whole evening ahead of them felt like eating vegetables to earn dessert, if the vegetables were embedded with broken glass. He didn't want to sit through dinner with Wynn and Rebecca and Wynn's awful family. He didn't want to stare into space as Rebecca patiently explained the circulatory system of invertebrates. He just wanted to spend time with his friend, who, despite both their best efforts, he still only managed to see a few times a week.

He was so goddamn tired of this place.

"Thanks for waiting, guys," Wynn said, catching up with them as they headed back towards the front of the school. He was still flushed with the exertion of practice, his cheeks pink, and he looked impossibly handsome, the wind whipping at his dark, sweat-damp hair.

"No worries," Rebecca said brightly. "You guys look really good out there."

"Yeah, Coach has been running some pretty intense drills," Wynn said. "It's paying off, though."

"Should we head to your house, Wynn?" Alfie said loudly, because Rebecca had opened her mouth to respond and the last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the rain while Rebecca and Wynn chatted about sports.

"Yeah, sure," Wynn said. "C'mon, let's grab our bikes."

"Bikes?" Rebecca said, her pretty face creased with a frown. "I walk to school."

"Crap," Wynn said, biting his lip as he thought. "I mean, we could walk, it would just take a while."

"It's gonna rain soon," Alfie said, nodding up at the steadily-darkening sky, hoping that Rebecca would simply decide to go home and study alone.

"Good point," Wynn said. "Rebecca, why don't you just hop on the back of my bike? I mean, if you're comfortable with that."

Rebecca was too busy beaming at Wynn to notice the sour look on Alfie's face.

By the time they made it to Wynn's house, the rain had begun and Alfie was in a thoroughly rancid mood. Rebecca and Wynn had looked positively adorable, her smile brighter than the last rays of the sun as she perched on his handlebars, his hand on her waist to steady her, Wynn laughing as her hair whipped back in his face.

Alfie hated it, but he was used to this kind of poison, an acid etching away at his heart that left nothing but the knowledge that he was alone, alone, alone.

They left their bikes on the porch, out of the rain, and Rebecca was all smiles and giggles as Wynn let them into the house. Alfie had spent a large chunk of this childhood here, but it had never felt like home. It was hard to relax in a place that smelled of potpourri layered over bleach, where tracking in dirt was on par with treason.

"Junior, dinner's just about on the table," Wynn's mother called as she bustled out of the kitchen, and Wynn wrinkled his nose at the nickname. She stopped short, her eyes going wide. "Oh, hello, Alfie. I, ah, didn't realize you were coming for dinner."

"Hi, Mrs. Wynn," Alfie said, hugging his arms around himself uncomfortably. Wynn's mother had always been kind to Alfie, but, much like Wynn, she was a ghost of a shadow of herself when the senior Wynn was around. "Thanks for having us."

"Well—ah, go ahead and sit down," Wynn's mother said, glancing nervously down the hall to where Alfie knew Mr. Wynn was probably watching TV in the rec room.

It was so strange, Alfie thought, to know so much about the inner workings of the Wynn household—to know what news program Mr. Wynn was watching, to know where Mrs. Wynn hung the apron she was currently wearing, to know that Wynn's sister Briony was on her way home from volleyball practice—and to feel so unwelcome, all the same.

It hadn't always been like that. Wynn's father had never particularly liked Alfie, but he'd settled for a civil sort of tolerance over the years. But, of course, everything had changed after Chris and his friends had spread the news of the contents of Alfie's sketchbook.

The people of Niobrara could look past someone spending their life in the closet, it seemed—but heaven forbid Alfie try to express himself.

Alfie realized he was standing in the entryway, glaring down at his sneakers. At least Rufus, the Wynn family dog, was nowhere to be seen.

Even their dog hates me.

He kicked his shoes off and hung up his coat—the Wynn household, of course, was a shoes-off home, and then followed Rebecca and Wynn into the dining room. The table was neatly set, steaming dishes of vegetables and pasta already on the table. It looked more like a television set of a house than a real home.

"Thanks so much for having us, Mrs. Wynn," Rebecca was saying.

Alfie elbowed Wynn in the ribs.

"Did you tell your parents I was coming over?" Alfie hissed in his ear as Alfie's mom asked Rebecca how her parents were doing.

Wynn gave him an extremely guilty look, like a dog who'd been caught ripping up the sofa cushions, and Alfie's heart sank.

"Wynn," he said.

"I told them I was studying with my lab partners," Wynn offered. “You’re my lab partner.”

Alfie sighed.

"For fuck's sake, Wynn, your dad is gonna kick me out."

"No he won't," Wynn said quickly. "Not in front of Rebecca."

Alfie stared at Wynn helplessly. The worst part about the whole thing was that he knew Wynn was being completely sincere. But, as usual, Wynn was well-intentioned and yet completely misguided.

Alfie could see from the expression on his face that Wynn had genuinely thought this was a good idea.

Alfie ran his hand through his hair.

"Jesus H. Christ, Wynn," he muttered.

"I'm sorry—" Wynn said quickly, but Alfie waved him off.

"It's fine," he said, taking a seat.

It wasn't fine at all, of course, because the next moment, the senior Wynn walked in, and the entire climate of the room shifted, as though an Arctic chill had just rolled through.

"Thanks so much for having us," Rebecca chirped again. She didn't seem to notice the way that Wynn and his mother both braced themselves unconsciously, the way their faces went shuttered and distant. Perhaps it was too subtle for anyone else to notice, Alfie knew, but the senior Wynn had a way of bleaching his family of their color and character, of making them smaller and smaller simply by walking into a room.

Wynn’s father stared at Alfie, and Alfie stared right back at him, his jaw jutted defiantly.

"Yeah, thanks for having us," Alfie said, flashing a smile that was too self-satisfied to be considered pleasant.

Mr. Wynn's nostrils flared, his red face going a little redder. There was a strong resemblance between Wynn and his father, but there was something unsettling about seeing Wynn's soft and pleasant features hardened into a perpetual scowl, seeing the same brown eyes full of hate instead of kindness.

Rebecca's smile faltered as she sensed the current of hostility between Mr. Wynn and Alfie.

"Well," Mrs. Wynn said. "Shall we sit down? Briony should be home any moment."

As if on cue, Briony burst through the front door, announcing her arrival loudly as she appeared in the dining room. Briony had always filled up the room with her personality, and it seemed like she, at least, was somehow immune to the worst of the senior Wynn's anger.

"Let's eat," she said. "I'm starving."

She noticed Alfie then, and swung around to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, hey, Alfie," she said, not bothering to disguise the fact that she was clearly startled by his presence.

"Hey," Alfie said.

"I’m Rebecca—" Rebecca said, and Briony laughed.

"I know who you are," she said. "You're the girl that was in that PSA about bike locks that student senate did at the beginning of the year."

Rebecca's cheeks flushed, but she looked pleased to be remembered.

"Yeah, that's me."

Alfie stationed himself as far from Mr. Wynn as he could. He wasn't even hungry—on the contrary, his stomach had been performing a complex gymnastics routine and was currently lodged somewhere in his trachea, judging by how sick he felt.

Just keep your goddamn mouth shut, Alfie told himself.

Keeping his mouth shut worked, at least for the first half of the dinner.

But, because Alfie was Alfie, he could only manage this for so long.

Wynn’s father had a way of dominating any conversation he was a part of that made Alfie's blood boil even on the best of days.

Today was not the best of days. It wasn't even a very good day.

Mr. Wynn was holding court from his seat at the head of the table, blustering about that quarter's profits, which everyone was pretending to be fascinated by. Alfie, of course, hadn't been listening—he'd been busy staring glassy-eyed down at his plate, biting back the sarcastic comments that were leaping around his throat, trying to get out, as though he'd swallowed a jar of crickets.

"Dad, can I go to the homecoming dance?" Briony's voice cut straight through her father's monologue, and he blinked, startled he'd been interrupted. Briony was the only one who could get away with something like that—or, at least, she was the only one who dared to try.

Wynn shot her a strange look.

"It's only open to juniors and seniors," he said around a mouthful of broccoli. Briony was a freshman, but even though she'd only been at Niobrara High for a few months, she was already well on her way to ruling the school. Alfie didn't particularly care about the school hierarchies—he knew better than to think he'd be anywhere but the bottom—but because she was Wynn's sister, Alfie had been quietly keeping tabs on her for her whole life, caring about her because Wynn did.

Briony made a face at Wynn.

"I know," she said. "Kyle asked me out."

"Kyle Greer?" Wynn said, frowning deeply. "Briony, you shouldn't go with him. He's kind of an assh—I mean, he's kind of a jerk.

"Then I guess it's a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion," Briony said primly. She turned back to their father. "Please, Dad? Please?"

She flashed a bright smile. Alfie had always thought of Briony as the capslock, bolded version of Wynn. They were both unsettlingly charming when they wanted to be, and incorrigibly persuasive, but Briony seemed to realize this about herself. Wynn simply seemed to stumble through the world, collecting hearts and then dashing them without ever noticing.

The senior Wynn's face darkened, and the way he looked at Wynn made Alfie sit up, on high alert, like a horse sniffing at the wind before a storm.

"It's up to Junior, now, isn't it?" Mr. Wynn said.

Wynn looked down at his plate, his face flushing. Alfie's eyes were trained on Wynn, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rebecca shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Briony groaned loudly.

"Seriously?" she said. "Please, Dad, can't we bend the rules just this once? It's a really big deal to get invited as a freshman."

Mr. Wynn was still shooting daggers at his son. Wynn looked like he was praying for a hole to open in the ground and swallow him up.

"If we start bending some rules, Briony, we might as well just throw them all out the window," he said, his face stony.

"Ugh," she said. "This rule is so dumb, though. What are we, like, that family from Pride and Prejudice?"

"The Bennets," Rebecca volunteered politely, as if this were a completely normal conversation for the Wynns to have in front of guests, and Alfie had to bite back a grin in spite of himself.

"If your brother goes, then you can go."

Briony threw herself back in her chair dramatically.

Rebecca was suddenly very interested in her broccoli. Alfie wondered what she was thinking. Alfie had grown up in a home where rules were, at best, well-intended suggestions, and he'd never spent much time with a family other than the Wynns. He knew neither of these situations were normal, but he'd never been able to get a grasp of how far beyond normal either of their families were.

Polite to a fault, though, Rebecca's face revealed nothing.

Alfie was electrified, like he'd brushed up against an frayed wire, sending some hard-edged current zinging through him. He knew the look in Mr. Wynn's eyes—he was on the hunt for someone to punish. It never seemed to matter what the person had actually done, Alfie had noticed, only that, by the time Mr. Wynn got through with them, they were small and silent and deferential.

One of Alfie's mom's favorite sayings floated into his head—I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. Alfie managed to swallow a snort of dark laughter just in time.

"You said I couldn't date until Wynn did," Briony pressed, leaning forward. Alfie genuinely couldn’t tell if she was even aware of the effect their conversation was having on the room. She was certainly less oblivious than Wynn, but that really wasn't saying much."This isn't even a date," she continued. “It's just going to some dumb dance. We'll be at school the whole time."

"Don't start," their father snapped, staring directly at Wynn even though he was still addressing Briony. "If your brother starts dating, then we can revisit this issue."

The if hung heavy in the air, like some malevolent ghost hovering above the peas, and Alfie felt anger simmering in him like water about to boil, little pockets of rage climbing up his throat, warning of the roil to come.

"Well, then, I guess I should get ready to spend the rest of my life alone," Briony declared loudly, throwing her hands up. "Because it's not like Wynn is ever going on a date."

She glared at her brother.

Wynn's face went even redder, and he was hunched over his plate, as though he'd just been punched. For a brief moment, Alfie caught Rebecca's eye—she had a tense smile plastered across her face, more of a grimace than a grin given how panicked her gaze was. She was looking at him for direction, Alfie knew, but this was uncharted territory for him as well.

"I've been focusing on school," Wynn said. His voice was so soft his words would have been lost if the table hadn't been deathly quiet.

"If you were really that focused, I'd think your grades would be higher," the senior Wynn said.

Wynn squeezed his eyes shut, and Alfie snapped.

"They'd be higher if you'd just let him get a tutor like every one of his fucking teachers has suggested," Alfie said, his voice shattering the quiet, and Mr. Wynn looked at Alfie with such ferocity that it felt like claws scraping across his face.

"Excuse me?" he said slowly.

"Alfie—" Wynn hissed, but Alfie was past the point of no return.

"Wynn works fucking hard," Alfie said. "As hard as anyone else in our grade. He could be valedictorian and it still wouldn't be good enough for you, would it?"

Mr. Wynn's expression was pure poison.

"No, please—" Mr. Wynn said, narrowing his eyes. "Alfie, I'd love to hear your thoughts on childrearing, given your own extensive experience. Remind me again, were you ever able to figure out who your own father was? I know there were… plenty of possibilities as to who it could be."

Alfie's jaw dropped.

Wynn stood up so quickly his chair nearly toppled over.

"I'll starting cleaning up the kitchen—Alfie, help me," he said, all in one breath. Alfie started to respond, but then suddenly Wynn's hand was clapped over Alfie's mouth to get him to stop talking.

Which, while dramatic, was probably the most effective way to shut Alfie up.

Alfie glared mutinously up at Wynn and allowed himself to be hauled into the kitchen. Wynn's grip on his arm was so tight his fingernails dug into Alfie's skin through his sweatshirt.

"What the fuck, Alfie?" Wynn hissed as soon as the door shut behind them.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him—" Alfie said, turning as though he was about to stomp back into the dining room, but Wynn squeezed his arm even tighter.

"Seriously, fuck you," Wynn said, and Alfie's head snapped back to him. Wynn was still red-faced, frowning deeply. He let go of Alfie's arm, and Alfie rubbed at it, thinking he might have bruises tomorrow.

What a fucking souvenir.

"I was standing up for you," Alfie said.

"No you weren't," Wynn said. "You were baiting each other, and—and—" He took a deep breath, and Alfie realized Wynn was shaking. "You're not fucking helping. You just wanted to pick a fight."

Alfie froze, because as soon as Wynn said it, Alfie knew he was right. If Alfie had really wanted to help he would have—

What would I have done? Alfie thought. He had no idea, and shame and helplessness washed over him. He wanted to save Wynn, to protect him, to keep everything bad and difficult away from him. But he only seemed to be making things worse.

"Wynn, do you know how fucking hard it is to sit there and watch your dad treat you like shit?" Alfie said, a little petulantly, but the self-righteous rage he'd felt had burned down to its last sparks.

Wynn narrowed his eyes.

"This is what my life is, Alfie. You know that. You've known me since I was six. If you don't want to see it, then don't come over."

Alfie glared at him.

"Well, fine then," he huffed. "I'll leave."

Wynn swallowed hard, his jaw tight. There was a terrible look in his eyes, something distant and tragic, a kind of resignation that made Alfie want to scream and tear his hair out and run towards the horizon without looking back. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

"That's not what I'm saying," he said, and the exhaustion in his voice drained every last ounce of fight from Alfie. His dark eyes were soft and sad. "I'm really trying, Alfie. I know—I know it's not good enough. That it's never good enough. But I am trying."

Alfie's heart dropped.

"Wynn, that's not what I meant," Alfie started, but he didn't get the chance to tell Wynn what he had meant, because the door swung open and Rebecca appeared, bearing a stack of dirty dishes and that same forced smile.

"Need help cleaning up?" she asked, her voice a little too cheerful.

Wynn flashed her a weak, dutiful smile.

"Thanks, Rebecca," he said. He stepped away from Alfie, and Alfie felt something inside him tearing, some rift opening up. Wynn thought he was disappointing Alfie—and worse, Alfie had been the one to make him think that.

He was hardly different than Wynn's father, yet another person assigning impossible expectations to poor Wynn.

He wanted to wrap his arms around Wynn, to run his hands through Wynn's dark hair and promise him it would be okay, promise that someday soon they'd be far away from people like this.

If they'd been in the summer spot, he would have. In the summer spot, Alfie knew how to be soft. He knew how to be kind. He knew how to be the kind of friend Wynn deserved.

But out here, things were different. Something small and snarling came out to play when Alfie let the summer spot, and it made him mean and prickly and unfair. He saw it happening, but couldn't stop it, and he hated himself for it.

They weren't in the summer spot, though, and so Alfie simply began rinsing off plates as Wynn slipped back into the dining room to do damage control. Over the clink of dishes and the rush of water, Alfie couldn't hear the conversation, but he knew what it would entail—Wynn groveling, apologizing for Alfie, begging his father to let Alfie stay, and his father finally deigning to offer Wynn the smallest sliver of forgiveness.

He frowned down at the dirty dishwater swirling in the sink.

Someday, he promised himself.

Someday, he promised Wynn.

It won't be this way forever, he promised them both.