On Monday, instead of turning right and following the swarm of students to the cafeteria, Wynn turned left instead. He stopped by his locker and headed to a part of campus he rarely went. It was strange to be wandering around when most of the other students were at lunch—the grounds were still and empty, as if they were holding their breath, waiting for sixth period to start.

In his hand, Wynn clutched two sack lunches. He'd woken up early to have time to make them. They weren't anything special—a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, cut diagonally for himself and into rectangles with no crusts for Alfie, a sprig of crisp red grapes, and a store-bought chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a napkin.

The art room door was heavy, and it creaked as he pushed it open. The art room had always felt to Wynn like a temple for some religion he wasn't part of, a place that was sacred for reasons he'd never quite understand. The walls were hung with years and years of student art projects, papier-mâché bird masks dangling from the ceiling, the shelves lined with wobbly handmade pots, a supersized self-portrait of a girl which, judging by the permed hairstyle, had been hanging there since well before Wynn was born.

Somewhere in the distance, a tinny radio was playing a song that had been seemingly on repeat the last summer. Wynn frowned as the chorus started and those long, hot months came flooding back to him. He'd felt so stifled, so trapped, pinned down and bleached dry by the heat and the sun and the heavy, heavy burden of trying not to disappoint.

And underneath it all, a loneliness so deep and all-consuming he could feel it like grit between his teeth.

He shook his head. That summer was in the past, and he was learning from his mistakes. He hadn't been brave enough to stand up to his father, to stand up for Alfie, for himself. And he still wasn't quite brave enough.

But he was working on it.

It had been four days since the disastrous dinner. Having Rebecca there had been mortifying, of course, but Wynn had been oddly grateful for her presence. There was something soothing about her presence, and Wynn realized he'd come to consider her not just a lab partner, but a friend, too. And, most importantly, his father valued keeping up appearances, and Wynn knew that if Rebecca hadn't been there, he would have been scraping bits of Alfie off the walls, metaphorically at least.

His father was not a kind man, and even Alfie's quick wit wouldn't have been enough to protect himself.

Wynn felt as though he couldn't stop fucking up, and the harder he worked to be good, the worse it got. Disappointing his father was, at least, something Wynn was used to—after all, he had eighteen years of experience doing that. But it seemed like everyone else was disappointed, too. Their bio teacher, Mr. Grand, when Wynn had gotten back his exam results and saw he'd barely scraped a B minus. His mother, when he forgot to pick up more milk on the way home from school, even though he said he would remember. His coach, when he fumbled a play or was a little too slow getting across the field.

And then, of course, there was Alfie. He'd let down Alfie, again and again and again, and still Alfie reappeared at Wynn's side, forgiving Wynn once more for being only a fraction of the friend Alfie deserved.

Wynn was ashamed of himself, too—he'd brought Alfie to his house, had stupidly engineered a situation guaranteed to be disastrous, and, worst of all, he'd sat by while his father had insulted Alfie and then blamed Alfie for it all.

I'm so, so sorry, Alfie, he thought.

At first Wynn didn't see him, but as he scanned the room, he found his friend, curled up on the long, low bookshelf beneath the window, deeply focused on his sketchbook. Wynn couldn't help smiling. He loved seeing Alfie like this, lost in thought as he worked. Technically, students weren't allowed in the art room when there wasn't a class going on, but Mr. McPherson, the art teacher, had always had a soft spot for Alfie and allowed him to work there during his free periods.

Alfie's head was bent, his delicate profile haloed by the diffuse light streaming in from the large windows. The clouds were low and bright that day, though the day was strangely warm. Alfie was sketching intently, his mouth corkscrewed into a tight frown of concentration. Alfie drew with his whole body, whether or not he realized it, his narrow shoulders hunched over his sketchbook like he was preparing to dive into it.

Wynn couldn't help smiling as he approached Alfie. Alfie had no idea Wynn was there—he was concentrating so deeply, Wynn probably could have thrown a whole bucket of water balloons on Alfie and barely disturbed him. He dropped into the nearest chair, grinning as he watched Alfie work. Once, when they'd been studying one afternoon in Alfie's room, Alfie had been so focused that he hadn't even noticed Wynn slowly stealing all of Alfie's colored pencils until Alfie reached down to pick up the green again and couldn't find a single one.

Still, though, they only had an hour—or forty-five minutes at this point. Wynn tossed an eraser at Alfie, and it landed squarely in the middle of the page, bouncing away. Alfie's head popped up, and he looked over, startled.

His expression changed from annoyance to shock, but Wynn caught a brief flash of joy as Alfie realized it was Wynn. Wynn's heart swelled and fractured all at once, a love for his friend so deep it ached.

It hurt most to disappoint Alfie, Wynn realized, because Alfie was the one person who really seemed to believe Wynn was something special. It was though everyone in Wynn's life now expected him to not meet expectations—everyone but Alfie. And somehow, the most extraordinary boy in Niobrara thought Wynn was extraordinary, too.

It didn't make sense, but Wynn knew better than to question it.

"Hey," he said with a small smile.

"Wynn?" Alfie said, blinking as though he thought he might have inhaled too many paint fumes. "What are you doing here?"

"I was thinking we could eat together," Wynn said. "I brought you something."

He held up the lunch bag and tossed it to Alfie, who caught it and peered inside.

"Damn," Alfie said, smiling broadly. "Deluxe treatment."

"Yeah," Wynn said. "Consider it an apology. For Thursday."

Alfie's smile vanished.

"You don't need to apologize," he said. "I'm the one who should be doing that. You were right. I was just making things difficult for you. And I'm sorry. I hope your dad wasn't too awful this weekend."

Wynn swallowed. His dad had been awful this weekend, stormier than usual and making pointed comments about Wynn's inability to get a girlfriend.

"I did appreciate it, you know," he said softly, not quite meeting Alfie's eyes. "You standing up for me. I mean, don't do it again, at least not like that, but… thanks."

"Noted," Alfie said, the corners of his mouth twitching as he held back a smile. He stuck his hand in the bag, pulling out the sandwich. "Wow! No crusts, either."

"I woke up a full fifteen minutes early," Wynn said seriously. "You better fuckin' enjoy this."

"It'll be the best sandwich I've ever eaten," Alfie said, and he opened his mouth, cramming an entire half in. He said something unintelligible, flashing a thumbs up, and Wynn made a face, laughing.

"Gross," he said, pulling out his own sandwich.

They ate quietly for a few moments. Wynn knew that Alfie came to the art room to get away from the other students, who tended to fuck with Alfie more during unstructured times like lunch and between classes, but he could see why Alfie had chosen this particular space as his sanctuary. There was something here that reminded him of the summer spot, something quiet and serene and protective.

"Hey, do you remember that time we tried to run away?" Alfie said after a while, his mouth still partly full of cookie.

"We didn’t get very far," he said. "I think it took our moms, what, two hours to figure out we were in the shed out back?"

"Probably for the best," Alfie said with a smirk. "I only packed crayons and toaster pastries, so we wouldn't have lasted very long."

"Do you even remember where we were gonna go?" Wynn asked. He smiled at the memory of the two of them at eight years old, feeling fierce and impossibly grown up, deciding to strike out on their own.

"Argentina," Alfie said. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, his smile going dreamy. "I think we were gonna be pigeon farmers or something."

Wynn snorted.

"That was all your idea, wasn't it?" Wynn said. "I feel like I wouldn't have picked something so—"

"Hey, kiss my ass," Alfie said, opening his eyes and laughing. "I wanted to go to California, but you wanted to be a pigeon farmer. That was back when you wanted to be a vet, remember?"

Wynn glanced up at a mobile hanging above him. Someone had strung up a collection of old pill bottles and allergy shot syringes, and Wynn wasn't quite sure if it was art or garbage or perhaps both.

He'd forgotten about that side of himself, the one that had set out for Argentina with only a backpack full of cherry strudel and art supplies. He'd been bold, once, but that felt like an entire lifetime ago.

"Hold that," Alfie said softly, and out of habit Wynn didn't move. From the corner of his eye, he saw Alfie grab his sketchbook, instantly snapping back into drawing mode, quickly mapping out the contours of whatever had inspired him. It had been months since Alfie had last drawn Wynn—not since that hazy day in May before everything had gone south.

Wynn liked when Alfie drew him. He liked the way Alfie's eyes roved over him, seeing every detail, every flaw and scar—but, when Alfie drew him, there was no judgement at all. There was no good or bad or beautiful or ugly, just scratchy lines on a page that somehow added up to something lovely. He liked sitting patiently for Alfie, knowing that this, at least, was something small he could give his friend.

And, most of all, he liked seeing the Wynn that Alfie saw. That Wynn was the kind of person who could be anything—a pigeon farmer in Argentina, or the kind of guy who could stand up when his father insulted the person he loved most.

There was something Alfie saw in him that Wynn could never find on his own. But with Alfie—with Alfie, he could.

Alfie worked quickly—his sketches could take anywhere from thirty seconds to three hours, but this time he finished within a few minutes.

"Okay," he said.

Alfie looked down at the picture he'd drawn, grimaced, and violently ripped it out, the noise jarring in the relative stillness of the art room.

Wynn frowned.

"Bad?" he said.

"Nah," Alfie said, shaking his head as he crumpled it up. "Just…"

He trailed off and threw the wadded paper at the nearest trashcan. It arced neatly through the air but bounced off the rim, and Alfie groaned.

"Leave the sports to me, I think," Wynn said with a laugh as he hopped up to retrieve it. Alfie protested as Wynn smoothed it out and held it up. "Hey, this is really good!"

Alfie grumbled.

It was good—simple, of course, because Alfie only had five minutes and he wasn't a miracle worker. The person in the picture looked intelligent and thoughtful and handsome, and though Wynn didn't think it looked anything like the way he felt, he flushed with pride that this was how Alfie saw him.

"No, seriously, why'd you throw it away?" Wynn said, and Alfie gave Wynn his most baleful stare.

"Are you really asking me that?" Alfie said flatly. "Do you not remember this summer?"

Wynn winced. Though Chris Ross and his buddies had eventually grown bored of torturing Alfie in this specific way, for nearly two months, they'd delighted in making it their mission to ensure everyone in the school got a chance to see the contents of Alfie's very private sketchbook.

Wynn had told them to stop, but they'd never listened to Wynn before, and they hadn't started then.

"Oh," he said. "Right."

"Yeah."

Wynn turned, as if to throw the paper away, but at the last moment, he changed his mind and shoved it in his pocket instead.

"I tried to tell them," Wynn said, turning back to Alfie, who was bent over his sketchbook once more, but Wynn could tell from his posture that he wasn't doing much more than pretending to scribble. "That… it was just practice. The drawings of me and stuff. That I knew about it."

Alfie's nostrils flared.

"Is there a reason we're still talking about this?" he said, and Wynn bit his lip. Alfie went back to drawing.

Wynn wondered if there'd ever be a point in his life where he stopped feeling guilty about what had happened at Chris Ross's party, or if he'd be carrying this dark smudge around in his heart even when he was eighty. Alfie hadn't even wanted to come to the party in the first place—he'd insisted it would end badly.

But Wynn had been naïve and stubborn, and he'd thought there was a way he could have it all—his team, his classmates, and his very best friend in the world. He knew the rest of their grade didn't understand Wynn's friendship with Alfie—and, from the outside, it didn't make much sense. On paper, Alfie and Wynn didn't have much in common beyond the same zip code.

No one else seemed to see the rest of it, the depth of friendship, the way that Alfie knew Wynn's worries before he did, the way Alfie lit up when he talked about something he was passionate about, how Alfie was funny and smart and impulsive, how Alfie didn't love many people, but when he did love, it was with reckless abandon.

That night had been a very painful reminder that Wynn would always have to choose between Alfie and the others.

He hadn't chosen Alfie that night, or that summer, and he was sure he'd never stop regretting that.

Regret wouldn't change the past, though. He could only move forward.

"I just wanted you to know… that… I didn't believe them, y'know?" Wynn said, rubbing at the back of his neck, his face heating up. "What they… were saying and all."

Alfie put his pencil down carefully and looked at Wynn, his face expression pained.

"What?" Wynn said, cocking his head.

Alfie opened his mouth, then shut it.

"What?" Wynn said.

Alfie turned his head sharply, looking out the window.

"You should ask Rebecca Benson to the homecoming dance," he said finally.

Wynn blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

"Uh… what?"

"You should ask Rebecca," Alfie said, his voice oddly mechanical. "She'd be thrilled."

Wynn frowned, wishing he could see Alfie's face.

"I thought you didn't like Rebecca," he said. "You're not very nice to her."

"I'm not very nice to anyone."

Wynn crossed the room and shoved an assortment of gloopy tempera paints aside, pulling himself up to sit beside Alfie. It wasn't exactly alarming for Alfie to become taciturn and moody—his moods changed quickly enough they made the wild Niobrara weather look stable. By now, Wynn knew there wasn't much more he could do but wait until Alfie decided to tell him what was on his mind.

He chewed on his lip, thinking about Alfie's suggestion. He'd never thought about Rebecca in that way. She was certainly pretty, and he'd liked hanging out with her while they studied. She was kind and unexpectedly funny in a gentle way, and she provided a nice counterpoint to Alfie's own sharp, often unchecked wit.

She would make a pretty good homecoming date, now that he thought of it. She wasn't exactly his type—he wasn’t sure he even had a type, anyway—but he could think of worse ways to spend the evening.

"You really think she'd say yes?" Wynn asked.

Alfie gave Wynn a withering look.

"Wynn, you are about as observant as a brick wall sometimes," he said. Wynn looked at him blankly, and Alfie rolled his eyes. "Rebecca's totally in love you."

"She is?" Wynn said. He frowned, thinking back on his interactions with Rebecca. To Wynn's knowledge, she'd never said or done anything that would indicate she was interested in him. "Are you sure?"

Alfie ran a hand through his hair, looking exasperated and fond all at once.

"Jesus Christ, Wynn," he said. "Yes, I'm sure. I know because she asked me if you were going with anyone, and even if she hadn't…" He leaned forward, pitching his voice up to a ridiculous lilt and pretending to twirl his hair around his finger. "Hey, Wynn, I just thought you were sooo good at the game, do you wanna study for bio together? Wanna get married and have a zillion little perfect babies together?"

Wynn made a face and reached over to swat Alfie in the knee.

"Don't be mean," he said.

"I'm not being mean," Alfie said, and Wynn raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I was being a little mean. But the point remains. Rebecca Benson, along with half of this school, would climb you like a tree if you'd let her, so just ask her already."

Wynn swallowed hard.

"I dunno," he said slowly. "I mean, she's nice, and she's really pretty, but I'm not sure if I like like her—"

"Like like?" Alfie said, with a harsh laugh. "We're not in the fifth grade. Just fucking go out with her already."

Alfie's posture was still strange—he was smiling, but there was a harsh set to his limbs, a tension in his eyes that made Wynn nervous. Alfie was upset about something, clearly—as Alfie often was. But Alfie had never been very good at communicating what he was upset about, and Wynn had always been even worse at guessing. It could be frustrating, even when Wynn was at his most patient—which he wasn't today.

"Why are you being like this?" Wynn asked.

"Like what?"

"Like this—" Wynn said, gesturing at Alfie. "You're being a dick."

"I'm al—"

"Don't say you're always a dick," Wynn snapped. "You're not. Not to me, anyway. Will you just tell me why you're mad at me?"

Alfie's expression softened, and he looked down, chastened.

"I'm not mad at you," he said.

"You're sure acting like it," Wynn said.

"I know," Alfie said, a little miserably. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to turn it off. You know I’m not very good at that."

"You're not," Wynn said, giving Alfie a gentle smile, which Alfie returned.

Alfie looked back out the window and let out a long sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face.

"God, you're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?" Alfie said. "Wynn, the reason I don't like Rebecca is because I want to hang out with you. I'm fuckin' jealous, okay? I'm sure as shit not going to homecoming dance, and I want to do what we did last year and watch bad horror movies at my house and eat ice cream for dinner then regret it. But… you shouldn't do that. You should go to the dance. And you should go with her."

The words had tumbled out, and as soon as Alfie finished, he looked back out the window. Wynn followed his gaze beyond the chain-link fence that marked the school grounds to the soft roll of the prairie, unfolding out forever beneath the low, steel sky.

"That was a really fun night," Wynn said softly, thinking back to monster movies with bad special effects and the store-brand, freezer-burned carton of rocky road they'd passed back and forth.

"Yeah, it was," Alfie said with a sad smile, and Wynn tried to understand the strange flips his heart was doing.

Wynn felt guilty and loved all at once, because there was a part of himself luxuriating in Alfie's words like they were warm bathwater. Alfie was jealous of Rebecca, and the thought was almost ludicrous, because Alfie clearly had no idea that about ninety percent of Wynn's heart and brain belonged to him anyway.

"Let's do that again, then," Wynn said eagerly, sitting forward. "Fuck the homecoming dance. I could come over, we could watch that one with the zombie polar bears, and we could make those little mini pizzas that—"

"Wynn," Alfie said, his expression flat.

"What?" Wynn asked. Now that he'd thought of it, the idea was more and more appealing by the second. Instead of spending the evening listening to pop songs echoing off the bleachers, dancing awkwardly beneath crepe streamers, he could sprawl on Alfie's couch and eat junk food and be with his best friend. "It'd be fun. I mean, we could choose a different movie—we don't even have to do a horror movie—"

"Wynn," Alfie said again, his voice almost reproachful this time.

"What?"

"We can't do that," Alfie said. He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. Wynn opened his mouth to respond, but Alfie held up his hand. "Come on, Wynn, you're smart. You know why we can't."

Wynn stopped to consider, and it was only then that he remembered how furious his father would be if Wynn skipped going to the homecoming dance with a girl in favor of hanging out with Alfie.

"Oh," Wynn said, glancing down. "Right."

Alfie might have thought Wynn was smart, but Wynn feel as stupid as ever. Stupid for forgetting what his life was. Stupid for getting his hopes up. Stupid for thinking he might be allowed even one meager sliver of happiness without having to let someone else down.

Alfie glanced around the art room, checking that they were alone, then reached over, grabbing Wynn's wrist and squeezing it lightly.

"It's okay," Alfie said, his voice softening, and when Wynn looked up, his eyes were kind. He didn't seem mad or disappointed anymore. "It'll make things easier for you if you go, though. With your dad. With… everyone."

His hand was warm against Wynn's wrist, and Wynn realized how long it had been since he'd last touched Alfie. They'd grown up together, had spent their entire childhoods crawling all over one another, but this year, Wynn could count on one hand the number of times he'd been alone with Alfie.

Alfie's touch was centering and Wynn took a deep breath.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I mean… you're right. Maybe my dad will finally get off my back about this stuff."

He smiled weakly at Alfie, but there was no humor in it, because they both knew that would never happen. He slipped his wrist out of Alfie's grasp and tangled their fingers together. He didn't know how to—and didn't know if he should—articulate to Alfie that he didn't want Alfie to want him to go to the homecoming dance.

It would have been easier if Alfie had slipped into his selfish and demanding side, then, had put his foot down and insisted that Wynn choose him over Rebecca. But Alfie didn't. Here was Alfie, being gentle and thoughtful and mature.

And here was Wynn, choosing someone else over Alfie yet again.

"Maybe we could do that another night," Wynn said softly. "The movie? I'd… really like that."

Alfie was beaming, and Wynn's heart swelled. He looked lovely like that, full of joy and excitement.

"Yeah," Alfie said, nodding quickly. "Yeah, that'd be a lot of fun."

"Okay, cool," Wynn said, dropping Alfie's hand. He glanced at the clock. "Shit—I gotta go to English. But… it's a date, okay?"

Alfie had a strange look on his face, and Wynn hoped he hadn't hurt Alfie's feelings by running off so suddenly.

"Sure," Alfie said. "It's a date."