Navid Kirmani has a secret identity. By day he’s the mild-mannered senior tech reporter for Riot Street. At night he descends into a secret underbelly of Manhattan that few ever see. It’s a dangerous, unforgiving world of cutthroats and renegades where only the most calloused dare enter. They are the outermost fringes of society. The nameless. The sleepers biding their time for that one moment of glory where fame is the ultimate reward. But fail, and it’s a fate worse than death.

“And now,” says the disembodied voice coming through the crackling speakers overhead, “please welcome to the stage a favorite here at the Hired Gun and recently added to the no-fly list, the very mediocre Navid Kirmani.”

Friday night, after spending the day at work in a sleep-deprived daze, I sit in a darkened basement comedy club in Brooklyn with Addison and C.J. I also managed to convince Kumi to come along once I told her a brilliant MIT grad had made a point of inviting her to his show. Or she’s expecting an Ethan sighting. I’m hoping he never comes back.

He wasn’t at work today, which was for the best. I don’t think I could have survived the embarrassment. Nor did I tell anyone about going to his place last night. If there’s any mercy in the world, he’ll let us both pretend it never happened. Better yet, maybe he’ll finally take my father’s advice and move to the West Coast, where there is no chance of us ever having to be in the same room together. But I suppose I should thank him. When I got home last night, I couldn’t sit still. Too much hostility pulsing through my veins. Mostly, though, it was the pain and sadness of trying to be someone’s friend only to be scornfully rejected. So I found something useful to do: I wrote an essay about my father’s death. About the strange, nebulous experience of death without grief and the difference between choosing to love your parents and complying with the expectation that you do so. I emailed it to Cara at three this morning. When I walked into the office today, it was already up on the website. I guess I should be proud of myself.

Against the backdrop of a brick wall with the club’s crosshairs logo, Navid takes the stage and is hit with the blinding glow of a single spotlight. There’s a decent turnout here, spectators wrapped around the bar and occupying several tables on the main floor. Thus far, they’ve made enough noise for a packed house. I’m terrified for Navid after the reaction one of the earlier acts received—he was booed off the stage with people flinging french fries at him—but Navid looks completely at ease, a big smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Navid says, and pulls the microphone from its stand. “Thank you, I’m Navid Kirmani, and welcome to my first suicide bombing.”

The audience erupts with laughter. C.J. damn near falls out of her chair and Addison’s already got tears in his eyes.

“All right, that joke killed.” He chuckles to himself and the line gets another big laugh. “This is a good room. Okay, we’re going to have fun together. But first, let’s clear this up, white folks. People are always coming up to me and asking where I’m from. In the proud tradition of my hometown, I tell them, I’m from Brooklyn, asshole. What’s it to ya?” Loud whistles and cheers fill the room in response. “But seriously, though, my heritage is Iranian. You might remember us as that country America was totally cool with, you sold us a bunch of weapons, and then we’re like, you know what? Fuck it. Death to America! So basically every Middle Eastern country you’ve ever heard of.”

Addison’s choking on his drink, coughing like a coal miner.

“He’s good,” Kumi says beside me, leaning in. “Kind of cute, in that mathletes sort of way.”

“And a member of Mensa,” I tell her as Navid segues into a bit about the difference between Arabs and Persians. “So you’d never have to do your own taxes again.”

“Good point.”

Kumi is an absolute encyclopedia of legal knowledge. She hasn’t even started her first semester of law school and she can already rattle off New York statutes like she’s reading them from a book printed in her head. But every year right around April, she has a complete meltdown. I don’t know if it’s fear of the IRS or an aversion to numbers, but she always ends up coming to me an hour before the deadline begging me to make it go away.

“…but I get it, white people. We can’t tell you apart, either…”

Something stands looming behind me. A warm, thrumming, energetic sensation. Kumi looks over my head, eyes big and impressed. Shit.

“…When really we should all blame the English.” Navid walks the stage, holding the audience on the edge of their seats. “Think about it…”

I’m afraid to turn around. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve realized that I put more emphasis than he did on whatever supposed connection I felt with Ethan. Spun out of loneliness and a desperate need to fit in at the magazine, I tricked myself into seeing something that was never there. It’s Echo all over again, seizing on to anything to make herself feel whole.

Too bad I figured that out after I showed up at his door like a crazed stalker. Worse, one of his doting interns.

“…They’re history’s version of that kid on the playground running around licking everything they see. Like, ooh, monkey bars, those are mine. Slide—that’s mine. Swings, mine. Just licking fucking everything. Because if there’s one thing I think America and its adversaries have ever agreed on, it’s fuck the English.”

“Hey!” Addison turns and glances at the dark shadow hovering behind me. “He lives! Glad you made it. Navid’s opener was vicious.”

Ethan stands there, daunting and silent, like he’s waiting to see how long I’m capable of ignoring him. But I’m not going to turn my back on Navid’s set just because Ethan Ash walks into a room.

“Hi, I’m Kumi.”

My roommate, on the other hand…

She stands to shake his hand over my head. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself the other night.”

For just a bright, fleeting moment, I sort of hate her.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The ringing in my ears that is their polite chattering overtakes Navid’s voice until the high-pitched peal becomes color and texture behind my eyes.

“…Thank you, you’ve been a terrific crowd. My name is Navid Kirmani. Good night, and remember to tip your waiters.”

He’s cheered off the stage and comes straight to our table. I didn’t even hear the closer.

“Ah, Ethan, man, you made it,” Navid says, sweating and out of breath. He takes a big swig from the bottle of beer he left on the table. “What’d you guys think?”

“Not even exaggerating,” Addison says, “I almost peed.”

C.J. takes off her glasses to wipe her eyes, residual giggles still bubbling up from her belly. “Your best set yet. By far.”

“Having a good time?” Navid asks me. He wipes sweat from his face with a handful of napkins.

I was until Ethan walked in. Now I’ve got a knot twisting my stomach and a fever-hot rush burning my face.

“Absolutely. You were really great up there.”

“I was worried the bombing line wouldn’t land well on a New York crowd.” He takes a seat between Addison and C.J. across the table. “Before I went on, I was trying to prep myself to dodge bottles if they started throwing them at my head.”

“Avery.” Something like sparks struck from flint shoot down my neck as Ethan bends to speak in my ear. “May I talk to you?”

I’d rather slit my own throat.

However, I can’t say no with everyone looking at us. Refusing would create a scene. I don’t want to steal the attention away from Navid, and I’m not going to give Ethan the satisfaction of seeing me humiliated twice. So I push back from the table and stand, first meeting Kumi’s eyes. She flashes a secret smile that’s far more obvious than she knows.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, then I walk in the opposite direction from Ethan.

A wall of thick humidity and car exhaust accosts me as I climb the stairs from the basement club up to the sidewalk. My back to the entrance, I hear Ethan’s footsteps stop behind me.

“You’re mad at me,” he says.

I watch my reflection appear in the windows of passing cars.

“What does it matter?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

We both fell into a trap of artificial association. The threads connecting us formed a thin bridge built on nothing more than coincidence and anecdotes. A weak basis for a friendship. Now I see it didn’t need much to snap the strings. The truth is, Ethan knows no more about the person I am than I know about him. We’re familiar strangers. Colleagues, at best. That’s how it should be.

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer until I feel him like a closing storm, “I do.”

“Let’s not do this, okay? You made your point clear. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Avery…” Impatient, he expels a breath. “Will you please look at me?”

With some effort, I steel myself and turn, raking my gaze up the length of him to reach his face. The image of him half-naked in his doorway last night flashes behind my eyes. And the hurt I carried home when he shut me out. I can’t erase it.

“I was an incredible asshole last night. I’m sorry.” Hands in his pockets, he stands with slumped shoulders. It doesn’t fit him, the contrite posture. Like wearing someone else’s clothes. “You just took me by surprise. Which is no excuse, I know. I was—it’s been a rough forty-eight hours. I am so sorry.”

I don’t want to be mad at him. This feeling of distance and embarrassment pushing us apart, when from the moment we met, I’ve only felt the pull.

“I was worried about you.” I shrug in an effort to make the statement sound less sincere than it is. “When you didn’t turn in the article, and then Addison told me you do this sometimes…”

His jaw tenses. Aggression creases his brow. “Addison doesn’t—”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“I’d rather not.”

He’s still closing me out, slamming doors. A few days ago there were no barriers. Now I understand I simply hadn’t reached them yet.

“You can’t tell me everything’s fine. I’ll admit I made a mistake going over there, but you—”

“Can’t it be enough to trust me?” he says. “Please.”

There’s fear in the way his voice strains, rough and tired. Fear of what happens when someone pushes too hard on the door. He’s got his back against it, braced and weakening. I know that feeling. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t react any better to being cornered with a sudden inquisition. There are whole swaths of my past I’m not eager to share. Even with Ethan. Maybe especially him.

“Yeah,” I say, backing off. “Okay.”

A slow, grateful smile crosses his lips. His shoulders relax, and he pulls his hands from his pockets. “It is nice to know you missed me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, no.” Ethan crosses his arms, chest big and confident. The smile turns playful. “You missed me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Sensing my demeanor softening, he closes the space between us. “This might sound crazy…” Ethan licks his lips, and I see the idea forming in his mind. He studies me with narrow eyes, alive with mischief. “But I’m in the mood for a drive. Come with me.”

“Another road trip?”

“No prisons this time, I promise.”

There’s something different about him tonight. Yes, his mood has improved since the last time we spoke, but it’s more than that.

“It’s almost midnight,” I say.

“I don’t see your point.”

“You don’t think it’s a little late?”

“Not for me.”

I’ve yet to see him so excited until now. Full of energy like his Ritalin’s just kicked in. But if this is a response to whatever kept him out of the office for the last two days…

“I can’t just leave,” I say. “Kumi’s here, and Navid—”

“His set’s over. After a few more drinks he’ll barely remember we were here.”

“Kumi—”

“Yeah, I don’t think we should bring her with us.” He pops one eyebrow the way he does when he’s amusing himself. “She seems nice, but I’m pretty sure she wants to sleep with me, and I think that’d be an awkward dynamic between the three of us.”

“Funny.”

Impulse control has always been an issue for me. Spontaneity and the allure of not knowing exactly what will happen next. It’s also gotten me into trouble.

“I don’t think—”

“Please.”

Expression sobering, Ethan takes a step toward me. He has an aura that’s enveloping. The closer he gets, the more potent it becomes, intense and persuasive.

“I only came out tonight because I hoped I’d see you. I feel horrible about the way I acted. Haven’t been able to think about anything else.” He reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing. “Let me make it up to you. Come with me. Give me a chance to get back on your good side.”

It is impossible to say no to Ethan when he’s staring me in the face. Which I suppose explains his entire career. And while there’s a small voice whispering caution in the back of my mind, the larger part of me wants to be wherever he is. The hole in my chest closed the minute I looked into his eyes tonight. The emptiness that hadn’t been there until he wasn’t. I’m afraid where it’s leading me, but more scared to miss it.

After we’ve said good night to the others and Kumi assures me she is in good hands with Navid—those two got cozy real quick—we get in Ethan’s truck headed east. He won’t tell me where we’re going, if he has a plan at all, but I’m content to watch him behind the wheel, city lights around us.

“I read your essay about Patrick,” he says, pulling up to a red light.

“Yeah.” My hand falls to my lap to trace the outline of the shell casing in my pocket through my jeans. “I, uh, got restless last night.”

“How are you doing?”

“Fine, I guess. I emailed it to Cara in a close-your-eyes-and-jump state of mind. Just hit Send and don’t think about it, you know? So now I’m trying to forget about it. It’ll be easier when they stop calling me ‘Cult Kid’ on TV.”

“For what it’s worth…” The light changes. Ethan wrestles the truck into gear and follows the traffic ahead of him. “I’m proud of you. I know how hard it was to dig all that out of your head. I hope you can be proud of yourself.”

“I’ll work up to that. Right now I’m somewhere between indifferent and relieved.”

Now that my father’s dead and I have the essay out of the way, I’d prefer never to think of him again. I’ve been waiting my whole life to get out from under his shadow. To be my own person, whoever that is, without him as my defining characteristic.

“Vivian,” I say, in the interest of changing the subject. “What’s the story there?”

He flinches, surprised for a moment, then recovers his composure while running a hand through his hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me about her.”

Leaning his elbow against the door, he takes a breath. His lips thin to a hard line.

“She was a magnificent catastrophe.”

I can only believe there’s fondness in such a poetic insult. A person must leave a profound impression on another to earn such an epithet. It reveals a level of respect, and perhaps even regret. Whatever her tragic flaw, she was almost perfect. Enough so that losing her drove Ethan into seclusion for two weeks.

“Please,” I say, “elaborate.”

“She was like a lot of eager rookies. You remind me a little of her, in fact.”

Not the comparison I want to hear right now, considering Addison’s warning about Ethan’s body count.

“Smart, tenacious. She had a ton of energy and wanted to hit the ground running. Did pretty well for herself.”

“Until Montana.”

Something passes across his face. A memory that sucks the color from his skin.

“Why does everyone go a little wiggy at the mention of her name?”

“Vee didn’t have many friends at the magazine.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else.” He glances out the window like the right answer might pass by on the side of a bus. “But I think it boils down to a fundamental difference of philosophy. She believed in absolute truths and the necessity for unfiltered honesty, which meant she found herself at odds with anyone who tried to temper her voice. She’d get into shouting matches with associate editors for sneaking contrasting quotes into her articles or cutting something that sounded too much like commentary. But in her mind, it wasn’t our job to present both sides of an argument if one of them was total bullshit.”

“I have a hard time believing that made her an outcast.”

Riot Street is far from stodgy. It built its reputation on experimentation and a radical commitment to questioning authority. In every era of major American conflict since the magazine’s inception, it has been an outspoken proponent of progressivism and free expression. Riot Street is special for its contribution to the voice of the counterculture.

“Vee could be brash and abrasive. She had a habit of calling out her colleagues for what she perceived as weak journalistic integrity. Publicly, in some instances.”

“Meaning?”

Ethan checks his mirrors, merging onto the parkway headed east toward Queens.

“Well, more than once she Tweeted rather blunt takedowns of other reporters’ work. That’s all well and good when you’re taking the competition to task. It doesn’t go over well when you do it to members of your own staff, though.”

Shit. While it’s a pretty dick move, I have to admire her conviction.

“But it sounds like you didn’t share their opinion of her.”

“I understood her.”

Ethan drives the way he commands a room, the way he writes. With total authority. He’s efficient, if also a bit impatient. I think he likes the idea of road trips more than he likes enduring other drivers.

“Vee was determined to change the world. By force, if necessary. She didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of her. It was irrelevant to her mission. That kind of self-assuredness is infectious, you know? Being around a person like that, if you can get past the culture shock, can give you a sort of contact high. You start seeing the world through their lens. Minor bullshit doesn’t get to you anymore. Things that used to ruin your day or drive you crazy—that petty garbage—it all becomes so small until you don’t even notice it anymore. She saw life in simple terms: there’s right and wrong, good and evil, and everything else is a lie.”

For the first time in my life, I know what real jealousy is. Not the little pangs we feel when we see someone prettier, thinner, smarter, or richer. True, burning, aching jealousy. Because I don’t think there’s a soul in this world who would speak about me with such passionate admiration as the way Ethan describes Vivian. We should all be so fortunate to leave such witnesses in our wake.

“So you two were close.”

Now I understand what Addison meant about their vibe. A straight man doesn’t talk about a woman this way if there isn’t at least some level of attraction. Which makes an ugly breakup the most likely scenario for why only one of them came back from Montana.

“She came around at a strange time in my life. Everything was happening, and I felt none of it. Every day someone was calling me up to do an appearance or give a talk. I’d never had so many people wanting to know me. If that’s not making it, what is, right? I should have been thrilled, but it felt like it was happening to someone else and I was watching through their eyes. Like you said, my life wasn’t my own anymore. Guess I lost touch with myself. Disconnected. Vee was like a jump start.”

“Do you miss her?”

He laughs to himself, sharp and humorless. Then he glances at me like he’s just remembered I’m sitting here.

“I used to,” he says. “Not so much anymore. There was a lot of good about Vee, but she was also volatile and unpredictable. Didn’t know how to back down from a fight or admit when she was wrong. When her temper came out, it’d bring down a whole city block. Sometimes I think she’d start a fight purely out of boredom. You never really felt like she cared if you lived or died. If you got hit by a car right in front of her, she’d just keep walking. Some people blamed it on using, but it was all her. She was wired differently than the rest of us.”

“Using?”

Shame slithers under my skin. I become hyperaware of the muscles in my face, trying to maintain a neutral arrangement.

“Mm-hmm.” He flicks his turn signal and changes lanes around a car crawling in the left lane. “Everyone’s dropped a little acid at a party, sure. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t smoked pot or tried ecstasy at least once. But Vee’s coke habit wasn’t so cute when she started throwing kitchen knives at Cara’s living room wall during a Halloween party. Like she was training for the fucking Hunger Games. Even less cute when she tells me right after I get stopped for a bad taillight in Queens that she’s holding.”

This is what’s so difficult about staying clean. Using is easy. It’s accepting what you are, and living with it, that’s the hard part.

I feel like a fraud. Dressed up to appear presentable, but underneath is a place dark and cavernous where a shriveled, withering, grotesque abomination hides in the deepest black. Its bones warped and brittle. Body sunken and emaciated. Skin, like the burnt pages of a book that turn to dust in your hand, covers spindly limbs. Long, jagged, bleeding wounds where claws tear at the flesh, consuming it.

“Avery?”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“Where’d you go?”

Nowhere he’s been.