They all but carried each other up the six flights of stairs. As was their postclub routine, they kicked off their shoes, scooted out of their tight jeans, and settled on the couch for a final round in their underwear. Kyle lit a joint, and Christie grabbed a half-full bottle of red wine from the kitchen and uncorked it. He slouched back on the couch and held the bottle aloft on his palm, testing his sobriety. It wobbled. A lot.
“You’re gonna spill that, idiot!” Kyle complained. “And that’s, like, wed wine!”
“Wed wine?” Christie giggled. Kyle handed him the joint, and Christie took it with one hand, put it to his lips, and inhaled. Just one toke. He was still drunk on the martinis.
“Wed!” Kyle tried again. “W-Rrred! Red! Wine!”
They both cracked up. The red wine in question tipped dangerously. Christie passed Kyle the joint and brought the bottle to his lips. “Guess we’d better hurry up and drink it, then, before I spill it.”
Kyle took a hit, held it, and let it out in a fragrant cloud. He took another immediately, toking so hard the paper on the joint flamed red. Man, that guy could smoke a joint down to a nub in minutes. He held the joint out to Christie.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Kyle shrugged and took another deep drag.
“Thank God I don’t need to get up early tomorrow. Sundays rule,” Christie sighed. He was already dreading the hangover.
“Except the day after Sunday is Monday,” Kyle bitched, sounding funny because he was trying to hold in the smoke.
“Don’t remind me.”
Christie used to love his job as a graphic designer. But lately he’d been uninspired, and his relationship with his boss had soured too. He knew it was his fault. He wasn’t working up to his usual level. He needed to hit up an art gallery or something. Find some fresh motivation. Maybe he would do that tomorrow—a lazy Sunday art stroll.
His eyes fell on the stack of legal documents lying on the coffee table. Or…. Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Could that provide some fresh motivation? He snorted. It’d provide fresh manure, more likely.
Kyle noticed what he was looking at. He started singing, loud and purposefully off-key. “Old McDonald had a farm, eeii-eeii-ooo!”
“Shut up!”
Kyle snorted like a pig and snuffled against Christie’s shoulder. Christie laughed.
“I keep telling you, it’s not a farm, it’s just a house,” Christie protested.
“’S not the city, ergo it’s a farm. Flies, pig shit, and really, really,
really
tall corn or green beans or whatever.”
“You’re so wasted. It’s a little house in farm country. Quit drooling on me, and put that out before you burn your fingers.” Christie shoved Kyle over. Kyle blearily put the nub of his joint in the ashtray.
“Wish some rich relative would leave something to me,” Kyle muttered.
Christie’s Aunt Ruth hadn’t been rich, but she was sharp and frugal. She left her house to Christie, free and clear. The lawyer thought he could sell it for a hundred grand. But Christie wanted to at least go see it before he sold it off. He had fond memories of visiting that house as a boy.
“Was that the last joint?” Kyle complained.
“Yes. Anyway, we’ve both had enough. Time for bed.”
“
Fuck
.” Kyle sounded despondent. He ground his eyes with the palms of his hands. “What about pills? You got anything?”
Christie looked at his watch. “Jesus, Kyle, it’s almost 2:00 a.m.”
“Oh, come on! Weed just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I won’t be able to sleep. Do you have anything or not?”
Christie looked at his friend, or tried to. Everything was a bit blurry. Damn, he really had drunk too much tonight. He had five dirty martinis at the club, plus a shot Mick bought for him. It was all over the course of at least three hours, so it didn’t seem like a lot. But one thing about being a regular at The Boiler Room—the bartenders went heavy on the booze in your drinks, and he hadn’t had much dinner. The single toke on the joint pushed him over the edge into the unpleasant side of stoned. His head swam.
Kyle, however, was sitting up looking at him expectantly. Was he genuinely not high enough? Whatever. Christie wasn’t his babysitter. And it wasn’t like they were going out anywhere.
He took the baggie the hookup gave him from his pants pocket and tossed it to Kyle. “A guy gave those to me. Said they were X. I didn’t actually know him, though. So maybe we shouldn’t—”
Kyle was already opening the baggie. He popped both of the blue pills into his mouth and swallowed.
“Hey!”
“I’m sorry, did you want one?” Kyle put a hand over his mouth. He looked truly abashed.
“You’re such a bogart!”
Kyle giggled, then giggled harder, until he was half lying on Christie, laughing. “I’m sorry! So, so sorry! That was rude! And they were your pills too! Oh my God!”
“Dork.”
“I’m not a dork!” Kyle sat up and put his shoulders back, flashing his best clubbing smile. No, Kyle wasn’t a dork. He was fucking glorious. He had platinum-blond hair, big blue eyes, and a fragile build, just like Christie himself. They were practically twins. Guys loved Kyle, and he was a sweetheart too. He was a total slut, but he’d give you the shirt off his back. Then again, Christie had no room to slut shame.
Kyle wobbled a little as he posed. His eyes went funny. Worry niggled at Christie. Kyle should not have taken both those tabs. “You need to drink some water, Ky. I’ll get it.”
He went into the kitchen to get them both some water. It was definitely time to call it a night. Would Kyle be able to sleep after taking two tabs of X? Or would he be up for hours, trying to get Christie to talk? God, please don’t let him freak out like he did a few months ago after taking some pills at the club. He scared Christie that night.
Christie stood at the sink, letting the water run cold for some time. He blinked, coming out of his daze. He filled two tall glasses of water and went into the living room.
“I want you to drink this whole glass. You’ll—”
Kyle was slumped over on the couch. His eyes were rolled back, showing a sliver of white under parted eyelids, and foam came out of his mouth. His body convulsed in soft jolts.
Christie screamed. “Kyle!”
Instantly the evening changed. The two glasses Christie carried hit the floor and shattered, sending water everywhere. “Kyle, oh my God!”
Glass cut Christie’s stockinged feet as he stumbled to the couch, but he just winced and kept going. He shook Kyle’s shoulders and pulled down his jaw, fighting against the clenching of Kyle’s teeth. “Kyle, are you all right? Kyle!”
Christie looked around, desperate for something to keep Kyle’s mouth open. How could he even breathe through all that foam and gunk? Christie ran back into the kitchen, cutting his feet again, and grabbed a towel. He twisted it into a rope as he ran back, and he forced it between Kyle’s teeth. “Oh God. Oh my God!”
He fumbled for his phone on the coffee table and dialed 911. “Help me! Please! My friend, he’s OD’ing. He’s having convulsions!”
“Calm down, sir. Give me your address.”
Christie gave her the address. “We’re on the sixth floor, apartment 613. Please hurry!”
“The ambulance is on the way. Now sir, I need you to stay calm and help him. Can you do that?”
The operator—God bless her every firm and caring word—gave Christie directions for clearing Kyle’s airways. He wasn’t convulsing anymore, but now he was unconscious. The operator walked Christie through moving Kyle onto his side so he wouldn’t choke.
Christie did everything she said, but he felt like he was fucking it up. He was a mess and still too drunk to think clearly. He grabbed Kyle’s phone with one hand and sent a quick text to Billy. He needed help
now
.
It felt like mere seconds before Billy pounded on their door and Christie let him in. Billy said nothing, merely fell to his knees beside Kyle on the couch and took over CPR like he knew what he was doing. His face was white with fear and tears swam in his eyes.
“Sir?” Christie had forgotten he was still holding the phone to his ear.
“My friend is giving him CPR,” Christie whispered to the operator.
He felt like he might throw up. The room went gray. The phone slipped from his fingers and terror seized him.
What if I’d been too high to call the ambulance?
What if I’d taken those pills instead, or if we’d each taken one? Would I be like Kyle now too? Who would have called the ambulance then?
Is Kyle dying? How the hell do I live with myself if Kyle dies?
For the first time in eight years, Christie prayed. He prayed absolutely and sincerely and with everything he had.
Please God, please let Kyle live. I swear, I will give up partying forever, never touch another drug or drink. Just let Kyle live!
From the distance came the sound of sirens, and then Christie’s world went black.
Chapter 2
“CHRISTIE? ARE
you awake?”
Christie opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed. A doctor stood over him, shining a light into Christie’s eyes. “There you are. I need you to tell me what your friend Kyle took tonight. It’s very important. Do you understand? And I need to know what you took too.”
He was in the hospital? He must have passed out and ended up going in the ambulance too. Jesus. He tried to sit up. The doctor let him, watching him critically. He had an IV and felt reasonably coherent, even though his head was killing him.
“Is Kyle okay?”
“No,” the doctor said with no trace of softness. “He’s not okay. We’ve pumped his stomach, but we need to know what’s in his bloodstream.”
Christie told him what drinks Kyle likely had at the club, the red wine, the joint, and the two pills that were supposedly ecstasy.
The doctor’s face was hard. “Do you know how dangerous it is, Christie, to take street drugs from strangers?”
Christie knew. But everyone did it at the clubs, shared drugs. And normally it was fine. But not this time. “It was stupid,” he agreed.
I never should have shown Kyle those pills. I should have dropped them in the waste can as soon as that guy left the restroom.
The judgmental look on the doctor’s face made Christie feel like shit. How had his life come to this? He’d had a strict upbringing, an enviable education, a good professional job, decent looks, and an apartment in Manhattan…. He had it all. So how did he find himself in a scene from a bad reality show like
Intervention
?
This isn’t me.
He wasn’t an addict or an alcoholic, he just liked to party on the weekends. Everyone he knew did the same. And yet here he was.
“Well, I don’t know what those pills were, but they weren’t ecstasy. You don’t know any more about them?” the doctor pushed.
Christie shook his head. “The guy who gave them to me took one, so he must not have known they were bad.” He described the pills to the best of his memory—which was basically small and blue. He couldn’t remember if they’d had any markings.
The doctor frowned and wrote it down. He had Christie describe the Latino too. He said nothing when Christie couldn’t remember his name. “I’ll let the police know. This guy who gave you the pills—he may be in trouble somewhere if he took one too.”
“I’m sorry,” Christie repeated pointlessly.
“And you didn’t take any pills like that?”
“No. I told you what I had tonight—booze and one toke of weed. That’s it.”
“You were passed out when the ambulance got there and your feet were all cut up. Your blood alcohol level was .24. That’s seriously intoxicated. Are you aware, Christie, that levels as low as .35 can kill you?”
“We were home for the night,” Christie said lamely, but his gut burned. He
had
been too drunk. He was almost too drunk to help Kyle. He moved his feet under the sheet and felt bandages. Now that he remembered cutting his feet on the glass, they started to ache. “Will Kyle live?” The words caught in his throat.
The doctor’s expression finally softened. “He’ll live. He’s lucky. This time. As for you, we’re giving you fluids, and we’ll retest your blood every hour. Once you get below .08 blood alcohol, you’ll be free to go. But if you can think of anything else that will help Kyle, I hope you’ll let us know.”
Christie nodded, relieved. He watched the doctor go, looked at the IV needle in his arm, and decided right then: it was time for a change.
“THE NEW
husbands may now kiss.”
Christie watched Kyle and Billy kiss each other with sweet gusto. The sight provoked a weird mix of hope, jealousy, and worry. Was this truly what Kyle wanted? Would he be okay?
Since the night Kyle almost died three months ago, he was a changed man. Both Christie and Kyle saw that night as a serious wake-up call, but Kyle’s transformation was extreme. He went cold turkey—no booze, no weed, no drugs, no clubs. He started seeing Billy exclusively. It was even Kyle who popped the question, insisting he was ready to settle down.
All of those were good changes, but Christie was worried about the manic speed with which it all happened. He hoped Kyle stuck with his new resolve and was truly happy.
It was hard to believe one of their duo—Kyle and Christie, fierce boy toys extraordinaire—was married. Of course Christie longed for that too. He wanted a stable relationship, a chance to build a permanent home with someone, to have someone to love and count on through thick and thin. But wanting it was one thing;
finding
it was another. He had a hard time seeing himself settling down with any of the guys he knew or had dated. His relationships always started with heady infatuation and ended with disappointment.
Probably he expected too much, but he didn’t want to come second after someone’s career or desire to play the field, or sometimes even after his partner’s own vanity. There was one memorable Prince Charming who wasn’t willing to disrupt his gym routine to come to a birthday dinner Kyle arranged for Christie. That was the end of that “boyfriend.”
But Billy truly was a sweet guy. At least Kyle chose well.