Tom poured himself another glass of wine and let the porch-swing oscillate slowly beneath him, his porch light casting dim monster shadows that swung with him in time. The night was muggy, clouds covering the stars and bouncing orange streetlamp light back down at the city. He played over his conversation with Nyx again, again, picking out the bits he wished he could have changed, the questions he hadn’t satisfied. The story about her mother. Her father. He shook his head, murmured into the quiet night of the neighborhood.

“Dammit, kid.”

He stood up and grabbed the wine bottle out of the planter box where it was resting among beleagured tulips. He headed inside and put his glass and the bottle on his coffee table next to the glass bowl in which a small yellow goldfish finned lethargically. He fed the fish.

“Eat up, Roscoe.”

The phone rang. He capped the fishfood and snagged the living room’s wireless handset off the end-table on which it sat. “Hello?”

“It’s me. I thought we were going out for a drink.”

“What? No, Rob, I told you I changed my mind.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I sent you an e-mail.”

“Didn’t.”

“I did. Check your spam filter, maybe. Anyway, sorry.” Tom dropped his butt on the couch, grabbed his wineglass, put his feet up.

“Another date?”

“Oh, Jesus. Not even close. I was at Aster’s again, though.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Okay. Short version. Went to Aster’s with Manning yesterday, ran into Nyx Buckingham, whole evening went to crap in about five minutes, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So Nyx managed to get herself suspended today for calling her chemistry teacher a fag in class. Peggy chewed her out and then sent her in to me.”

“This is the girl you were boohoo-ing about the other day.”

“No, no, that’s another girl. I sent her to Sue Lysik, by the way.”

“Shit, how is Sue? Haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“She’s good. Business is healthy.”

“So this girl.”

“Nyx? Yeah. Apparently she really went off at–this is Henry Corbett who she was trash-talking, so you can–”

“God, that old prig–”

“–yeah. I think he’s probably kicked kids out of class for sneezing. So she’s suspended for a couple days. I tried to talk to her in my office, but no dice. Wall of attitude. Nothing sounds weaker than tough love that doesn’t stick. So she storms out, and I end up getting into it with Henry in the lounge. The man is a homophobe, Rob. You can see it in his eyes. I really wanted to hit him.”

“Or ask him out. Blow his little mind.”

Tom laughed, drank. “Anyway, got back to my office and just a little before school gets out I call her house. Nyx’s. Her dad answers, and he hasn’t seen her. Not today, not in a while.”

“Runaway?”

“I don’t think so exactly. I mean, I dunno. Sounds like their relationship is pretty fucked, but he wasn’t wondering if she was dead or in prison or anything, so I think they must see a little bit of each other. She says he’s a drunk, and honestly he sounded like it when he was on the phone. He just wanted to know how she was. Asked about her grades. You know how Mom always got around Grandma’s birthday?”

“Drunk?”

“Well, yeah, but her mood. All quiet and moody. Inward. Kinda–”

“–resigned.”

“Exactly. He sounded like that to me. You know her mom, she died when Nyx was I think twelve years old? Hit by a car. Just out of the blue.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I think maybe all of this shit is just that. I mean, not ‘just’, not like it’s–”

“–not like it’s some trivial it’s-all-my-dead-mom’s-fault sort of deal. No, I hear you. Sounds like you’re right. How’d you find all this out, I thought she wouldn’t talk to–”

“Aster’s. I went down there tonight and there she was, half-drunk and smoking and looking like she’d been crying. We talked for a while, that’s how I found out about her dad and her mom and all that. And she pretty much pegged my ass to the wall, too. Gah. Rob, do you think I should tell people I’m gay?”

“What, like when you introduce yourself? That might not get you off on the right foot.”

“I mean like colleagues. Associates.”

“I’d advice against any speeches, if that’s what you mean. And otherwise, I mean, how is it going to come up?”

“I don’t know. I dunno. It comes up, y’know? Or it doesn’t come up because I dance around it, I mean. Christmas parties, asking about family, wife, that sort of thing. I always play it demure. I always–I’m a fucking coward, is the problem. I–”

“Oh come on. People have every right to personal privacy. You don’t have to march in a pride parade just because you like cock, Tom.”

“I know, but. Shit. I get sick of feeling like there’s some big secret. Like I have to watch myself. And nobody is telling me I have to, there’s no still small voice insisting that I have to hide it, it’s a sin, anything like that. I’m just. Fuck. I dunno. I’m afraid.”

“So just grow a pair, man. Put it out there. Next time someone asks how your lovelife is, tell them, oh, heck, it’s just awful, have you got any cute brothers?”

The brothers laughed together.

“You know, it’s not exactly smart of you to hang out with a minor at a bar. You should let the bartender know she’s faking her way in.”

“I don’t think that’d do any good.”

“It’d sure cover your ass a lot better than hanging out with her.”

“Yeah, but then what? I get her kicked out of that bar. She’s smart enough to guess it was me, I mean I threatened to call the cops on her the other day. So she stops going there and I’ve made a complete enemy of this girl, and then what? She goes to another bar. Do I call every goddam bar in the city and insist that they put up a wanted poster? Even if that would work I don’t think I’d accomplish anything except shutting myself out.”

“You’re really worried about her.”

“I’m really worried about her.”