"I know," he said. "Thanks." They were quiet the rest of the way home.

And then it was December. His run finished. They went to India on holiday, the four of them: the first trip they'd taken as a unit in years. In February, he began filming Uncle Vanya. The set was the kind he treasured and sought but only rarely found-he had worked with everyone before, and they all liked and respected one another, and the director was shaggy and mild and gentle, and the adaptation, which had been done by a novelist Jude admired, was beautiful and simple, and the dialogue was a pleasure to get to speak.

When Willem was young, he had been in a play called The House on Thistle Lane, which had been about a family that was packing up and leaving a house in St. Louis that had been owned by the father's family for generations, but which they could no longer afford to maintain. But instead of a set, they had staged the play on one floor of a dilapidated brownstone in Harlem, and the audience had been allowed to wander between the rooms as long as they remained outside a roped-off area; depending on where you stood to watch, you saw the actors, and the space itself, from different perspectives. He had played the eldest, most damaged son, and had spent most of the first act mute and in the dining room, wrapping dishes in pieces of newspaper. He had developed a nervous tic for the son, who couldn't imagine leaving his childhood house, and as the character's parents fought in the living room, he would put down the plates and press himself into the far corner of the dining room near the kitchen and peel off the wallpaper in shreds. Although most of that act took place in the living room, there would always be a few audience members who would remain in his room, watching him, watching him scraping off the paper-a blue so dark it was almost black, and printed with pale pink cabbage roses-and rolling it between his fingers and dropping it to the floor, so that every night, one corner would become littered with little cigars of wallpaper, as if he were a mouse inexpertly building its tiny nest. It had been an exhausting play, but he had loved it: the intimacy of the audience, the unlikeliness of the stage, the small, detailed physicality of the role.

This production felt very much like that play. The house, a Gilded Age mansion on the Hudson, was grand but creaky and shabby-the kind of house his ex-girlfriend Philippa had once imagined they'd live in when they were married and ancient-and the director used only three rooms: the dining room, the living room, and the sunporch. Instead of an audience, they had the crew, who followed them as they moved through the space. But although he relished the work, part of him also recognized that Uncle Vanya was not exactly the most helpful thing he could be doing at the moment. On set, he was Dr. Astrov, but once he was back at Greene Street, he was Sonya, and Sonya-as much as he loved the play and always had, as much as he loved and pitied poor Sonya herself-was not a role he had ever thought he might perform, under any circumstance. When he had told the others about the film, JB had said, "So it's a gender-blind cast, then," and he'd said, "What do you mean?" and JB had said, "Well, you're obviously Elena, right?" and everyone had laughed, especially him. This was what he loved about JB, he had thought; he was always smarter than even he knew. "He's far too old to play Elena," Jude had added, affectionately, and everyone had laughed again.

Vanya was an efficient shoot, just thirty-six days, and was over by the last week in March. One day shortly after it had ended, he met an old friend and former girlfriend of his, Cressy, for lunch in TriBeCa, and as he walked back to Greene Street in the light, dry snow, he was reminded of how much he enjoyed the city in the late winter, when the weather was suspended between one season and the next, and when Jude cooked every weekend, and when you could walk the streets for hours and never see anyone but a few lone people taking their dogs out for a stroll.

He was heading north on Church Street and had just crossed Reade when he glanced into a cafe on his right and saw Andy sitting at a table in the corner, reading. "Willem!" said Andy, as he approached him. "What're you doing here?"

"I just had lunch with a friend and I'm walking home," he said. "What're you doing here? You're so far downtown."

"You two and your walks," Andy said, shaking his head. "George is at a birthday party a few blocks from here, and I'm waiting until I have to go pick him up."

"How old is George now?"

"Nine."

"God, already?"

"I know."

"Do you want some company?" he asked. "Or do you want to be alone?"

"No," said Andy. He tucked a napkin into his book to mark his place. "Stay. Please." And so he sat.

They talked for a while of, of course, Jude, who was on a business trip in Mumbai, and Uncle Vanya ("I just remember Astrov as being an unbelievable tool," Andy said), and his next project, which began shooting in Brooklyn at the end of April, and Andy's wife, Jane, who was expanding her practice, and their children: George, who had just been diagnosed with asthma, and Beatrice, who wanted to go to boarding school the following year.

And then, before he could stop himself-not that he felt any particular need to try-he was telling Andy about his feelings for Jude, and how he wasn't sure what they meant or what to do about them. He talked and talked, and Andy listened, his face expressionless. There was no one else in the cafe but the two of them, and outside, the snow fell faster and thicker, and he felt, despite his anxiety, deeply calm, and glad he was telling somebody, and that that somebody was a person who knew him and Jude both, and had for many years. "I know this seems strange," he said. "And I've thought about what it could be, Andy, I really have. But part of me wonders if it was always meant to be this way; I mean, I've dated and dated for decades now, and maybe the reason it's never worked out is because it was never meant to, because I was supposed to be with him all along. Or maybe I'm telling myself this. Or maybe it's simple curiosity. But I don't think it is; I think I know myself better than that." He sighed. "What do you think I should do?"

Andy was quiet for a while. "First," he said, "I don't think it's strange, Willem. I think it makes sense in a lot of ways. You two have always had something different, something unusual. So-I always wondered, despite your girlfriends.

"Selfishly, I think it'd be wonderful: for you, but especially for him. I think if you wanted to be in a relationship with him, it'd be the greatest, most restorative gift he could ever get.

"But Willem, if you do this, you should go in prepared to make some sort of commitment to him, and to being with him, because you're right: you're not going to be able to just fool around and then get out of it. And I think you should know that it's going to be very, very hard. You're going to have to get him to trust you all over again, and to see you in a different way. I don't think I'm betraying anything when I say that it's going to be very tough for him to be intimate with you, and you're going to have to be really patient with him."

They were both silent. "So if I do it, I should do so thinking it's going to be forever," he told Andy, and Andy looked at him for a few seconds and then smiled.

"Well," Andy said, "there are worse life sentences."

"True," he said.

He went back to Greene Street. April arrived, and Jude returned home. They celebrated Jude's birthday-"Forty-three," Harold sighed, "I vaguely remember forty-three"-and he began shooting his next project. An old friend of his, a woman he'd known since graduate school, was starring in the production as well-he was playing a corrupt detective, and she was playing his wife-and they slept together a few times. Everything marched along as it always had. He worked; he came home to Greene Street; he thought about what Andy had said.

And then one Saturday morning he woke very early, just as the sky was brightening. It was late May, and the weather was unpredictable: some days it felt like March, other days, like July. Ninety feet away from him lay Jude. And suddenly his timidity, his confusion, his dithering seemed silly. He was home, and home was Jude. He loved him; he was meant to be with him; he would never hurt him-he trusted himself with that much. And so what was there to fear?

He remembered a conversation he'd had with Robin when he had been preparing to shoot The Odyssey and was rereading it and The Iliad, neither of which he had looked at since he was a freshman in college. This was when they had first begun dating, and were both still trying to impress each other, when a sort of giddiness was derived from deferring to the other's expertise. "What're the most overrated lines from the poem?" he'd asked, and Robin had rolled her eyes and recited: " 'We have still not reached the end of our trials. One more labor lies in store-boundless, laden with danger, great and long, and I must brave it out from start to finish.' " She made some retching noises. "So obvious. And somehow, that's been co-opted by every losing football team in the country as their pregame rallying cry," she added, and he'd laughed. She looked at him, slyly. "You played football," she said. "I'll bet those're your favorite lines as well."

"Absolutely not," he'd said, in mock outrage. This was part of their game that wasn't always a game: he was the dumb actor, the dumber jock, and she was the smart girl who went out with him and taught him what he didn't know.

"Then tell me what they are," she'd challenged him, and after he did, she'd looked at him, intently. "Hmm," she said. "Interesting."

Now he got out of bed and wrapped his blanket around himself, yawning. That evening, he'd talk to Jude. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he would be safe; he would keep them both safe. He went to the kitchen to make himself coffee, and as he did, he whispered the lines back to himself, those lines he thought of whenever he was coming home, coming back to Greene Street after a long time away-"And tell me this: I must be absolutely sure. This place I've reached, is it truly Ithaca?"-as all around him, the apartment filled with light.

Every morning he gets up and swims two miles, and then comes back upstairs and sits down and has breakfast and reads the papers. His friends make fun of him for this-for the fact that he actually prepares a meal instead of buying something on the way to work; for the fact that he actually still gets the papers delivered, in paper form-but the ritual of it has always calmed him: even in the home, it was the one time when the counselors were too mild, the other boys too sleepy to bother him. He would sit in the corner of the dining area and read and eat his breakfast, and for those minutes he would be left alone.

He is an efficient reader, and he skims first through The Wall Street Journal, and then the Financial Times, before beginning with The New York Times, which he reads front to back, when he sees the headline in Obituaries: "Caleb Porter, 52, Fashion Executive." Immediately, his mouthful of scrambled eggs and spinach turns to cardboard and glue, and he swallows hard, feeling sick, feeling every nerve ending thrumming alive. He has to read the article three times before he can make sense of any of the facts: pancreatic cancer. "Very fast," said his colleague and longtime friend. Under his stewardship, emerging fashion label Rothko saw aggressive expansion into the Asian and Middle Eastern markets, as well as the opening of their first New York City boutique. Died at his home in Manhattan. Survived by his sister, Michaela Porter de Soto of Monte Carlo, six nieces and nephews, and his partner, Nicholas Lane, also a fashion executive.

He is still for a moment, staring at the page until the words rearrange themselves into an abstraction of gray before his eyes, and then he hobbles as fast as he can to the bathroom near the kitchen, where he vomits up everything he's just eaten, gagging over the toilet until he's coughing up long strands of saliva. He lowers the toilet seat and sits, resting his face in his hands, until he feels better. He wishes, desperately, for his razors, but he has always been careful not to cut himself during the day, partly because it feels wrong and partly because he knows he has to impose limits upon himself, however artificial, or he'd be cutting himself all day. Lately, he has been trying very hard not to cut himself at all. But tonight, he thinks, he will grant himself an exception. It is seven a.m. In around fifteen hours, he'll be home again. All he has to do is make it through the day.

He puts his plate in the dishwasher and walks quietly through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where he showers and shaves and then gets dressed in the closet, first making sure that the door between the closet and the bedroom is completely closed. At this point, he has added a new step to his morning routine: now, if he were to do what he has been for the past month, he would open the door and walk over to the bed, where he'd perch on its left side and put his hand on Willem's arm, and Willem would open his eyes and smile at him.

"I'm off," he'd say, smiling back, and Willem would shake his head. "Don't go," Willem would say, and he'd say, "I have to," and Willem would say, "Five minutes," and he'd say, "Five." And then Willem would lift his end of the blanket and he'd crawl beneath it, with Willem pressed against his back, and he would close his eyes and wait for Willem to wrap his arms around him and wish he could stay forever. And then, ten or fifteen minutes later, he would at last, reluctantly, get up, and kiss Willem somewhere near, but not on, his mouth-he is still having trouble with this, even four months later-and leave for the day.

This morning, however, he skips this step. He instead pauses at the dining-room table to write Willem a note explaining that he had to leave early and didn't want to wake him, and then, as he's walking to the door, he comes back and grabs the Times off the table and takes it with him. He knows how irrational it is, but he doesn't want Willem to see Caleb's name, or picture, or any evidence of him. Willem still doesn't know about what Caleb did to him, and he doesn't want him to. He doesn't even want him to be aware of Caleb's very existence-or, he realizes, his once-existence, for Caleb no longer exists. Beneath his arm, the paper feels almost alive with heat, Caleb's name a dark knot of poison cradled inside its pages.

He decides to drive to work so he'll be able to be alone for a little while, but before he leaves the garage, he takes out the paper and reads the article one more time before folding it up again and shoving it into his briefcase. And then suddenly, he is crying, frantic, breathy sobs, the kind that come from his diaphragm, and as he leans his head on the steering wheel, trying to regain control, he is finally able to admit to himself how plainly, profoundly relieved he is, and how frightened he has been for the past three years, and how humiliated and ashamed he is still. He retrieves the paper, hating himself, and reads the obituary again, stopping at "and by his partner, Nicholas Lane, also a fashion executive." He wonders: Did Caleb do to Nicholas Lane what he did to him, or is Nicholas-as he must be-someone undeserving of such treatment? He hopes that Nicholas never experienced what he had, but he's also certain he hasn't, and the knowledge of that makes him cry harder. That had been one of Harold's arguments when he was trying to get him to report the attack; that Caleb was dangerous, and that by reporting him, by having him arrested, he would be protecting other people from him. But he had known that wasn't true: Caleb wouldn't do to other people what he did to him. He hadn't hit and hated him because he hit and hated other people; he had hit and hated him because of who he was, not because of who Caleb was.

Finally, he's able to compose himself, and he wipes his eyes and blows his nose. The crying: another leftover from his time with Caleb. For years and years he was able to control it, and now-ever since that night-it seems he is always crying, or on the verge of it, or actively trying to stop himself from doing it. It's as if all his progress from the past few decades has been erased, and he is again that boy in Brother Luke's care, so teary and helpless and vulnerable.

He's about to start the car when his hands begin shaking. Now he knows he can do nothing but wait, and he folds them in his lap and tries to make his breaths deep and regular, which sometimes helps. By the time his phone rings a few minutes later, they've slowed somewhat, and he hopes he sounds normal as he answers. "Hi, Harold," he says.

"Jude," says Harold. His voice is flattened, somehow. "Have you read the Times today?"

Immediately, the shaking intensifies. "Yes," he says.

"Pancreatic cancer is a terrible way to go," says Harold. He sounds grimly satisfied. "Good. I'm glad." There's a pause. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he says, "yes, I'm fine."

"The connection keeps cutting out," says Harold, but he knows it's not: it's because he's shaking so badly that he can't hold the phone steady.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm in the garage. Look, Harold, I'd better get up to work. Thanks for calling."

"Okay." Harold sighs. "You'll call me if you want to talk, right?"

"Yes," he says. "Thanks."

It's a busy day, for which he's grateful, and he tries to give himself no time to think about anything but work. Late in the morning, he gets a text from Andy-Assume you've seen that the asshole is dead. Pancreatic cancer = major suffering. You okay?-and writes back to assure him he's fine, and over lunch he reads the obituary one last time before stuffing the entire paper into the shredder and turning back to his computer.

In the afternoon he gets a text from Willem saying that the director he's meeting with about his next project has pushed back their dinner, so he doesn't think he'll be home before eleven, and he is relieved. At nine, he tells his associates he's leaving early, and then drives home and goes directly to the bathroom, shucking his jacket and rolling up his sleeves and unstrapping his watch as he goes; he's almost hyperventilating with desire by the time he makes the first cut. It has been nearly two months since he's made more than two cuts in a single sitting, but now he abandons his self-discipline and cuts and cuts and cuts, until finally his breathing slows and he feels the old, comforting emptiness settle inside him. After he's done, he cleans up and washes his face and goes to the kitchen, where he reheats some soup he'd made the weekend before and has his first real meal of the day, and then brushes his teeth and collapses into bed. He is weak from the cutting, but he knows if he rests for a few minutes, he'll be fine. The goal is to be normal by the time Willem comes home, to not give him anything to worry about, to not do anything else to upset this impossible and delirious dream he's been living in for the past eighteen weeks.

When Willem had told him of his feelings, he had been so discomfited, so disbelieving, that it was only the fact that it was Willem saying it that convinced him it wasn't some terrible joke: his faith in Willem was more powerful than the absurdity of what Willem was suggesting.

But only barely. "What are you saying?" he asked Willem for the tenth time.

"I'm saying I'm attracted to you," Willem said, patiently. And then, when he didn't say anything, "Judy-I don't think it's all that odd, really. Haven't you ever felt that way about me, in all these years?"

"No," he said instantly, and Willem had laughed. But he hadn't been joking. He would never, ever have been so presumptuous as to even picture himself with Willem. Besides, he wasn't what he had ever imagined for Willem: he had imagined someone beautiful (and female) and intelligent for Willem, someone who would know how fortunate she was, someone who would make him feel fortunate as well. He knew this was-like so many of his imaginings about adult relationships-somewhat gauzy and naive, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen. He was certainly not the kind of person Willem should be with; for Willem to be with him over the theoretical fantasy woman he'd conjured for him was an unbelievable tumble.

The next day, he presented Willem with a list of twenty reasons why he shouldn't want to be with him. As he handed it to him, he could see that Willem was amused, slightly, but then he started to read it and his expression changed, and he retreated to his study so he wouldn't have to watch him.

After a while, Willem knocked. "Can I come in?" he asked, and he told him he could.

"I'm looking at point number two," said Willem, seriously. "I hate to tell you this, Jude, but we have the same body." He looked at him. "You're an inch taller, but can I remind you that we can wear each other's clothes?"

He sighed. "Willem," he said, "you know what I mean."

"Jude," Willem said, "I understand that this is strange for you, and unexpected. If you really don't want this, I'll back off and leave you alone and I promise things won't change between us." He stopped. "But if you're trying to convince me not to be with you because you're scared and self-conscious-well, I understand that. But I don't think it's a good enough reason not to try. We'll go as slowly as you want, I promise."

He was quiet. "Can I think about it?" he asked, and Willem nodded. "Of course," he said, and left him alone, sliding the door shut behind him.

He sat in his office in silence for a long time, thinking. After Caleb, he had sworn he would never again do this to himself. He knew Willem would never do anything bad to him, and yet his imagination was limited: he was incapable of conceiving of a relationship that wouldn't end with his being hit, with his being kicked down the stairs, with his being made to do things he had told himself he would never have to do again. Wasn't it possible, he asked himself, that he could push even someone as good as Willem to that inevitability? Wasn't it foregone that he would inspire a kind of hatred from even Willem? Was he so greedy for companionship that he would ignore the lessons that history-his own history-had taught him?

But then there was another voice inside him, arguing back. You're crazy if you turn this opportunity down, said the voice. This is the one person you have always trusted. Willem isn't Caleb; he would never do that, not ever.

And so, finally, he had gone to the kitchen, where Willem was making dinner. "Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

Willem had looked at him and smiled. "Come here," he said, and he did, and Willem kissed him. He had been scared, and panicky, and once again he had thought of Brother Luke, and he had opened his eyes to remind himself that this was Willem after all, not someone to fear. But just as he was relaxing into it, he had seen Caleb's face flashing through his mind like a pulse, and he pulled away from Willem, choking, rubbing his hand across his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said, pivoting away from him. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this, Willem."

"What do you mean?" Willem had asked, turning him back around. "You're great at it," and he had felt himself sag with relief that Willem wasn't angry at him.

Since then, he has been constantly pitting what he knows of Willem against what he expects of someone-anyone-who has any physical desire for him. It is as if he somehow expects that the Willem he has known will be replaced by another; as if there will be a different Willem for what is a different relationship. In the first few weeks, he was terrified that he might upset or disappoint Willem in some way, that he might drive him toward anger. He had waited for days, summoning his courage, to tell Willem that he couldn't tolerate the taste of coffee in his mouth (although he didn't explain to him why: Brother Luke, his awful, muscular tongue, the grain of coffee grounds that had permanently furred his gumline. This had been one of the things he had appreciated about Caleb: that he hadn't drunk coffee). He apologized and apologized until Willem told him to stop. "Jude, it's fine," he said. "I should've realized: really. I just won't drink it."

"But you love coffee," he said.

Willem had smiled. "I enjoy it, yes," he said, "but I don't need it." He smiled again. "My dentist will be thrilled."

Also in that first month, he had talked to Willem about sex. They had these conversations at night, in bed, when it was easier to say things. He had always associated night with cutting, but now it was becoming about something else-those talks with Willem in a darkened room, when he was less self-conscious about touching him, and where he could see every one of Willem's features and yet was also able to pretend that Willem couldn't see his.

"Do you want to have sex someday?" he asked him one night, and even as he was saying it, he heard how stupid he sounded.

But Willem didn't laugh at him. "Yes," he said, "I'd like to."

He nodded. Willem waited. "It's going to take me a while," he said, at last.

"That's okay," Willem said. "I'll wait."

"But what if it takes me months?"

"Then it'll take months," Willem said.

He thought about that. "What if it takes longer?" he asked, quietly.

Willem had reached over and touched the side of his face. "Then it will," he said.

They were quiet for a long time. "What're you going to do in the meantime?" he asked, and Willem laughed. "I do have some self-control, Jude," he said, smiling at him. "I know this comes as a shock to you, but I can go for stretches without having sex."

"I didn't mean anything," he began, remorseful, but Willem grabbed him and kissed him, noisily, on the cheek. "I'm kidding," he said. "It's okay, Jude. You'll take as long as you need."

And so they still haven't had sex, and sometimes he is even able to convince himself that maybe they never will. But in the meantime, he has grown to enjoy, to crave even, Willem's physicality, his affection, which is so easy and natural and spontaneous that it makes him feel easier and more spontaneous as well. Willem sleeps on the left side of the bed, and he on the right, and the first night they slept in the same bed, he turned to his right on his side, the way he always did, and Willem pressed up against him, tucking his right arm under his neck and then across his shoulders, and his left arm around his stomach, moving his legs between his legs. He was surprised by this, but once he overcame his initial discomfort, he found he liked it, that it was like being swaddled.

One night in June, however, Willem didn't do it, and he worried he had done something wrong. The next morning-early mornings were the other time they talked about things that seemed too tender, too difficult, to be said in the daylight-he asked Willem if he was upset with him, and Willem, looking surprised, said no, of course not.

"I just wondered," he began, stammering, "because last night you didn't-" But he couldn't finish the sentence; he was too embarrassed.

But then he could see Willem's expression clear, and he rolled into him and wrapped his arms around him. "This?" he asked, and he nodded. "It was just because it was so hot last night," Willem said, and he waited for Willem to laugh at him, but he didn't. "That's the only reason, Judy." Since then, Willem has held him in the same way every night, even through July, when not even the air-conditioning could erase the heaviness from the air, and when they both woke damp with sweat. This, he realizes, is what he wanted from a relationship all along. This is what he meant when he hoped he might someday be touched. Sometimes Caleb had hugged him, briefly, and he always had to resist the impulse to ask him to do it again, and for longer. But now, here it is: all the physical contact that he knows exists between healthy people who love each other and are having sex, without the dreaded sex itself.

He cannot bring himself to initiate contact with Willem, nor ask for it, but he waits for it, for every time that Willem grabs his arm as he passes him in the living room and pulls him close to kiss him, or comes up behind him as he stands at the stove and puts his arms around him in the same position-chest, stomach-that he does in bed. He has always admired how physical JB and Willem are, both with each other and with everyone around them; he knew they knew not to do it with him, and as grateful as he was for their carefulness with him, it sometimes made him wistful: he sometimes wished they would disobey him, that they would lay claim to him with the same friendly confidence they did with everyone else. But they never did.

It took him three months, until the end of August, to finally take off his clothes in front of Willem. Every night he came to bed in his long-sleeve T-shirt and sweatpants, and every night Willem came to bed in his underwear. "Is this uncomfortable for you?" Willem asked, and he shook his head, even though it was-uncomfortable, but not entirely unwelcome. Every day the month before, he promised himself: he would take off his clothes and be done with it. He would do it that night, because he had to do it at some point. But that was as far as his imagination would let him proceed; he couldn't think about what Willem's reaction might be, or what he might do the following day. And then night would come, and they would be in bed, and his resolve would fail him.

One night, Willem reached beneath his shirt and put his hands on his back, and he yanked himself away so forcefully that he fell off the bed. "I'm sorry," he told Willem, "I'm sorry," and he climbed back in, keeping himself just at the edge of the mattress.

They were quiet, the two of them. He lay on his back and stared at the chandelier. "You know, Jude," Willem said at last. "I have seen you without your shirt on."

He looked at Willem, who took a breath. "At the hospital," he said. "They were changing your dressings, and giving you a bath."

His eyes turned hot, and he looked back up at the ceiling. "How much did you see?" he asked.

"I didn't see everything," Willem reassured him. "But I know you have scars on your back. And I've seen your arms before." Willem waited, and then, when he didn't say anything, sighed. "Jude, I promise you it's not what you think it is."

"I'm afraid you're going to be disgusted by me," he was finally able to say. Caleb's words floated back to him: You really are deformed; you really are. "I don't suppose I could just never take my clothes off at all, right?" he asked, trying to laugh, to turn it into a joke.

"Well, no," Willem said. "Because I think-although it's not going to feel like it, initially-it'll be a good thing for you, Judy."

And so the next night, he did it. As soon as Willem came to bed, he undressed quickly, under the covers, and then flung the blanket away and rolled onto his side, so his back was facing Willem. He kept his eyes shut the entire time, but when he felt Willem place his palm on his back, just between his shoulder blades, he began to cry, savagely, the kind of bitter, angry weeping he hadn't done in years, tucking into himself with shame. He kept remembering the night with Caleb, the last time he had been so exposed, the last time he had cried this hard, and he knew that Willem would only understand part of the reason he was so upset, that he didn't know that the shame of this very moment-of being naked, of being at another's mercy-was almost as great as his shame for what he had revealed. He heard, more from the tone than the words themselves, that Willem was being kind to him, that he was dismayed and was trying to make him feel better, but he was so distraught that he couldn't even comprehend what Willem was saying. He tried to get out of the bed so he could go to the bathroom and cut himself, but Willem caught him and held him so tightly that he couldn't move, and eventually he somehow calmed himself.

When he woke the following morning-late: it was a Sunday-Willem was staring at him. He looked tired. "How are you?" he asked.

The night returned to him. "Willem," he said, "I'm so, so sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened." He realized, then, that he still wasn't wearing any clothes, and he put his arms beneath the sheet, and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"No, Jude," Willem said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was going to be so traumatic for you." He reached over and stroked his hair. They were quiet. "That was the first time I've ever seen you cry, you know."

"Well," he said, swallowing. "For some reason it's not as successful a seduction method as I'd hoped," and smiled at Willem, a little, and Willem smiled back.

They lay in bed that morning and talked. Willem asked him about certain scars, and he told him. He explained how he had gotten the scars on his back: about the day he had been caught trying to run away from the home; the beating that had followed; the resulting infection, the way his back had wept pus for days, the bubbles of blisters that had formed around the stray splinters from the broom handle that had embedded themselves into his flesh; what he had been left with when it was all over. Willem asked him when he was last naked before anyone and he lied and told him that-except for Andy-it had been when he was fifteen. And then Willem said various kind and unbelievable things about his body, which he chose to ignore, because he knew they weren't true.

"Willem, if you want out, I understand," he said. It had been his idea not to tell anyone that their friendship might be changing into something else, and although he had told Willem it would give them space, and privacy, to figure out how to be with each other, he had also thought it would give Willem time to reconsider, opportunities to change his mind without fear of everyone else's opinions. Of course, with this decision he cannot help but hear the echoes of his last relationship, which had also been conducted in secrecy, and he had to remind himself that this one was different; it was different unless he made it the same.

"Jude, of course I don't," Willem said. "Of course not."

Willem was running his fingertip over his eyebrow, which for some reason he found a comforting gesture: it was affectionate without being in the least sexual. "I just feel like I'm going to be this series of nasty surprises for you," he said at last, and Willem shook his head. "Surprises, maybe," he said. "But not nasty ones."

And so every night, he tries to remove his clothes. Sometimes he can do it; other times, he can't. Sometimes he can allow Willem to touch him on his back and arms, and other times, he can't. But he has been unable to be naked before Willem in the daytime, or even in light, or to do any of the things that he knows from movies and eavesdropping on other people that couples are supposed to do around each other: he cannot get dressed in front of Willem, or shower with him, which he'd had to do with Brother Luke, and which he had hated.

His own self-consciousness has not, however, proven contagious, and he is fascinated by how often, and how matter-of-factly, Willem is naked. In the morning, he pulls back Willem's side of the blanket and studies Willem's sleeping form with a clinical rigor, noting how perfect it is, and then remembers, with a strange queasy giddiness, that he is the one seeing it, that it is being bestowed upon him.