The summer before our senior year, Liam had proposed an open relationship. Had he been a Gender Studies major, I would’ve understood; the proposition had confused me because Liam was a Classics and Religion Studies major.  I had never been with anyone else before — not that there had never been a slew of erstwhile lovers, but they weren’t like Liam. We’d met in the fall semester of our freshman year, both of us in a survey British literature course. I remember how well he always did in the weekly quizzes; he was quiet, so I had violated his privacy by looking at his marked transcript, succumbing to embarrassment because I was an average student. He only spoke to me when needed, only during peer workshops. One time, he remarked at how my sentences were fluid, but not academic. I had found him pompous, but I was intrigued by him, by how aloof he was in class and how he was boisterous around campus, bopping in dirty denims, a busted-up pair of Converse shoes, and a stained plaid shirt. It was by surprise then, a few weeks before finals, when we ended up at the same party. I remember the exact day: it was the last weekend of November, and there was a party at one of the co-ed fraternities. It was a glow-lights party, and the instant you landed at the entrance two frat members handed out a plastic necklace depicting your romantic status. Green: single. Red: taken. Yellow: complicated or open. We didn’t have the same colors; his necklace was red, meaning that he was unavailable, but after we said hello Liam insisted on getting me “good” beer because people in the house were his friends. “Thuso,” he had called from across the hall, and though the music was loud Liam was audible enough, because for some reason his voice was very distinct. “Thuso, man, great to see you here,” Liam said. He proceeded to give me a long hug. “You smell great,” he whispered, and  the whiff of beer was wet against my ear. “You smell good, too, bro,” I said, though he reeked of hot sweat. And why had I called him bro, anyway? I remember how he introduced me to the people whom he knew from the house, people I had passed on campus, and they seemed excited the way Americans were often excited, with their “lovely to meet you” greetings. I remember not telling him that I don’t drink beer; I remember drinking beer from a red solo cup. I remember how my breath smelt like his. I remember dancing with him, our hands raised in the air and he was against my crotch. I remember him saying, “I have weed in my room. Wanna smoke?” I remember going to his building, the only freshman dorm in a street where it was full of upperclassmen housing. I remember how the stairs leading to his floor were tedious; my knees were tired, but he had held my hand so that I could hurry. I remember saying, “I thought you hated me.” And I remember Liam saying, “Why do you think I sit next to you in class all the time?” I remember him begging his roommate to go to the common room until we were done. I remember his roommate, a preppy white boy with blonde hair laughing his way out of the room. I remember Liam apologizing. I remember Liam holding a lighter and the joint rolled inside his mouth. I remember the shirt he’d worn, a white floral top that was misbuttoned. I remember Liam saying, “Shit. The RA is such a dick, he will smell this shit and write me up.” I remember Liam pulling his roommate’s sweatpants from the laundry basket to close the space under the door, fastening a black plastic bag with tape around the smoke detector, and then he sprayed lavender aerosol around the room. I remember the calm on his face once he’d felt safe; or he thought he was safe. I remember how he dragged the joint, how smoke snarled out of his mouth. I remember Liam offering me the joint and my hands were jittery. I remember him saying, “T., relax. Take this.” I remember the wetness of his palms; I remember wanting him to touch me some more. I remember the song he played, a slow Frank Ocean song from his 2012 EP. I remember how the joint was wet where Liam’s lips had been; I remember thinking each drag was a way of kissing him. I remember wanting to kiss him, I remember wanting to fuck him, I remember wanting Liam to fuck me. I remember the swell between my legs at that thought. I remember how we finished the joint and he asked if I wanted to go back to the frat house; I remember saying, “No, I think I am done for the night.” I remember him saying, “Do you want to spend the night?” I remember saying yes; I remember taking off my pants. I remember how sticky they felt, tight around my thighs. I remember Liam taking his shirt off, then his pants, then his boxers. I remember his dick, the first time I wanted to take all of him inside my mouth. I remember feeling embarrassed at my being aroused, again. I remember asking, “You sleep like that?” I remember him nodding, “The best sleep you could ever have.” I remember him proposing that I should sleep naked too. I remember asking, “tonight?” I remember how it started to snow that night; campus police had sent a notice that the snow will be eight inches from the ground. I remember getting into bed naked with Liam. He’d watched me take off my boxers. He had already laid in bed; he’d touched himself in ways I never thought he would when I sat next to him in class. I remember feeling like, “this is the best thing that could happen to me.” Freshman year was hard; the man I had been seeing at the start of the year was a professor at my school. I had met him in the summer when I arrived in Hartford. We met at a coffee shop downtown, and we spoke about books. A week prior to my meeting Liam, the man had violated me. I was sick, not physically, but in the heart. I had loved him, at least I thought I did. I didn’t think of that man as I neared Liam; I crawled to him with an inviting gaze, and said, “this will be the most fun we’ll ever have.” I remember how he rose from the bed to meet me half-way, to kiss me, though I had planned to lay next to him. I remember how his lips smelt, like malt beer and weed. I remember thinking, “It’s as if I am kissing myself. I taste like him.” I remember feeling ridiculous at that thought; I was kissing Liam. He’d kissed me for less than thirty seconds, his palm tight around my nape, when I pulled away from him. “Your roommate,” I said, “what if he comes back.” I remember how Liam bolted and said, “he knows what to do.” Liam then went to his drawer and pulled a black sock, and I remember thinking that I was in a cheap pornographic film, the college genre. I remember how quick he hung the sock, and how the air from the hallway got into the room. The heat hadn’t been turned on for that building, so it was cold air. I remember how my dick became flaccid and I began to worry that he might think I don’t want him; I remember how he crawled back into the bed and headed toward my torso. He kissed my stomach and then kissed the sides of my hips. His hands were on my flat breasts; his hands were wet and strong and coarse. I remember how he sniffed my pubic hair; I remember how he looked up and said, “you taste good, T.” I remember liking that, the sound of my name in his mouth, not my name but my initial. I remember how he never stopped calling me T., even when he was mad at me. I remember how, as he’d looked up at me and his grey eyes piercing into mine, I remember how I wasn’t shy to meet his gaze. I remember being overcome by some force I’d never had; I had always been a submissive partner — not a submissive partner but men wanted me docile — and how I pushed my hands into his head. I remember his curly hair, how he said he would never cut it until the end of winter. I remember him obliging to my push; I remember the warm wetness of his tongue; I remember how he took all of me in. I remember feeling how my ass was no longer just flat against the bed, but I was fucking him, I was fucking his mouth. I remember not thinking but wanting his face close to mine. I remember pulling him back, and he was hesitant. “Come here, boy,” I said. “Come kiss me.” I remember how he jumped at that, almost smiling and flat against my stomach. I remember feeling his fluffy pubic hair against my groin. I remember how my legs were no longer flat, but I had taken him between me, wrapped my legs around his back like a ribbon. I remember how we’d forgotten about Frank Ocean playing in the background. I remember how, when we were out of breath, Liam went to kiss my neck. I remember kissing his neck, unbothered by its saltiness. I remember grabbing his ass with my two hands. I remember saying, “I’d let you fuck me right now.” I remember him saying, “I thought you wanted to fuck me.” I remember asking, “do you have lube?” I remember him saying, “I have lube and condoms—but I am not clean.” I remember asking, “What do you mean not clean?” I remember him saying, “not in that way—I mean, I didn’t prepare.” I remembered how I wasn’t prepared for my first time; I remember the smell of shit when the boy who’d fucked me in boarding school pulled out and never spoke to me for weeks until he was horny again—when his girlfriend wouldn’t let him fuck. I remember telling Liam, “we don’t have to do it tonight. Not now even.” I remember him saying, “you know I’ve had a crush on you for a while?” I remember saying, “shut up. You hate me. Kiss me, please.” I remember him kissing me, then we fell asleep. I don’t remember how we fell asleep, or when his roommate got back. There was a girl on his bed when we woke; a girl with long blonde hair and I thought, “how typical.” I remember how they were also naked in bed. I remember worrying about the girl: “What would she think happened when she woke?” I remember that girls on my campus often woke to strange men forcing their way between their legs. I remember how I fell asleep after Liam pulled me in for cuddles. I remember waking him up at eleven in the morning, “Hey. I think I’m gonna go—”. I remember his morning breath, my morning breath. I remember how he rubbed his eyes and looked back at me. “I thought we were gonna have brunch together.” I remember smiling at him, or at myself. I remember thinking, “would he want to be seen with me?” I remember how we didn’t brush our teeth that morning; we had wiped our eyes with a wet cloth. He gave me his sweater and jeans to wear and a cap. He wore something similar. He drove a large black truck that had too many coffee cups at the back. I remember saying, “I should have gone to church.” I remember how he marveled at me as we drove, at the realization that I was a believer. “I am sorry, you should have said.” I remember feeling guilty, thinking that I had made him upset. I remember remembering that I didn’t want to go to church; it was just a habit I always had. Even when I left home for boarding school. I remember how the drive was quick, and how we had grown tired. We went to a restaurant in Farmington, a nice suburb outside West Hartford. I remember the snow, how it made the day too bright — blinding, almost. I remember the waiter, a ginger twink who had worn tight pants, and had also worked at the cafè on the first floor of our college library. He gave us our menus and we each ordered a greasy meal, two different meals so that we could taste each other’s food. I remember asking for lots of mushrooms; I remember him saying mushrooms are gross, and I remember saying people who hate mushrooms are probably serial killers. I remember him telling me the story of a serial killer in the town he lived in. He came from a farming town in New Hampshire. He was young when bodies of young girls were found behind the killer’s barn. Some bodies were barely cold. It was mostly blonde girls. I remember him telling me that trouble started around the same time with his parents, a white man from Vermont and a black woman from Ohio. His parents met in college and got married in their senior year, then had him two years later. I remember how his face became a yoyo of emotions. He turned pasty pink when he spoke about his father, and pale when he spoke about his mother and two sisters — Taylor and Jasmine. I remember how the food took too long to get to the table. He’d waved at the waiter, the ginger twink, and he rushed to our table. I remember how Liam ordered mimosas for the two of us. He was underage to drink, and I was twenty-one — too old for an undergraduate; he had a fake ID, and his name was Terry Willard. I remember, after the waiter apologized for taking too long and having checked our IDs, how I teased Liam. “You’re Terry to me now,” I said. “Please, please, don’t,” he said, “I will kill you.” I remember how even that flirtation was enough, how life seemed full, how we were almost drunk again. I remember Liam called his roommate to drive us. “I am begging you, bro,” Liam said, “we’re so fucking drunk.” I remember how we wolfed the food until his roommate arrived, how we asked for a pitcher filled with water. I remember how even the water seemed like a waste. We wanted to stay drunk. “We are so bad,” I said. “We are bad boys,” Liam said and pulled in to kiss me. I remember Liam’s roommate arriving at the restaurant. I remember how he found Liam and I swooned into each other. Liam dug into my chest like a baby. “Awww,” Tommy said, Liam’s roommate. They had become best friends the way young people become best friends in college. “You two are inseparable already,” Tommy said, biting the bit of our bacon. I remember how Liam gripped my neck, to mouth me, so that the white family that had just arrived turned too quickly because the sight of us had embarrassed them. I remember Tommy asking if we were ready to leave. I remember the waiter approaching our table with the bill. It was too much, almost what I’d made for a week from my campus job at the library. I’d left my wallet, so I let him pay. It didn’t embarrass me because it wasn’t my fault. I remember the ginger twink telling us to have a great day as he bade us farewell. “I think he’s into you,” I said to Liam. “T.,” Liam said, “are you jealous already?” I remember how he and Tommy laughed, how I laughed with them as they laughed at me. I remember the sheer satisfaction from that intoxication. I remember Tommy being quiet when he drove us to campus. Weeks later, I would learn that Tommy and Liam never spoke about being those kinds of friends, friends who picked each other up from brunch while the other was intoxicated. I remember how I was now the one who laid on his chest, how I said, “Thank you for last night — and this morning and this afternoon.” I remember Liam smooching my forehead; I remember the rush and swell inside of me — a rush and swell of joy. I remember him saying, “does this count as a date?” I remember asking, “would you have it any other way?” I remember him saying, “I would do it again and again and again.” I remember how that sounded like a promise, how I thought this would be the man who would make me happy. I remember thinking, This is what they mean when they say you will find love in college. I remember feeling ridiculous so that I spaced out for a second and had been grinning to myself when Liam asked, “So what are we?” And I knew what I wanted to say, “we are lovers.” Instead, I said, “we are us.” I remember how he pulled me away and he said, “I want to be your boyfriend.” I remember those words, I want to be your boyfriend, how the words had meant: I want you to be mine. I remember how I was thrilled at being claimed by someone, not as a possession or caricature of myself, but someone seeing me as worthy of being theirs. I remember saying, “It would be great, we would be great together.” I remember how we got to Zion Street, near College Terrace, Tommy laughed out loud for no reason. “I am so sorry, Tommy,” I said. “I am not usually like this. It’s Liam — ” I found myself stopping. “Don’t be silly,” Tommy said. “I just haven’t seen anything like this. You guys are — you know what, I can be your chauffeur any day.” I remember how Liam’s hands clasped into mine; they weren’t sweaty, but they were warm. I remember how he said, “don’t be silly, Tommy.” I remember seeing him shy, so timid at being someone’s to someone he’d been too familiar with. I remember feeling embarrassed at the memory of seeing Tommy’s buttocks earlier, a plump yellow ass. I remember how, when they dropped me outside my dorm, I said, “this isn’t too fast, is it?” I remember, before I closed the door and tasted him again, tasting myself, Liam said, “would we be faggots if we weren’t rushing?” He slammed the door and said he’d see me later, that we could study together once we had become sober again. I didn’t want to be sober; I didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon without him. I wanted him. I had wanted people before, but I wanted Liam in a different way, a way that remained inexplicable, a way that remained true while we stayed together and apart over the years. I remember walking to my dorm and remembering that I had left my room key inside the pants I had worn, pants that I had taken off the night before, pants that were still in Liam’s room. I remember calling campus police to open for me. I remember the November wind, how it blew my face, how I was terrified of frost, how I didn’t have snow boots yet, how I didn’t have winter clothes yet, how I couldn’t afford any of those things because I had sent money home. I remember campus security arriving; I remember how the pale white man asked that I show him my ID when I got into the room. I remember telling him that I think I might have lost it, embarrassed to say that I left my ID at my boyfriend’s place, embarrassed to say the word boyfriend. It was a title I would only use when I had felt safe. I remember him humming and grunting as we climbed up the stairs to my room. I remember the smell of old trash and beer from the weekend hitting my nose. I remember wanting to vomit; I remember the officer opening my room and how I vomited. I remember his face when he saw my pouring out everything; I remember lying next to my vomit. I remember my RA rushing to me and asking if I was well. I remember how I ended up in hospital that day; I remember being inside the ambulance; I remember not wanting to be inside the ambulance; I remember how I was disgusted with myself, how I smelled of old sour cream and oranges and bacon and semen. I remember the nurse who took my vitals; I remember her trying to sober me up. I remember feeling sober; I remember feeling sober and scared; I remember being scared because I hated hospitals; I remember wanting Liam. I’d never thought I would need him that early into our relationship; the hours we’d spent together had given me the assurance that he was the one I needed. I remember calling my friend Maxine, who rushed to Hartford Hospital and brought me coffee. I remember drinking the coffee and vomiting some more. I remember vomiting endlessly. “You might have to spend the night,” the nurse said. I remember how the ER had mostly college students. I remember the thin hospital gown around my body; I remember thinking, “Why does it feel like my day just turned into an episode of Grey’s Anatomy?” I remember telling Maxine about what I had just thought. I remember Maxine laughing. I remember feeling parched and Maxine forcing water down my throat. I remember feeling hot with urine; I don’t remember peeing myself or how I fell asleep or how when I woke Maxine was still there. It was around nine in the evening. I remember telling Maxine about the night I had had. “You look so happy. I am so happy for you, Thuso,” Maxine had said. I remember begging Maxine to find Liam’s number and call him for me. I remember Maxine messaging Liam on social media to find his number. I remember crying, drunk crying, that I don’t have my boyfriend’s number. “I am fucking ridiculous. I am so, so stupid.” I remember Maxine telling me to stop being such a bitch. I remember saying, “Maxine, you’re a misogynist.” I remember Maxine laughing because it was ridiculous to call her a misogynist because Maxine is a woman. I remember not getting Liam’s number but Liam coming to the hospital with Tommy. I remember how Maxine had gone to the front desk to get them, and how Liam was pale. I remember being shy and embarrassed at the smell of urine that emanated from me. I remember Liam kissing my forehead again, and how Tommy said, “Are you going to be alright, bro?” I remember nodding; I remember Maxine and Tommy going to the Starbucks at the entrance to get me a sandwich. I remember how Liam held my hand, saying all will be well. I remember saying, “I don’t have your number.” I remember how he said, “hush, baby, hush.” I remember the sing-song quality of his assurance, the quell I had felt inside of me. I remember that I passed out again and when I woke visiting hours were over. I remember being near-tears when Liam, Maxine, and Tommy were about to leave. “Baby, I will come get you tomorrow when they let you out. I will get your number from Maxine.” I remember Tommy saying that all will be alright, and Maxine wolfing through the sandwich she’d bought for me. I remember thinking, “God, I love Maxine.” I swore that night that Maxine was my best friend. I remember being full of regret for having gone to the party without Maxine though she would have not let me leave with a boy. I remember not regretting my decision — how else would I have met Liam? I remember asking some girl from UHart if she had a charger I could use; I remember how she helped to charge my phone and how she exclaimed, “fuck! What is that smell?” I remember how I fell asleep and my stomach ached, and my throat hurt. Liam had texted at some point in the night, “You got me so worried, T. Let me know when you are discharged.” I remember how the hunger I had had inside of me had also quelled. By eleven I was already waiting for Liam and he’d come with flowers. He’d asked me what my favorite flowers were, and I had said roses. He’d brought a bouquet of a dozen white roses. He’d gotten them in Waterbury because he didn’t want to purchase them at Walmart or some cheap store. I remember saying, “baby,” when he came to me with flowers. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in two days and my mouth stank. I remember him wanting to kiss me and I declined. I remember how he said he didn’t care, and I didn’t know how to feel about that. I remember he’d brought me a change of clothes and he took me to the bathrooms of the hospital to change. I was changing from his other clothes to his new clean clothes. I remember asking, “are we going to be those type of boyfriends?” And he’d said, “what do you mean?” I remember saying, “the kind of boyfriends who wear each other’s clothes?” I remember him laughing as he helped me slide into school-branded sweat top and pants. “Perks of being a gay couple,” he had said. I remember we drove, and he’d gone to my room to clean the vomit while I was in the hospital. Though we weren’t allowed to have lit candles, Liam had put on candles that had an oceanic smell and left peas soup in my fridge. I remember how he walked me to the bathroom to shower. I remember I said, “baby, it was just vomit and overeating. Nothing much. I will be fine.” Liam was stubborn, and I should have learned that day. Once I was done bathing, he creamed my body and I wanted to repeat events from the night we’d met at the frat party. I remember how I gripped his hand when he creamed my chest, “kiss me now, then.” I remember him grabbing my throat, obliging, and we stopped because there was a knock on my door. I remember it was Maxine and I said I would come to her room a bit later. She didn’t care; she insisted that I open the door. “We’re not decent,” I said. “Bro,” Maxine said, “open the fucking door.” Maxine was a Haitian woman from Brooklyn who owned too many Nikes and spoke in a strange boy-ish manner that I teased her about. I remember how I was back into Liam’s sweats and we all sat in my bed and exchanged stories from the weekend. But Liam and I couldn’t keep our hands from each other. I remember how we said fuck homework and binged on a show. I remember how Maxine and Liam became friends from that day, such that they would sometimes have meals without me and that was fine. I remember how at the end of the week a $2500.00 bill from the hospital and ambulance arrived and I tore that shit into the bin outside the mail office. I remember thinking that maybe I am a badass. I remember how at the end of the week we went to an early Christmas dinner at one of Liam’s friends’ quad. I remember asking Maxine to come with me, but she’d gone to see her girlfriend who’d come to visit before military deployment. I remember noticing how Liam had mostly white friends. I remember the white girls calling me Sis when they spoke to me, how they asked about my accent, and how Liam tried to make them not ask me questions. I remember how Liam had brought me a Christmas sweater. I remember the sweaters were identical and everyone had made an aww sound when we got into the room. I remember how we had lots of pumpkin everything; I remember how Liam said I shouldn’t be drinking; I remember not wanting to drink; I remember Liam looking at me as I had small talk with the rest of his friends. I remember that there were about nine of us in the room. Mostly blonde girls. I remember how after dinner and an exchange of gifts we took photos and played music. I remember how I said to Liam, “baby, one drink won’t kill.” I remember Kyle had Jamaican rum that we drank until the RA came knocking on the door. I remember Liam and I kissing, kissing so much we ended up alone on the couches while everyone went back into the rooms. I remember how they called to pull us apart to take a photo. I remember my eyes feeling hot because I hadn’t been wearing my spectacles all night though Liam had asked me to. I remember our first photo together; how we grinned and looked into each other’s eyes. I remember thinking, “what is this because it feels good?” I remember that we framed that photo the next Tuesday when we went to the mall, when Liam went to get gifts for his family. I remember asking, can I keep it? I remember we got a duplicate of that photo and identical frames. I remember we had that photo on our desks. I remember that reading week was hell because I had never experienced such intensity — A Levels weren’t this grueling. I remember we studied for the British literature exam together. I remember he was frustrated when I forgot some answers, even when we had studied for too long. The only text I understood, or had much interest in, was Milton’s Paradise Lost—not because it was fascinating in any way, but Milton’s Eve is the Eve who would have made my pastor back home mad. I remember telling Liam that I am bad at exams, that I have never been too good at them. I remember him saying, “T., just breathe.” I remember we sat together during the exam, wanting to look at him, but the professor would think I was cheating. I remember wanting to cheat during that exam; I remember not wanting to be caught cheating; I remembered that I hated exams because they can make you seek easy ways out. I remember finishing the exam and feeling like I had bummed the class. I remember we returned to my room to sleep and study for our subsequent finals. I remember we wrote papers together and when we got sleepy, he’d say, “Leave that for a minute. Come with me.” I remember we got into his car and drove and spoke. I remember that we played Frank Ocean again. I remember saying, “you love him, don’t you?” I remember telling him that I can’t drive, and he laughed. “I just hate it. I fucking hate it,” I had said. I remember we went to the McDonalds on Flatbush Ave to get fries and ice cream. I remember saying, “you’ll give me sugar diabetes.” I remember that we worked on our papers until 4 a.m. the next day. I remember that I had already bought him a toothbrush, and he’d done the same. I remember he used my towel to dry himself after a shower. I remember how it was almost twenty-five days since we’d been together, and it was almost winter break. I remember winter break and being alone and scared — terrified not because Liam wasn’t with me, but I was alone. I remember taking a bus to New York City to spend Christmas with Maxine and her family. I remember how Maxine’s mother, a high school teacher, often cracked jokes and told me embarrassing stories about Maxine. I remember sleeping on the couch and texting Liam throughout the night. I remember him saying he misses me, and I said I missed him too. I remember going back to Hartford and feeling sick on the bus. I remember it was two days after Christmas and I had missed my books. I remember that I vomited in the bowl of the bus toilet. I remember not wanting to tell Liam because he would worry. I remember getting back to campus and it was white as snow. I remember the eerie quietness of my hall, how it was just international students around. I remember thinking, I don’t like these people. I remember dissociating myself from them. I remember how on the second day of the new year, Liam asked me what I was up to and I said nothing. I remember him asking if I was well. I remember lying and saying I was well though I wasn’t. I remember how it had gotten tough to get out of bed again, how I puked a lot now, how I couldn’t sleep with the lights off, how my body had started to itch, how I wanted nothing. How I didn’t even want Liam. How I badly wanted Liam. I remember not showering; I remember that I stank and smelt sour. I remember that Liam got one of the Chinese girls from my floor to open the door for him when she’d gone to collect her order outside. I remember how Liam drove for hours to come and see me. I remember that he asked me, “T., have you been eating?” I remember lying, but my breath said otherwise, my skin said otherwise. I remember him saying, “go take a shower.” I remember feeling embarrassed at how much I stank. I remember that it was seven weeks into our relationship when I crumbled. I remember that he made me bread and peanut butter to eat. I remember once I had enough energy, he made me stand. He took off my clothes, grabbed a towel to wrap it around my waist. I remember he took off his socks and walked barefooted; he slipped my flip flops into my feet. I remember that he held my hand to the bathroom. He opened the hot water, and it was too cold. He had his hand placed under the shower waiting for the water to become warm. He closed the shower curtain and said, “get inside.” I removed my towel—he took off his clothes. He pulled a sponge from my toiletry bag and rubbed on soap. He washed my back, and he was gentle. I remember that he scrubbed my back, then washed my ass, then he knelt and scoured my feet, rose up for a cloth to wash my face. I remember crying in the shower; I remember crying for the longest time in the shower. I remember weeping at his gentleness, at how much I had longed to be taken care of, how much I wanted someone to look after me for once. I remember he didn’t ask me questions. People who loved me eventually found out that I was often too sick. I remember that once I was done crying, he said, “hush, baby, hush. All will be alright.” I remember that he was also crying but he didn’t care. I remember that we were both damp and we went back to my room. I remember the Chinese girl on my floor seeing Liam and I come out of the bathroom. I remember her saying hi; I remember not wanting to see her; I remember feeling like shit. I remember once he had creamed me, he asked me what I wanted to eat. I couldn’t make up my mind, so he got us fried rice from a local place. I remember he fed me, and I hated the feeling of being helpless, so I fed myself. I remember him calling his mother, whom I would later call Miss Nina. I remember they were on the phone for a short time when he asked that I show him where my travel bags were stowed. I remember saying, “Where are we going? I don’t want to go anywhere.” I remember Liam not caring, being stubborn and looking through my drawer for a duffel bag. He packed some of my clothes and asked me to bring some books. I had worn his sweatpants that day. We drove to his grandfather’s cabin in Vermont. The main house had been leased out, but Liam had the keys to the cabin painted red outside. It was wooden inside, made of typical New England domestic features: a hearth and a rocking chair; a wooden table and wooden chair. The bed was flat on the ground. Liam’s grandfather was a writer and he’d used the cabin to get away from his family and write. The first thing we did when we entered was turn on the hearth. Soon after, he took our bags and put them in the walking closet. He said, “We’re going to sit and read until you’re okay, okay?” I wanted to say, “I think I love you and I am terrified.” He brought a fleece blanket and I read Sula. He was reading some Irish poets. We drank tea and we sat in silence. I remember moments where I laughed, truly laughed, truly felt my guts melt and wither, truly felt myself become myself, at least the self that Liam was accustomed to, when I read that book. I remember feeling at ease with the laughter, how even that quake inside of me was a return to myself. I remember Liam’s glance and I looked at him with the corner of my eyes, and I said, “What?” I remember him laugh-smiling back at me, and how he said, “I am pleased.” I remember feeling unmade by that notion, that the very idea that books gave me joy pleased someone whom I had loved; I remember how it pleased me, that my being well pleased Liam. I remember reaching the end of the book, and after some hours, and it was dark and white outside, Liam prepared dinner for us. Vegetarian stir fry. I remember he made that every other night. I remember how the broccoli had no seasoning, and the how the soy sauce made the food too salty, and how I barely ate — not because that meal was not Liam’s best meal, but I was full. It was often like that when I was unwell, I had no hunger, or I would be hungry but not in a ravenous manner —and I would have no might to eat or to find food appetizing. I remember, though, how I said to Liam, “this was great.” I remember he said we should take a bath together, and I remember his body—my naked body, his naked body, and how his nakedness neither invited nor intimidated; it just existed. I remember we lit the candles next to the bathtub, the smell of lavender seeped into our noses, and the foam covered the rest of our bodies. I remember I wanted to get hard for him; I remember I wanted to become so hard to prove that I loved and wanted all of him. I remember touching myself beneath the water—the splashing sound of water—and yet I remained flaccid and unaroused, my mind vacant and filled with a dark void that weighed onto my chest. I remember that I pulled his foot to the place between my legs—how when he even tried to tickle me into an arousal, there was no rise inside of me; how there was nothing; how I felt like I was not a man but a mockery — a degenerated version of a man, a declined version of a lover. I remember Liam witnessing my desperation, my wanting to give myself to him, my wanting to solidify our days in Vermont with sex. “Boy,” Liam said, “boy you are a wild thing.” I remember how even that flirtation was flat, made me flaccid. I remember how in the days after we met, I thought of him and touched myself thinking that it was him, and how in the years we were apart, watching lovers come and go, I would still touch myself thinking of Liam. I remember how in that very moment where there was no rise, no interest, no sex between us, felt like I had failed at something. Men had made me feel as though there was a need for a perpetual giving of my body, that I had nothing to offer but a piece of myself — some wanted my mouth and my ass, not the things that came out of my mouth, just what my mouth could do. I remember in the days that followed Liam had made me feel as if there was no need to give off of myself, that he would hold me as we slept and what we needed was not sex but a feeling of safety inside each other’s embrace. I remember we spoke less but even our silence was safe, that even that silence made me feel as if I knew this man. I remember that I learned of his body: how he too speaks when asleep, calling his father’s name. I remember that he slept butt naked not because it was sexy, but he sweats when asleep. I remember that he slept with his mouth open because he struggled with some respiratory condition. I remember that when he was deep in thoughts, his face turned pink and pale — that was his constant state when worried or tensed up. I remember that in the days his father called he turned pink and pale, and how when Ms. Nina called, he became softer around the edges, gooey and his eyes lit up. I remember that he was scared to take a shit in front of me; I remember we took shits while either of us was asleep. I remember that we spent ten days in Vermont, and that in the last two days he asked me if I would be getting help when I got back to school. I remember telling him that my mother took me to the preacher when I had these sorts of days, that the preacher said I was possessed by demons, that the preacher said only holy oil could make me better. I remember my father said I had dark days because I am a faggot; I remember telling Liam this and how Liam embraced me. I remember telling him that I do want help, but I don’t know how to talk to strangers about my issues. I remember him telling me that he loves me, but he can’t heal me, and he doesn’t expect me to do the same for him. I remember how helpless I had felt at that moment, feeling as if I had expected too much. I remember telling him, “Of course, of course.” I remember he helped me draft an email to the counselling center. I remember we got to campus five days before the semester started. I remember I went to see the therapist who then set up an appointment for me with a psychiatrist. I remember not wanting to talk in therapy; I remember not wanting to talk with the psychiatrist. I remember one day, some week in mid-February, when the flood gates opened. I remember being booked into the Institute of Living because I nearly harmed myself. Liam had found me foaming on the floor of my room. I remember that I had always succeeded at almost harming myself and never going through with it. I resented Liam for a while, resented him for preventing me from finding an out. His returning me back to life intensified my hate for air inside my lungs, worsened my distaste for the project of existence.  Year after year, until the summer of our senior year, he breathed life into me. I remember Liam telling me that he was scared; I remember Liam telling me that he feels helpless; I remember Liam crying to Maxine and Maxine telling me that maybe I should reconsider this relationship for my sake and that my being sick was unfair on poor Liam. I remember telling Maxine she was fucking crazy. I remember Maxine being mad at me. Now, eight summers later, a few days after having witnessed Maxine give birth to a child I helped create, I am at the back of a garden in Vermont watching Liam exchange vows with a ginger man; all the while, the young blonde man, whom I paid to be my date, keeps on asking about Liam and his lover, if I knew them from college. I say yes, thinking, it should be me at that altar. It should have been me. I should have said yes when he proposed an open relationship. The blonde boy pulls my hand to stand when everyone else stood clapping for the newlyweds. I see our friends from college, all of them throwing white rose petals at this new couple. I set my eyes on the red cabin in which we stayed twelve winters ago, where Liam had said, while we read looking at a blazing hearth: The most fun we’ll ever have is when we are together.