we did have some clever drinks served in little ceramic skulls. We talked the whole time, about our jobs, our families, and our dreams as if weâd known each other for years and not just an hour. Iâd never met someone I connected with so quickly and so well.
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By three A.M., after such a glorious evening, there was no way I was going back to my closet-sized cigar box with its twin bed. Bill was staying downtown too, but at the Golden Nugget, with its clean-smelling rooms and decidedly more upscale atmosphere. I walked him to his room and as he opened the door, he shyly looked at me. The room was large and well air-conditioned. There was no mirror on the ceiling, and the bed was square. But it was California king-sized. We tossed our tuxedos and snuggled under the covers, but not before making sure the heavy drapes blocked out the approaching sunrise. I was glad Iâd taken a bet on love. Roll credits.
CODY BARTON
Martin Delacroix
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Cody Barton tried killing himself, but he failed.
Then Cody came to live with us.
His dad dropped him off on our driveway. No hugs good-bye. Dr. Barton only waved from behind the wheel of his Audi before he drove away. This was days after Christmas. The afternoon was overcast and a damp breeze fluttered Codyâs shoulder-length hair while he strode up our walkway.
I met Cody at the doorstep. The rope mark on his neck looked like a violet snake; it passed beneath his Adamâs apple. Dark smudges appeared beneath Codyâs eyes and a few zits dotted his cheeks. He carried a suitcase the size of a portable television in one hand, his skateboard in the other. A backpack hung from his shoulders.
âAre you all right?â was all I could think to say.
Cody wouldnât hold my gaze. He stared at his feet and shrugged.
âThe Bartonsâ housekeeper found him hanging from a rafter
in their garage,â my mom had told me the night before. âThere was some sort of family argument beforehand.â
Family argument ? Whatâs new ?
Cody was my best friend; Iâd known him since middle school. I had spent much time at his house and I knew his parents. Dr. Barton was okay: soft-spoken and reserved. But Codyâs mom, Barbara, was a complete bitch. She hounded Cody about everything: his school grades, personal grooming, even his posture. Her voice was nasal and flavored with a Georgia drawl. I winced whenever I heard it.
When he was younger, Cody weathered his momâs insults silently. But once he reached high school, Cody started talking back. Heâd argue with his mom in front of me. They would shout and sometimes throw stuff across the room. It made me so uncomfortable I avoided their home. Whenever Cody would ask me to visit him there, Iâd suggest another meeting spot: my house, our neighborhood skateparkâanywhere but the Bartonsâ.
Finally, Cody stopped inviting me over altogether.
Weekends, heâd often spend Friday and Saturday nights with us, sleeping on an army cot in my bedroom. My parents didnât mind; they liked Cody, especially my mom. Cody and I would sit on the family room sofaâweâd play a video game or watch a movieâand Mom would enter with two glasses of iced tea. Sheâd run her fingers through Codyâs rust-colored hair; sometimes sheâd call him âsweetieâ or âhandsome.â Cody would grin and his cheeks would redden.
âYour momâs the best,â heâd tell me.
Now, Cody followed me into the house, his suitcase banging against his leg. In my room, the cot was already set up, equipped with sheets, a pillow and blanket. I pointed to a battered chest of drawers my dad had borrowed from a neighbor the day before.
âYou can put your stuff in there,â I said, âand thereâs room in the closet, too.â
While Cody unpacked, I sat on my bed and watched. He placed his socks and underwear in the
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