Chapter 8

Your name is James, and you’re dead.

In the third year of your death, as you expected, the traces of your life intertwined with others are gradually being erased. And as you also anticipated, these people must be secretly rejoicing in their hearts, relieved to finally be rid of you—a disaster capable of ruining their lives.

Even your ex-boyfriend, who attempted suicide shortly after you left this noisy, dazzling world. Even your brother, who was always willing to act as a scavenger cleaning up the mess of your life. Even your biological parents, who once provided the vessel for your existence. When you sank beneath the ocean’s surface, they clung desperately to your arms out of duty or emotional attachment. But when you finally disappeared into the depths alone, they all sighed in relief like survivors. And three years is more than enough for that sigh to fully dissipate.

But if you think you’ve completely vanished from this world or become some ghost wandering among shipwrecks in the deep sea while selling your ass, then you’re sorely mistaken.

People always struggle desperately to remember the things they’ve nearly forgotten. Like when someone rushes into the kitchen but suddenly can’t recall why they came in, yet the urgency to do something lingers in their chest like a raised red welt left by an insect bite. Just like you.

Imagine trying to dredge up a memory you accidentally lost. What would you do? You’d retrace your steps chronologically—first your email interface, then your lifted ass and the leather chair rolling backward as you stood up, followed by your bare feet on the carpet and your fingers brushing the metal handle of the bedroom door, and finally the sound of barking and the soft murmurs of Anthony talking to his sister on the phone as you passed through the living room into the kitchen. You string all these images together, assigning motive. With a click, the lock on the floodgate of memory springs open. You finally remember your plan.

And now, they’re trying to dredge you up the same way. You existed, and so memories of you, frozen at certain moments in time, are occasionally triggered by scents, sounds, images, and objects. They begin weaving together the past, tracing the knots, and piecing you back together.

On the third anniversary of your death, Anthony and your brother briefly reunited. When he arrived, your brother brought a book. You were on the cover. To make you look perfect in the photo, you spent two weeks in the gym, and your tan was the result of expensive sunbed sessions.

Anthony took the book and ran his fingers over the paperback cover—right where your bare shoulder was.

“Derek—the late-night radio host for minorities, the one partnered with that fat lesbian—sent me his new book. This was supposed to be the cover for his last book, but his publishing agent didn’t like it. This time, he convinced them, so it’s the cover now. He wanted to send you a copy too, but you moved. See, I have one too.” Your brother pulled out an identical book from his backpack and flipped it open casually. The first sentence on that page described bullying against gay boys in high school.

Your brother shrugged and said, “This part makes me feel ashamed.”

Then your brother mentioned how you two used to tease the gay boys in high school, back when he never imagined you’d turn out to be one too. You were gay.

What your brother called “teasing” was actually a euphemism for “bullying.” Your laughter was always the cruelest. You forced those skinny gay boys to describe how men had sex, and you made them admit you were one of their sexual fantasies. Even though you were in some ambiguous phase of figuring out your own sexuality at the time, you still laughed and hurled stones into the dark abyss of others with hateful glee.

But you weren’t always the villain.

In the fourth year of living with Anthony, you felt like everything was moving in the right direction. You laid yourself bare, letting Anthony touch the valves of your heart.

On the day you told Anthony, “I won’t allow anyone else to get as close to me as you have,” you received an invitation from your writer-and-talk-show-host friend to be on his book cover. He also invited you for coffee the next afternoon. To prevent Anthony from mistakenly thinking Derek was one of your former patrons, you chose a messy café just off Anthony’s university campus and kindly reminded Derek that you might bring your boyfriend along.

The next day, you did bring Anthony to meet your friend. They shook hands and introduced themselves first. Only after confirming Derek was just a friend did Anthony relax. Then, they started chatting, the conversation flowing and lively. You began to feel jealous.

It wasn’t because Derek and your live-in boyfriend were getting along so well. Derek was short, never worked out, and had narrow shoulders and waist—his frame barely supporting his flabby build. His face wasn’t handsome either, with cheek muscles as prominent as varicose veins on a long-legged woman. Nor was it because Anthony was actively engaging with your friend—you’d be grateful if he even spared a tight-lipped smile for men who greeted you.

You just thought, at the very least, the meeting should have started like this—

You holding Anthony’s hand and saying to Derek as he walked in, “Hey, man, this is my boyfriend—Anthony. The cute guy I’ve told you about before.”

Then, you’d turn to Anthony and say, “This is Derek, the late-night radio talk show host. We listened to his show last month on the drive to your grandma’s place. Before we got together, I even guested on his show once. Apparently, the listeners hated me.”

But they didn’t.

They bypassed you as the intermediary, as if they were old friends and you were a stranger who’d accidentally sat down beside them. It had always been like this—Anthony was just too good at being anyone’s friend. So whenever you tried to share recent anecdotes about your friends, Anthony would say he already knew. You were jealous of not being needed.

After ordering a second round, they finally remembered you sulking on the sidelines. Derek said he wanted you to model for his new book cover, envisioning you naked while cradling a skinny white guy in a tennis shirt. Derek said it symbolized fearless coming out.

Even though you didn’t understand how you holding a clothed man while naked symbolized fearless coming out, you agreed immediately.

Then, they started discussing the book’s exploration of sexual identity and the bullying endured in high school for being openly gay or effeminate. They both treated those humiliating, angry adolescent memories as nightmares. They called the older boys who bullied them “devils.”

And you, one of those “devils,” sat there on pins and needles. After hesitating, you suddenly said, “Those assholes in high school were just horny idiots who didn’t know what they were doing. Back then, I hadn’t realized I was gay. I’d been with a few girls and thought being popular meant I could do whatever I wanted. I did some of the messed-up stuff you’re talking about too. If you run into scum like me, the best revenge is turning that pain into motivation—build a life so successful it makes failures like me seethe with envy.”

You fiddled with your hoodie strings and added, “A lot of gay boys are born sluts. When I first started in the business, I ran into one of the guys I used to mess with at a gay bar. He’d made it into law school, spent a fortune on dental work and lip fillers. He was furious when he saw me, said he never dreamed I’d turn out gay, called me his ‘nightmare’ from school. But then he started flirting with me, asking for my number. If I’d played along, he probably would’ve invited me home.”

You were scrambling for excuses to dilute your guilt.

On the way home later, you leaned over and kissed Anthony’s shoulder. You said, “But I regret the shitty things I did.”

That was when the tight seams of your relationship began loosening.

Anthony said, “If one of those motherfuckers who bullied me came out years later and I saw him in a club, I wouldn’t go asking for his number.”

You replied, “Maybe him inviting me over was just a ruse. He wanted to lure me to some deserted highway or drive me deep into pitch-black woods so he could split my skull open with a hatchet. At best, I’d just find a comfy chair in hell. Good thing I didn’t go.”

Only then did Anthony laugh. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he half-turned and nipped your ear lightly. Then he said, “We could’ve driven into the nearby national forest and done something other than murder.”

The faint scent of the men’s cologne you wore that day always reminded Anthony of that moment of laughter.

And for the past three years, Anthony has been wearing the same one.