Outside the bathroom, a group was gathering around the front door, scuffling to find their shoes and refill their glasses. The bowls of cream and dulce de leche were scarred with cigarettes stubs. Zoe lay passed out on the sofa with Frank’s tuxedo jacket over her.
“There you are.” Frank came up behind her. He was rubbing his eye with his knuckle, back and forth, like a sleepy child. “We’re going up to the roof to do fireworks. Wedding fireworks.”
“What’s the difference?” Cleo asked, but Frank was already disappearing up the stairwell.
Up on the roof the winking skyline of Manhattan sprawled before them against a velvet black sky.
“I had some fireworks left over from the long weekend,” Santiago said, unstacking the neon packages. “But I got a few new ones for the occasion.”
Memorial Day. It felt like a long time ago now, but in fact it was only a few weeks. Cleo’s student visa was up at the end of the month, and the company she’d been freelancing for as a textile designer couldn’t afford to sponsor her. As a last hurrah, she’d presumed, Frank had taken her to his rarely used cabin upstate. Since neither of them could drive or were particularly domestic, it was three days of unmade beds, cereal for dinner, and pure, private bliss.
Frank moved to the far side of the roof and attempted to arrange a firework, propping it between two wine bottles. He lurched forward, sending the bottles scattering around his feet.
“Hey, man,” Santiago said, coming up behind to steady him. “Why don’t you let me do this. You go watch with Cleo.”
“Who has a lighter?” Frank yelled, ignoring him. He slapped the pockets of his trousers. Someone tossed him one, but it went wide, sailing over the side of the roof into the darkness beyond. Anders appeared through the doorway and, exchanging a long look with Santiago, managed to guide Frank back to where a crowd of guests had gathered to watch. Cleo took his hand.
It was on the train home from Hudson that he’d asked her. She was drifting in and out of sleep on his shoulder, his cheek pressed against the crown of her head. Cleo, my Cleo. A black ribbon of river rushed beside them, barely distinguishable from the dark fields and trees beyond. What would you think? She could see the chalky reflection of Frank’s face glowing in the window. He looked like a saint. What would you think of us getting married?
Santiago yelled for everyone to stand back as he and Anders lit the first fireworks. Bright flumes of light shot up behind them, suspended momentarily in the shape of stars. The sky crackled with light. Suddenly Frank shook his hand free of hers and darted forward across the roof, bent at the waist. He lunged for a rocket and lit it straight from his hand, sending it off at an angle that narrowly missed Anders’s shoulder.
“What the fuck?” she could hear Anders yelling as Frank ran back.
He took her hand again and squeezed it hard. Sparks showered down on them. The fireworks gained momentum, illuminating the faces of the crowd on the roof in flashes. Cleo watched Frank’s profile in the light. Boom, boom, boom. He was staring up ahead, jaw set, eyes wet and reflective.
She had not told Quentin what Frank’s actual vow was. He’d surprised her by requesting to say something at the end of the ceremony, after the usual script had been read. He was noticeably nervous, his usual gregariousness gone. When he finally did speak, it was a single sentence. When the darkest part of you meets the darkest part of me, it creates light.
CHAPTER THREE
July
Less than a month after Cleo and Frank’s wedding, Quentin and Johnny broke up. Cleo had stopped spending all her free time with Quentin, which meant he suddenly had a lot of extra energy to focus on Johnny—and find him wanting. Johnny, it turned out, was just another Irish Catholic queen with a drinking problem. He had Republican parents that he secretly adored, and the kind of body hair that could be described as a pelt. Quentin was better off without him.
Now that Johnny was gone and Cleo was always busy with Frank, Quentin had time to do whatever he wanted, like stay up all night watching anime, or chain-smoke in bed, or go to invite-only orgies—which was exactly the plan for that night. The invitation had been slipped inside his locker at the gym: “We Want You. Private Event. Email for Details.” He’d heard about these parties before, run by an underground network of gays whose mission was to bring back pre-AIDS-era group sex in safe yet glamorous environments. This was his first invitation, and the knowledge that he had been watched, been chosen, sent a ripple of pleasure through him.