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280 pages, Paperback
First published January 26, 2015




And John couldn’t even be mad. Because before Dex, who hadn’t loved him back, there’d been Tory, who had. Maybe. He’d loved John and John had loved him, John hoped, and they’d made porn together—gorgeous, aching, sexy porn—but it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough that John had worshipped him, hadn’t been enough that John had placed him in the sun and let the world worship him. No.
In the end, there weren’t enough cocks or enough coke to fill that thing in Tory, the emptiness carved by emotional neglect, by a world that hadn’t been able to laugh with Tory but had certainly made him cry.
Oh God, they had certainly made each other cry.
John didn’t remember when he’d fallen to his knees. He was too busy staring at his fist with the crumpled letter in it, even as he howled until he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Oh God,” John whispered. “Tory. I get it. You wanted to go back.”
Back to before. They came out too soon, and the world was too painful. They ripped out of the tight wrappings of youth, not fed enough on love, not fed enough on security, to want to stay children anymore. They’d been so sure that the world, the adventurous bright world, would be far more accommodating, but it hadn’t been. It had been brutal, and Tory had spent the next seventeen years trying to get back.
He was back.
He was wrapped tight in death’s womb, waiting for another chance to emerge.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… just… you don’t have to be a saint to want to be treated like a human being, do you know that? Yes, I know he’s an addict. So the hell what? You don’t write him off because of it. You don’t write me off because I care for him. We’re people, that’s all. Miserable, stupid, fucked-up people, and all we have in this world to hold on to is each other. Can you understand that?”
