I wish I could travel backward in time and tell Monty of two years ago, lying on the lawn of his father’s house with a black eye and a dawning realization he was falling in love with his best friend, that someday he’d be here. It would be years of drinking too much, falling asleep calculating how much arsenic he’d have to take to make certain the job was done, letting himself be groped by strangers in the backrooms of bars. Maybe I’d go even further back than that—to Monty at twelve, or thirteen. That masturbating little bastard could have used a good buoying up, a promise to carry in his
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