The door jumped. I was too dead to flinch.

It jumped again.

Then it burst open, its progress halted by my legs. A pair of men’s black shoes stepped in front of me, accompanied by the scent of coffee. They were not new, but they were very clean.

The door shoved shut. The shoes were still in front of me.

I closed my eyes. I heard a rustle, then felt someone push fingers into my wrist, felt my breath hitting something close. A hand, checking for respirations. I could smell aftershave.

Leon let out a relieved sigh.

A moment later, the hiss stopped. It had never been my ears.

It had always been the shower. I heard Leon’s shoes squelching on the damp floor.

“Can you sit up?” he asked me. Then, without waiting for my reply, he answered, “Let’s do that.”

A towel wrapped around me and then my armpits jerked and then, just like that, I was painfully dragged and propped into the corner by the sink.

I closed my eyes again.

In the filmy background, I heard Leon moving and running water in the sink and stepping back and forth. He put a cup to my lips and carefully tipped. There was a kind pause as I sputtered and breathed the liquid instead of swallowing it, and then he gave me some more. I felt more alive at once.

I said, “What is that? What are you giving me?”

“It’s water,” Leon replied. “You were lying in it, but you weren’t drinking it.”

“How did you get here?” I asked. My voice sounded like paper looked. “Are you real?”

“You weren’t picking up your phone,” Leon replied. “And I thought you might be in trouble. . . . I saw the episode.”

“It’s up already?”

He gave me a funny look. “It’s been up two days.”

I blew out my breath. It smelled pretty bad. “Oh.”

Leon retrieved a disposable coffee cup from the other room.

He handed it to me, watching me closely to make sure I wasn’t going to drop it. I sipped it as he dropped another towel onto the tile and began to push it around with his feet to mop up some of the water and blood.

“This is sweet,” I said. It wasn’t even coffee. It was sugar marinated in coffee. “Just how I like it.”

Leon shrugged. “Kids these days.”

Suddenly, I saw him in sharp focus, either because the phrase reminded me of when he’d brought me the energy drink in the studio, or because my system was prodded to life by the water in my dry mouth or the sugar in the coffee. Leon was dressed for work in his neat suit and clean black shoes. Morning sun through the bathroom window lit his impeccable form as he used a foot to push a towel around this filthy floor.

I was so grossly ashamed.

“Don’t —” I said. “Don’t do that. I’ll get it. God.”

Leon stopped. He put his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“This is disgusting,” I said, but I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the floor or me or Leon seeing me like this. “This is not — not the side of me I wanted you to see, friend. This is not the grand future I had planned for our relationship.”

He shrugged his shoulders, hands still in pockets. “Things don’t always go like planned.”

“They do for me.”

“So you must have planned this, then.” He said it gently.

I gulped the last of the coffee. Both my stomach and my heart stung. “I’ve lost all my credibility. I’ll never be able to convince you to quit your job now.”

Leon’s eyes smiled, even though his mouth didn’t. “Was that the idea?”

“That was the idea. Joy and happiness for you, Leon, in this sunlit paradise.”

He took his phone from his pocket and stepped over the towel on the floor. Crouching beside me, he held his hand out for the empty coffee cup. He traded me for his phone.

“What am I doing?” I asked him.

“Looking.”

I looked. He’d opened it to his photo gallery. At the top was a photo of me, carefree and joyful, flipping arrogant devil horns at him. There was the photo we took at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, the sky blazing behind crooked palm trees.

The photo of us on the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier, the night I’d gone out with him after Isabel had left my apartment.

Those photos I’d expected. I didn’t expect the others. There were photos of surfers running out to the water. People knotted in front of clubs. A crazy, camel-shaped planter with palm trees jutting from it. A fiery sky behind the L.A. skyline. A neon sign that said frolic room. A peacock peering from behind a wall.

A man in blue underwear running down the sidewalk. David Bowie’s star on the Walk of Fame. A pagoda in Koreatown.

Bubbly, amiable graffiti on the side of an old van. A self-portrait of himself reflected in the side of his car, smiling, even though you could see that he was alone.

He’d done what I’d said. He’d become a tourist in his own city.

“It wasn’t about the job,” he told me. “It was just about me.”

After a pause, he asked, “Why did you run away from your parents?”

I closed my eyes. I could so clearly remember the pair of them in front of the Mustang, and it still killed me. “Because I can’t look at them.” There was a long pause, and he didn’t fill it.

“I thought I was going to end up like them, back when I lived in New York. I thought that was what a grown-up looked like.

I can’t take that.”

“Couldn’t.”

I opened my eyes. “What?”

“Couldn’t, not can’t. Because you’re not like them, right? You aren’t afraid of becoming that now.”

But I sort of was. It wasn’t that I was afraid of becoming them — it was more that I was afraid of becoming the Cole that I had been when I’d lived with them. The Cole who was so tired of the world. The me who realized there was no point to being here, where here meant life.

My stomach rumbled loud enough that we both heard it.

“I’m starving,” I said.

Leon said, “You should get breakfast with your parents.”

“I don’t know how to talk to them.”

He took his phone from me and straightened. “Like you’re talking to me. But maybe with some pants on.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven