A/N: Well, so. This happened, and I need to get it out of my system, and based on how quickly I wrote this chapter, I think the rest of the story will come quickly, too.

Inspired by The Great Gatsby, with some major departures.

I wanted to write about a glowing green orb, because there are never enough of them in fandom.

There was a time in my life when I believed I would never return to South Park. My father had moved away when I was a teen, and my mother saw no reason to remain there after I finished high school and went on to college. I'd had friends there, once, very close ones, but we all drifted apart during our early twenties, or so I believed. I was in school on the east coast, developing a little life of my own, struggling to make light of my origins in that small mountain town amongst people who I viewed as far more sophisticated than myself. I found that I'd assumed, incorrectly, that I'd put all of that well behind me, when I received an invitation that made me almost comatose with pointless grief for some days.

It was a wedding invitation: Eric Theodore Cartman was to marry Kyle Broflovski on the third of June. I made several attempts to contact Kyle via our old channels of communication - emails, cell phone, even Facebook - but all of those seemed to have gone into disuse, and I received no response to my inquiries about what he could possibly be thinking. I did not attend the wedding. I did not even return the RSVP card, and spent the third of June in a drunken stupor that ended in bad sex with a stranger.

A year later, I was finishing up an unpaid internship at an environmental consulting firm when I received another completely unexpected invitation that seemed to arrive directly out of the past. It was from my childhood friend Kenny McCormick, who I had not seen or spoken to since he left South Park at the age of seventeen. Apparently he had resettled near our hometown, at the edge of Turquoise Lake, where resort communities had been going up as I was on my way out of Colorado. He was offering me the guesthouse on his property as a summer residence, for the purpose of reconnecting, and because it was wasteful to leave it empty. I was shocked not only to hear from him after all those years but to learn that he owned the sort of property that featured a guesthouse: Kenny had been penniless when he dropped out of high school and left our hometown.

Having no summer job, no extension on my lease and a savings that was dwindling quickly down to nothing, I accepted his invitation at once. Since it had come to me by way of a letter, with no phone number or email address indicated, that was my method of responding. A week after I had sent my acceptance, a plane ticket in my name came by mail, along with a brief note about Kenny's driver picking me up at the Denver airport. I told all of my friends in Connecticut that I was about to embark on the kind of adventure that only narrators in melodramas were privileged enough to experience. I had no idea how right I was, and how unlucky, too, in the way that protagonists necessarily are.

I did have a few reservations as Kenny's driver bore me away from the city and into the mountains. The car was sleek and black, with leather seating and vents on the backs of the two front seats that could be adjusted for every passenger. I was sweating, and I turned my individual thermostat down to 65, wondering if it was rude not to make small talk with the driver. He was wearing a full uniform, complete with cap and gloves, and I was beginning to wonder if this whole enterprise was some sort of elaborate joke.

It would have been elaborate indeed: we arrived at a positively palatial estate around sundown, iron gates opening to reveal a sprawling mansion at the end of a winding driveway. It was a cinematic scene, the white house with its stone columns gleaming under the fading sunlight, beautifully landscaped grounds lit with an orange glow. I was tempted to ask the driver how on earth Kenny had come to afford this property at the age of twenty-four, but I thought that would make me seem classless, which was something I had become accustomed to guarding myself against.

Kenny was there to greet us in the theatric front foyer, which was all marble, flanked by a curved double staircase and crowned with an enormous crystal chandelier. It was ostentatious, a poor man's vision of success, but I was impressed all the same, and might not have made that judgment had I not known Kenny's origins. He was smiling at the sight of me, wearing a black turtleneck despite the heat, well-fitted slacks and argyle socks - no shoes. He came forward with a drink in his hand, and I thought it was on offer to me, but he withheld it and embraced me.

"Stan," he said when he pulled back, still smiling. "You came."

"I did. This is - what on earth is this, anyway?"

Kenny threw back his head and laughed. He smelled of the whiskey he was drinking, but didn't seem drunk, only cheerful.

"It's my house," he said. "What do you think?"

"I think it's - massive. I, uh. Congrats on your good fortune."

"Thanks. Come in! Put your bag down. They'll carry it up to your room."

By 'they' he meant the staff, who were present in almost every room we passed through as he gave me the general tour. Kenny was obviously proud of the decorating he'd done, particularly in original artwork, and I listened patiently while he curated his collection. I wanted to ask how he'd become wealthy, but held back. Eventually, over drinks on the patio that overlooked a large, well-lit swimming pool, we talked of the old days and people we'd known.

"Did you get an invitation last year?" I asked. "To Kyle's wedding?" It still made me ache to utter those words. Kenny smiled strangely and peered into his drink. He hadn't yet offered me any food, but we'd both downed three whiskey and sodas.

"Let me show you something," Kenny said, and he rose from his chair.

I followed him, confused, down a wide stone path that went around the side of the pool area and continued all the way to the lake. There was a large dock there, housing two speed boats and various other recreational vehicles. I had forgotten how beautiful the lake was, even at night, and it was particularly lovely with the lights that reflected off the water from the neighboring estates - if they could be called neighbors. I saw none on the side of the lake that Kenny's house seemed to almost exclusively occupy, but there were several communities on the other side, twinkling halfway up the mountain like a Mediterranean island's village. Kenny pointed to something in the distance, and I squinted, trying to recognize what he was indicating.

"Do you see the green light?" he asked.

It took me a moment, but I located it and nodded. It was off to the right, away from the others, on a property that seemed to only feature one residence.

"That's their dock," Kenny said.

"Theirs?"

"Cartman and Kyle." Kenny was still staring at the green light, still smiling strangely. "They live there during the summer."

"My God," I said, shuddering as I tried to picture their life together. "Do you see them?"

"I haven't yet."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Several years."

"And they - they've just returned to town?"

"They've had that place ever since they were married, I think."

"I see," I said, surprised that they weren't in contact. Kenny had parted with all of us on good terms, though Kyle and I had both urged him to stay and finish school. He had a home life situation that we had only a small understanding of, but apparently it was unbearable for him by the age of seventeen. "How on earth did you make all this money?" I asked, drunk enough to be crass.

"Oh, you know," Kenny said. "This and that. Stocks and bonds. I was taken under the wing of a brilliant investor. Come inside, we should eat."

We ate like kings that night: lobster and steak, piles of fresh vegetables expertly prepared, and a perfectly caramelized creme brulee for dessert. Kenny explained that he employed a gourmet chef along with the rest of his cooking staff, and only then did I begin to realize how empty the place felt, with so many servants bustling about to suit the needs of one man. I mentioned nothing about it, not wanting to be insensitive. Kenny had always been somewhat aloof: a loner, I would have called him, back then.

Champagne was served with the meal, and I drank my share of it, though my head was beginning to ache from all the booze and the late dinner. We took coffee in his towering library after dinner, and I tried to hold my tongue but finally could not, owing to the alcohol.

"How did it happen between Cartman and Kyle?" I asked. "I know they both went to college here, but they - well, they never exactly got along when we were kids."

"There were moments when they did," Kenny said, and I thought of that summer before our senior year of high school - that particular afternoon, what the four of us did, those hours that I was certain none of us would ever forget. I wasn't sure he was referring to that, so I kept it in.

"It's still odd," I said, downplaying my real feelings about the idea of them together. It was macabre, depressing, a kind of moral failure that I felt I'd had a part in. "I suppose I'd like to see them, though. Perhaps we could pay them a visit together?"

"Perhaps," Kenny said, avoiding my eyes. He stood, set his coffee down, and smiled at me. "You're probably tired," he said, and I took that as my cue to head toward the guesthouse. A butler showed me there, and I found it much more homey and comfortable than the grand rooms in the mansion: there was even an old quilt folded over the back of the sofa in the main room. I took it to bed with me and slept well.

I stayed in bed late the next morning, something I had not done in some time, my internship having involved a commute that got me up at six o'clock. It was a bright, hot summer day when I finally emerged from the guesthouse, feeling under-dressed amongst the surrounding grandeur. It was strange to breathe the mountain air again, and to recognize it as the smell of home, though Colorado was far from home-like to me then. It was the smell of the past, more than anything: long summer days spent with my best friends, traipsing through the woods on invented adventures and staying out as late as we could. I thought of Kyle and cast a glance at the lake. The green light was not visible during the day.

The servants were underfoot as soon as I stepped inside, preparing fresh coffee and taking my order for breakfast. I asked only for some eggs and toast, and then inquired as to the whereabouts of my host.

"Mr. McCormick is in town on business this morning," a butler explained. "He hopes to entertain you again in the evening."

I was actually relieved: though it had been good to see Kenny, there was something a bit awkward and hard to place about this new persona he'd created for himself, and we scarcely knew each other anymore. When the butler asked if he could be of service to me after my breakfast had been consumed and cleared away, I requested the telephone number for the Cartman estate across the way. Five minutes later I held it in my hand, written in ink on a piece of stationary that was monogrammed in gold foil: KMM. I sat with it for some minutes, wondering what Kenny's middle name was, and I began to sweat as I reached into my pocket for my cell phone. I thought of waiting until the next day to call, but in the end I could only wait fifteen minutes before dialing the number.

A maid answered, naturally.

"Cartman residence."

"Ah, hello," I said, not sure how to proceed. "Is Mr. Broflovski available?"

"There's no one here by that name, sir."

Of course there wasn't. "Mr. Kyle Cartman," I said, vexed.

"He's out shopping, I believe. Shall I give him a message?"

"Yes, please." I cleared my throat, which had begun to constrict. "Tell him his old friend Stan Marsh is in town, and that I'd like to see him if he's free. I'm staying with Mr. McCormick, across the lake." I realized I didn't know the number for the house, but, like magic, the butler reappeared and provided me with it. The maid assured me that she would relay the message to Kyle. I hung up, my heart pounding, and decided to go for a swim in that magnificent pool rather than hang about waiting for a returned call that might not come.

It was a beautiful day for lounging about near the water, and I'd almost managed to forget my panic about the thought of seeing Kyle when the butler came down to inform me that Mr. Cartman was on the line. He was carrying a portable phone from the house, and I accepted it with a damp, shaking hand.

"Kyle?" I said, feeling boyish just for having said that name.

"Stan!" It wasn't Kyle. I recognized the booming voice of Eric Cartman instantly. You could somehow hear that he was overweight when he spoke. "You're in town? Since when?"

"Since yesterday," I said, and I felt embarrassed for admitting that I had barely waited twenty-four hours before trying to get in touch with Kyle - his husband. "I'm staying with Kenny, here on the lake."

"That's what my servant said, but I thought she'd misunderstood. Kenny is living on the lake? Has he built himself a shack or something?"

"No, actually. He's become wealthy - you'll probably know the house, the big white one, across the water from yours. You didn't know that he was back in Colorado?"

"I had no idea. I'd assumed he'd died in some crack den before the age of twenty. As one would, yes? Anyhow, Kyle and I want to see you. You'll come for lunch tomorrow at noon. It's 230 Lakeview Road, the big house with the waterfall at the start of the driveway, you can't miss it. Bring Kenny if you want. I can't believe he has money - what does he do?"

"Stockbroking," I said, awkwardly. Cartman snorted.

"Interesting," he said, and I thought of him as a scheming child, the way his eyes would sharpen when he'd uncovered some personal weakness that he planned to exploit.

"How's Kyle?" I asked, desperate to speak to him - and terrified, too. "We haven't. It's been so long. I'm sorry I missed the wedding."

"I wasn't aware that you'd been invited," Cartman said. "Never mind - Kyle is fine. We'll see you tomorrow." And then he hung up.

After that phone call, no amount of swimming or sunshine could settle my nerves, so I asked for a beer. A high end pilsner was promptly provided in a frosted pint glass. I finished it quickly, and another was in reach before I could even ask for it. I napped the rest of the afternoon away under the shade of an umbrella, half-drunk. By the time I woke, the sun was going down. I sat up and turned, looking across the lake, but the green light had not been ignited yet.

Kenny did not return until almost seven o'clock. I was playing billiards by myself in the library, eating handfuls of mixed nuts that the butler had brought. Kenny appeared in a well-tailored suit, and only then did it occur to me how handsome he had become. I'd never thought of him that way as a boy, even that summer, that day, when I'd seen him naked and ecstatic. The three of us had not paid much attention to each other that afternoon; our focus was elsewhere.

"Are you alright?" Kenny asked. Perhaps I'd flushed.

"Yes," I said. "Good day at the office?"

He grinned. "It was alright. I'll bring you to the city some day when I'm not so busy, to meet my mentor."

"Who's your mentor?"

"Damien Thorn. Do you know the name?"

"I don't - I'm not very in tune to the financial world."

"Good for you." He squeezed my shoulder, regarding me warmly. "Should we get dinner? They've made shepherd's pie, I think."

"My favorite," I said, surprised he remembered. Kyle had always complained when they served it at the school cafeteria, but I'd loved it. "Listen," I said when Kenny turned to head for the dining room. "I, um. I spoke to Cartman today. To Eric."

"Oh?" Kenny's expression remained neutral. "What did he have to say?"

"Well, I'd called up there hoping to get in touch with Kyle. Cartman intercepted, of course, but he did invite me for lunch tomorrow, and you're invited, too."

"Ha," Kenny said, and he looked away. "I've got meetings all day tomorrow. Sorry. Tell them I said hello."

"Sure," I said, sensing that I shouldn't pursue the subject. I did dare one comment: "It will be so weird to see them after all this time."

"Maybe," Kenny said. "Maybe not. Should we have wine with dinner, or would you prefer beer?"

There was a certain tension between us at dinner, and I wondered if I'd angered him, though he was perfectly pleasant on the surface, quizzing me about my internship and my career goals. After eating we played a game of billiards, and he wished me goodnight. I returned to the guest house, turned the air conditioning down to sixty to combat the muggy heat of the evening, and wrapped myself in that quilt. I dreamed about Kyle, but even in the dream I never got a clear look at his face. He was always just ahead of me, turning out of sight.

I slept poorly and woke feeling ragged, unprepared for the task of confronting my past and bearing witness to Cartman and Kyle's life together. I showered and tried to muster an appetite for breakfast, requesting pancakes. They were fluffy and delicious, served with three kinds of fresh fruit compote and some very high quality maple syrup. I was too queasy to properly enjoy them, and when Kenny's driver appeared to offer to take me to the Cartman estate - how did he know? - I was afraid for a moment that I would lose my breakfast.

"Would you rather go by car or boat?" the driver asked, and I chose to arrive by boat, despite the risk of sea sickness. I thought the air on the lake might clear my head.

The trip across the lake was too short, and as we drew closer I saw that Cartman's estate almost rivaled Kenny's - though not quite. We were received at the dock by a butler who was dressed in a uniform even fussier than the ones Kenny's staff wore: white gloves, coat tails, totally inappropriate for summer. Cartman had come from modest means, too, though not so modest as Kenny's, and despite his mother's income he'd always seemed to get whatever he wanted, whether it was mountains of junk food, the newest toys, or a brand new car for his sixteenth birthday.

As I was led up toward the house I was taken off guard by the appearance of Kyle on the lawn. He was walking down from the courtyard, which featured a pool with an infinity edge that spilled down into another, larger pool. Kyle beamed when he saw me, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to dash across the yard to him like a boy.

"You look so good!" I said, unable to suppress everything I was feeling. Kyle snorted at the compliment and threw his arms around me, hugging me tightly. It was painful to hold him, too wanted for too long, and I pulled back after a few pats to his back, examining him more closely. He had been an ugly duckling as a child but had flowered in high school, and while that word might not often be applied to teenage boys, there was no other way to describe Kyle's transformation from a child who was all knees and elbows to a lithe, pretty young man with sparkling green eyes and a famously squeezable rump. His awkward curls had been tamed by some magic hair products, and they were still his best feature, falling in waves that were soft and wild at the same time, reddish orange in glowing hues, like the skin of a ripe pomegranate. Kyle was blushing in the same attractively mottled fashion; he had pale skin, a very obvious blush.

"I can't believe you're here," he said, holding on to the collar of my shirt with both hands. I was blushing, too, I'm sure. "You look the same."

"Do I?" I tried to remember the last time we'd met. He'd come to visit me once during my freshman year at Trinity, but he'd been strange on that trip, moody and quiet. We'd lost touch after that.

"Yes, just the same," Kyle said, patting my cheeks now. "I'm so glad you've come. We have so much to talk about - why didn't you come to my wedding?"

He asked this without artifice, as if he truly couldn't imagine a reason. I was stunned speechless for a moment.

"I-"

"You didn't even return the RSVP card! Or send a gift. But never mind, who cares. Look at this stupid house." We both turned to it.

"It's beautiful," I said, overcome. I'd forgotten how much I once cherished every foolish little thing he said.

"Is it?" he said, squinting, his hands braced against the cheeks of his ass. He leaned back a bit, pressing his chest outward, still looking at the house. "It's like a museum of greed." He grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard. "What is this about Kenny living nearby?" he asked. Something had changed in his eyes; he looked almost afraid.

"He's right across the water," I said, and there was no mistaking it then: panic flooded Kyle's eyes, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints.

"There you are!" someone shouted across the lawn: Cartman. He was trundling toward us, looking winded already, wearing a ridiculous seersucker suit that made him look forty years old. That he was balding and overweight didn't help matters, nor did the fact that he was in the company of some strikingly handsome young man with hair darker than mine and an effortlessly refined style of dress. When they came closer I was stunned to recognize this man as Craig Tucker, my boyhood rival in sports and slouching handsomeness.

"Look who's here," Cartman said, taking Craig by the shoulders and giving him a shake. "It's a proper reunion. Except - where's Kenny?"

"He had to work," I said, and I shook hands with Craig, feeling awkward. Craig was looking at me like he always had, on the verge of a smirk, sizing me up.

"Work, ha!" Cartman said. "Yes, I did some looking into the sort of work Kenny's doing these days. Interesting stuff. But fuck Kenny, if he can't be bothered to put it aside for a day to see us. Come up, I've got appletinis."

"He wouldn't listen when I told him those were very unfashionable," Craig said, speaking to me. Kyle had grown quiet, and was keeping a few feet back as he followed us up to the house.

"I'd love an appletini," I said, honestly. I liked unfashionably sweet drinks, and needed the shot of courage.

"So, Stanley," Cartman said while a white-gloved attendant served our martinis. "You're in Boston or something? Cleaning rivers?"

"Connecticut," I said. "Environment consultation - sometimes rivers are involved. I've just completed an internship." That sounded so unimpressive; I grabbed for a drink and gulped from it. "I'll probably go to grad school." If I could find the money. So far I hadn't had any luck.

"Stan has principles," Kyle said, as if to preemptively scold Cartman for his judgment of my professional life.

"Here's to principles!" Cartman bellowed, and he lifted his glass, the neon green concoction glinting in the sunlight. "And rivers," he said. "I'm sure they're important somehow. I suppose you know that my company is doing very well."

"Of course," I said. I'd kept a hateful eye on Cartman's stock prices ever since I received that wedding invitation. He'd dropped out of college to found a paving company at age 20, and somehow ended up with state highway contracts in Colorado, Utah and California. Now he owned Cartman Construction, an international conglomerate that almost exclusively paved and maintained every road in America and had swallowed up hundreds of smaller companies in the past three years. "What are you doing these days?" I asked Craig, who was still studying me with an exacting stare.

"Landscape architecture," Craig said. "Cartman has brought me a lot of business over the years."

"And you?" I said to Kyle, already bored with Craig. Kyle had stretched out on a lounge chair with a pristine white cushion and was staring up at us as we spoke, using his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He was wearing tight jeans that seemed to have been designed to lovingly caress the exact proportions of his ass, and an airy peasant blouse that was possibly intended for a woman.

"Who, me?" Kyle said when we were all staring at him, as if my question had woken him from a nap. "Oh, Stan. You're sweet. I don't do anything."

"He spends my money for a living," Cartman said, fondly or with disgust, I couldn't tell.

"Kyle, don't undersell yourself," Craig said. "You're an art collector, and you have your charities."

"What charities?" I asked. Kyle had fixed a viper-like stare on Craig, but his mouth was relaxed.

"All sorts of shit," Cartman answered for him. "Jewish things, mainly. He says I owe it to the world. Is that why you married me, Kyle? To steal my money and give it to Jews?"

Kyle said nothing. His eyes shifted to me, and he smiled as if he hadn't heard Cartman at all.

"Do you remember that girl Bebe?" Kyle asked.

"Yes, of course." She was the last girl I'd slept with before I gave up and settled on an all-male diet.

"She's a Scientologist!" Kyle said, and he laughed madly. "Isn't that hilarious?"

"I think it's sad," Craig said. "She's not even allowed to speak to her mother. It's a cult, and she's too smart for that."

"Yes, that is sad. And surprising." I felt suddenly dizzy from the heat. I kept wanting to bring up Kenny and then remembering how Kyle's eyes had changed when we spoke about him. "Token is a French teacher," I said, absurdly. He was one of the few old schoolmates I still kept up with.

"His parents must be so disappointed," Cartman said. "Come on, let's go in. I'm roasting."

"I thought I smelled bacon," Kyle said, and I looked at Craig uncertainly, but both he and Cartman seemed disinterested in what I presumed was an insult.

"Kyle gets on me about my weight," Cartman said as we walked toward the house. "He worries I'll die and leave him everything."

"It keeps me up nights," Kyle said. He smiled at Cartman sweetly - sarcastically? ironically? - and took his arm as we made our way into an open sitting room with five rattan ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead.

"How did you two, ah-?" Again I glanced at Craig, and this time he met my gaze. "Reconnect, after Eric left school?"

"Don't call him Eric," Kyle said, and he flopped onto one of the many overstuffed sofas in the room.

"How does anyone do anything?" Cartman said. He motioned to one of his servants, who hurried over with another appletini. "We ran into each other, we fucked, I bought him a meal." He sat down beside Kyle and patted his knee, hoisting the drink as if to toast his luck. "Now here we are. Stan, have you been into Denver at all since you've been back?"

"No. Well, to the airport, but-"

"We'll go tomorrow. You and I, two businessmen. There are people I could introduce you to. Unless you've got plans with Kenny."

"I haven't." I glanced at Kyle, who was reclining with feline indifference. He closed his eyes and sighed softly. It was fetching, in his old way; I saw Cartman notice, too. He licked the rim of his martini glass, watching Kyle.

"Yes, then we'll go," Cartman said. "I'm always glad to help an old friend."

We moved into a cooler room with a forbiddingly long table for lunch, all of us gathered at one end. Kyle picked his food apart the way he always had, extracting the diced onion and capers from his chicken salad. He caught me watching him do so and smiled. Cartman was blathering about something: finding good help, accusations of embezzlement that he'd defeated, and the ensuing malicious prosecution lawsuit that he expected to win.

"I've always had public opinion in my favor," Cartman said. "People understand that I'm ruthless but fair." He sounded drunk. I tried to catch Kyle's eye again, but he was looking at the mayonnaise-coated spires of his fork. He licked them, and I flushed at the sight of that white cream on the tip of his tongue, wondering if he'd known that I was watching.

A butler came to the table and murmured something into Cartman's ear, halting his monologue. Cartman apologized for the interruption and went to get the phone. I saw Kyle and Craig exchange a look.

"I can't believe you haven't seen Kenny in all the time you've-"

"Shh," Kyle said, so harshly that I was hurt. "I'm trying to listen."

"To what?" I could hear the low rumble of Cartman's voice from the next room, but I couldn't make out the words.

"Eric's got some piece of ass in Denver," Kyle said, not even whispering. "He thinks we don't know." He smiled at Craig.

"Piece of -?" My stomach dropped with embarrassment as my heart lifted with childish hope.

"Do go with him tomorrow," Kyle said, his gaze shifting unkindly to mine. "I want to hear all about it. Or, who knows, maybe I don't. As for Kenny, what can I say? I didn't even know he was alive."

Cartman returned before I could remark on that. Craig and I shared some chit chat about environmental concerns in landscape design, and Kyle mostly kept quiet while Cartman broke in here and there to correct some statement we'd made. After the meal, Cartman disappeared to field another phone call, and Kyle escorted Craig and I down to the boats.

"You could ride together," he said. "Craig's staying on your side of the lake. Or on Kenny's side, I suppose I should say. He really owns that white house?"

"Yes," I said, and I noticed the green light at the top of their dock. Up close and in daylight it looked like nothing special. "You should come visit sometime."

"Mhmm," Kyle said. He was staring at Kenny's house, his face blank. "Well, I hope we'll see a lot more of you," he said, to me. "It could be like when we were kids, couldn't it? Just running around all summer, sweaty and sticky and-" He looked at Craig. "Not that kind of sticky," he said.

"I made no comment," Craig said.

"But you know what I mean," Kyle said, grabbing me by my forearms. "Stan, don't you?"

"Of course," I said, and I gave him an impulsive, alcohol-fueled kiss on the forehead. "I'd like that very much," I said. "My summers never quite worked without you."

"You two are both so handsome, with your dark hair," Kyle said, and then he sort of drifted away, the peasant shirt billowing across his narrow back as he walked back up toward the house.

"That was a suggestion that we sleep together," Craig said after we'd boarded the boat. I guffawed uncomfortably.

"Kyle's changed," I said.

"Has he? I never knew him very well back then. You did, I understand."

That made me wonder what Kyle had told him about us - the four of us, and how things had unfurled. I started thinking about that day, the four of us, and perhaps because of the resulting melancholy, I invited Craig into the guesthouse for a drink.

I showed him around, and in the bedroom we began to undress each other rather unceremoniously. I wasn't sure what to expect with him and was glad when he took charge. I flopped onto the bed and closed my eyes while he took me, imagining, as I always did when I was impaled, that I was Kyle - or, more accurately, that this was happening to Kyle, and I was able to feel what it was like - had been like - for him.

"You've got to reintroduce me to Kenny," Craig said when we were having that drink together afterward. I was barely dressed, but Craig looked perfectly composed, except that his hair was sweaty at the temples. "I can't believe he made something of himself and none of us even heard about it."

"Is Cartman really cheating on Kyle?" I asked, hung up on that. I really wanted to ask if Cartman and Kyle still had sex with each other. Craig rolled his eyes.

"Yes, and with someone very tacky, I think. I hope you'll get to meet her."

"Her?"

"Mhmm, well, you know what I mean. Him."

I didn't actually know what he meant, but I nodded. I said goodnight to Craig, who was borne away by one of Kenny's drivers, to the 'shameful' condo where he was staying for the summer while his house in San Francisco was being renovated. When he was gone I puttered about a bit, then went to the main house expecting dinner.

"Mr. McCormick sends his regrets," said the butler who served it. "But he's been delayed in the city and doesn't expect to be back before midnight."

"He must be very busy," I said, increasingly suspicious. Cartman had made some remark about Kenny's business being 'interesting,' and though I didn't want to hear about it from him, I'd meant to ask Craig if he knew the name Damien Thorn.

I ate alone, and on the walk back to the guesthouse something made me turn, a feeling of being watched. I thought I saw a figure passing back into shadow in one of the upstairs rooms: Kenny? I shuddered and looked toward the green light, which was glowing out over the lake now. I had a sense of Kyle watching me then, or at least looking in my direction. Craig had fucked me hard; my ass was stinging. Deliriously, I wondered if Kyle could sense this - feel this - as he sensed my presence from across the lake, and as I unhappily sensed that Kenny was watching me hurry back to the guesthouse, unnerved. Suddenly I was residing in a town full of ghosts.