I've been told that the tallest building in hell has an awesome view of the Emerald City

—the Tallest Building in Hell, Jared Mees and the Grown Children

x.

Pete turned over in his bed and looked at Henrietta sleeping soundlessly next to him. They'd been up talking for hours and his throat felt sore from saying all the things that didn't really matter. He could tell that she had been holding herself back from asking anything that would upset him in any way. Part of him felt patronized but a larger part of him felt glad.

He'd heard Michael stumble back into the trailer about fifteen minutes ago. He wondered if he was finally wondering what he was doing here, why he'd bothered after all this time. Pete knew he couldn't live up to the memory of the antisocial, record obsessed teenager who seemed so clever when he broke rules. Now he was old and pathetic-one of those people that he used to feel sorry for: run down by time and always unconsciously working through the spider-web of "if only I'd done this" or "I could have done that." Michael needed to know that going to Philadelphia wouldn't change any of that inside of him. When he was younger he felt like the world wasn't yet his. And now that he was older he could see that it wasn't a matter of age or having more money-he was never going to feel welcome, he was never going to feel like the corner of any room wasn't the most comfortable space.

If Henrietta wasn't here-if Michael would just leave—he would end it all tonight. He thought about the empty bottle of pills that had rolled under the bed which was now useless to him. But there was the kitchen knife in the drawer by the sink he hadn't had the guts to use before. He tried to imagine what it'd be like to feel himself bleed out, he could almost feel the pain in his arms. He could almost feel his heart slowing down. He felt like if he didn't say anything that he might accidentally will himself to die—wasn't that what happened to Heathcliff? The thought, surprisingly, scared him and he shifted in the bed. "Henri," he whispered-sticking his pointer finger into her shoulder. "I need to tell you something," his voice was barely a whisper, but Henrietta was already fully alert. She shifted onto her side and wedged a pillow under her head.

Pete thought he heard something and turned to the door of his bedroom but there was only empty air. She followed his gaze and shot him an apprehensive look. The lights from the fluorescent light from the street lamp outside was casting the same shadows around his room that it had for years. Henrietta's eyes looked especially round, like she was waiting for him to reveal that he was already dead. Maybe he was, maybe hell was just never realizing that you were already dead.

"So since Michael's been here," he said slowly, trying without success to think of a good way to explain everything at once, "we've been together."

"What—" She turned her head back towards the door again.

"Just listen," he said dragging his bangs behind his ear. He pulled a cover that had half-fallen onto the floor back over his shoulders. Sometimes things felt less important once they were said out loud, other times they seemed a thousand times worse. He could already tell that this was going to be one of those times.

Henrietta looked like it was physically paining her to remain silent.

"We both kind of confessed how we felt."

She sucked in a breath and he could feel her judgement fall over the room like a cloak. "This is the absolute most fucked up timing—"

"That's not what I wanted to tell you! Well it is, but," Pete looked over at the door, as if Michael might materialize like smoke in the doorway. "He bought me a plane-ticket back to Philly with him—to come live with him."

"And what did you say?"

"I said no! I mean I haven't even spoken to him in years and he expects me to move away with him? Just like that?"

The moment that Pete waited for Henrietta's reaction stretched on at an agonizing pace. He thought back to Michael's reaction at Stark's Pond—about how he should have expected Michael to get the tickets. Maybe he should have and now that much was obvious even to Henrietta. Maybe she thought he was beneath Michael—maybe not always, but now

"Okay," she said. She laid her hand over his and he knew that she was about to say something terrible. "Remember that time when we were kids and we had taken a stack of comics to read at Starks Pond in the middle of the summer? And Firkle was leaning over the dock to try and reach a duck. And I whispered in your ear to push him as a joke. But when you went to shove him—he realized what you were about to do and grabbed onto your collar. So you both ended up losing your balance and tumbling into the water—you on top of him, your elbow flying into his mouth. Do you remember how fucking terrible we both felt as he sat there afterwards, cupping his hand over his mouth to stop the bleeding, dripping water and blood all over his comics."

Pete thought about the way Firkle had looked at him on the sunny dock that day, as the pinkish watery blood pooled between his fingers. His blue eyes flashing a look of hurt, while he weakly told Michael—who run back to his car for a cigarette and had missed the whole thing—that it had been funny. But he had no idea what that had to do with his decision to let Michael leave without him now.

Henrietta pulled the cover tighter around her chin and stared at their hands, interlocked on the mattress. "Well, when you called me a couple days ago and told me where you were. Told me what you'd done, I felt like I had pushed you off that dock, that same guilt and anger amplified and directed at myself. I didn't feel the same inside my body anymore—like I couldn't sit still. Everywhere felt like a cage that kept me from making sure you were okay. And I know that all those feelings haven't just gone away for you and the things that drove you to do what you have done haven't changed."

She took a shaky breath and brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. He was afraid she was going to cry and he couldn't think of anything more soul crushing. He sat very still and listened to both of them breathe in the dark.

"So look," she said at last, "you don't have to go with Michael. I understand why you wouldn't, and really I don't think you should. But you just can't stay here."

Pete laid back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling, only half understanding what she was saying but agreeing nonetheless. "Yeah," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Okay."

9 Months Later

xx.

Pete stepped back from the freshly restocked shelf. The brown folded half-pound coffee bags were in neat lines on the silver shelf.

"Are you really working on my wedding day?" Henrietta said. She was standing in the doorway of her tattoo shop.

"Jesus," Pete said, whipping his head towards the back entrance. He was ready to admonish her from sneaking through the back curtain of the shop. But she was already in her dress, the plum bodice framed the distressed black lace of the skirt. Her hair pulled into a loose bun, with messy curls spilling out the sides. A choker of white pearls contrasted against her deep red lips.

"Oh Henri, you look so good," he rushed over to her. He had helped with her with wedding prep including everything from booking the cathedral to helping her decide on flowers—talking her out of black roses at the last minute.

"Well, I came down here to remind you to get ready—I can't have my best man standing next to me in skinny jeans and an apron."

Pete rolled his eyes and tossed his apron behind the counter. "It's not like it's going to take me long," he said. He'd already laid his tux out on his bed upstairs. The convenience of living above where he worked really was a novelty that he'd miss once he moved out. And even though Henrietta and her fiancé, Owen, had sworn that they wanted him to stay in the spare room he rented from them after the wedding, he knew it'd be nice for everyone to have their own space.

"Well let's get going—we have one hour until we're supposed to be at the church for pictures, and I want your hair more artfully disheveled than that. We're making memories, there's no room for flat hair."

Pete's hand shot up defensively to his hair and pushed his bangs away from his eyes. "Don't give my hair a complex," he mumbled. He followed her up the steps to the apartment over the shop. He'd been living with Henrietta since last January when she'd essentially kidnapped him, not taking "no really, I'm really fine" for an answer. She'd stayed in South Park long enough to help him facilitate selling his trailer to the first person interested. Then there had been the annoyingly long wait to getting a work visa. Once he'd packed everything he'd really cared about into a suitcase and hauled it into the trunk of Henrietta's car, it was over. He'd been surprised how easy all traces of him were erased from South Park. Somehow it'd almost felt like he expected South Park to be able to wave goodbye at the city limits. Something-anything quantifiable that would tell him that his absence would be felt. But a town can't feel anyone's absence, and it was only 9 months ago that he was convinced people wouldn't feel his.

The tattoo parlor itself had been converted from an old Victorian-style house. Pete had set up the café after his first month of boredom as the appointment scheduler at the shop. Henrietta and Owen, thought it'd be a great way to get more business into the shop, so he'd put the money from his trailer into buying all the essentials of the café; the stools, the espresso machine, the quirky light fixtures. It really felt like his own space, an extension of himself. He'd painted the walls red and decorated them in vintage sci-fi book cover prints that he'd had blown up at the copy shop downtown and framed.

"Just tell me you're not putting off getting ready because you're nervous about finally seeing Michael again," Henrietta said, following him into his room.

"No," Pete said slowly, straightening his iPod and phone into a line on his dresser. "It's just not all of us are going on a cruise to Europe tomorrow. I have to make sure things are ready to open tomorrow."

"You're so full of shit," Henrietta laughed, leaning in the doorway.

"Do you want me to get ready or not? I need to close the door you know."

Henrietta rolled her eyes but closed the door. Pete picked up the white collared shirt off the bed. He tried to think of the last occasion he'd had to get dressed up for. It was probably Firkle's high school graduation, but even then he'd only worn a button down from a thrift store and an old pair of black jeans. Now that things were going so well at the cafe he was finally able to afford new clothes, including the pair of grey buckled creepers he was wearing to the wedding. He'd also hired his first employee a month ago, so he had a chance to explore Vancouver, which mostly meant sitting by the water with a coffee and his notebook. And it was great to have Henrietta around, he'd almost forgotten how well she knew him; how she could always make him laugh when he was upset and what books to recommend to him.

But she was right, no amount of success could prepare him to see Michael today. After he left South Park, Michael had called him and apologized for everything that had happened during those two weeks. It was a lapse in judgment brought on by the stress of the situation, he'd said. But could they please please talk and try and be friends, he'd said. Pete had agreed and they spoke on the phone a couple times a week. Mostly late at night as Pete was splayed across his bed, smiling into empty the room as he listened to the bitter but dry-humor sort of way Michael described the incompetence of his supervisor or the vapid conversations he'd overhear from the hipsters in the line at the café each morning. Michael was happy to listen to Pete's small milestones of building his business—from his first order of coffee beans to his first customer. Michael had even helped him to design the menus, the logo, and website for the café. In a lot of ways he was like a journal of the whole experience of starting up the café—and he felt comfortable confiding in Michael all the insecurities he had along the way. It almost felt like they knew each other better now than they had in high school, even though there were three thousand miles between them. The three hour time zone difference typically meant that Michael fell asleep with his phone pressed against his ear, Pete listening for the silence and then the quiet breaths before finally ending the call. He'd always think of those nights in his bedroom, Michael's dark curls spread out on his pillow, and how perfectly their bodies fit together.

He stared in the mirror over top of his dresser as he straightened his bow-tie and adjusted his suspenders. It was the same outfit the rest of Owen's groomsmen were wearing. They were all given black handkerchiefs for their front pockets, but his was purple, to symbolize that he was there for Henrietta.

He had to admit that he looked good, probably the best he had in years. His hair was freshly dyed vivid red and black contrasted one another in the way that he'd liked since he was a kid. He tilted the can of hairspray when someone knocked on his door.

He opened it, ready to tell Henrietta that he was perfectly capable of styling his own hair—but broke into a smile. Firkle was leaning against the door-frame in a striped collared shirt with a bright blue razor tie. It was strange to have to look up to Firkle, even after all these years. He threw an arm around Pete, pulling him into a hug.

"It's been too long man," Firkle said, "but look at you—still slick as hell."

"You too," Pete said. Firkle had taken most of his piercings out but his hair was still its typical inky black, but it was longer now, almost to his shoulders. His typical impish smile and icy blue eyes hadn't changed.

He had graduated college last spring, and was in his first semester of graduate school. Sometimes Pete wondered if he had had the means and the grades if that would have been a life he could have thrived in. But even as he thought that, the same tired dismissal of authority figures he'd had since third grade rebuffed the idea. No, he really was set on the track that made the most sense: he was his own boss, had a creative space for others to thrive in, and didn't worry about meeting someone's impossible and boundless standards.

A petite woman in a polka-dot dress and black cat-eye glasses was peaking at him over Firkle's shoulder. Firkle followed Pete's gaze and turned around to grab the woman's hand.

"Right, this is Tabby—my girlfriend," he said.

"Hey," Pete said, "I didn't know you had a girlfriend—"

"Well, I didn't know you were living with Henrietta," Firkle countered, as they walked down the hall towards the living room.

"Not for much longer," Pete said, "soon she'll be a married woman and I'll transfer my authority over to Owen."

Henrietta was standing in the living room of her apartment typing something into her phone and silently gave him the finger as Firkle laughed. He wondered how much she had told Firkle. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to break the news that he'd been held in a psych-ward last Christmas and she strong-armed him into coming here. Firkle was like their little brother, their kid almost. How could he explain to him that life had seemed that bad, that he had felt so alone, that he hadn't felt like they were good enough friends to ask for help.

"So how'd did you finally convince Pete to leave South Park?" Firkle asked. Pete's shoulders tensed and he walked over to a half-finished bottle of wine left-over from last night's rehearsal dinner.

"Well," she said as he poured himself a glass, "Owen and I had been talking about leasing the space upfront for a coffee shop and we thought it'd be the perfect fit." It was a pretty solid cover story that they'd told time and again to customers or the friends that Henrietta had made up here.

"Right," he confirmed, shooting Henrietta a look. It was hard to lie to Firkle, but the truth was so much worse. "Why search for the world's best barista, when she could just import me from Colorado?"

Firkle raised his eyebrow but said nothing. It was the same expression he used when the three of them used to sneak into clubs without him because he would have blown their cover and they'd lie and say they'd been at the diner.

"So where's Michael?" Firkle said finally. "It'll be so weird for us all to be in the same room again."

"His flight gets in an hour before the ceremony," Henrietta said. "So we'll have to hang out at the reception."

Pete felt uncomfortably hot thinking about it. It was one thing to talk on the phone every night, but another thing entirely to look Michael in the eye again. At least he'd have the space of the ceremony between the two of them for the first hour.

"Go smoke now," Henrietta, sensing his need for a cigarette before it'd fully formed. "We have to leave in a couple minutes and there's no way you're driving me to the church, making me smell like smoke."

"Jesus, what do you think of me—I wouldn't do that," Pete picked up the lighter on the counter before heading towards the door.

Henrietta grabbed him by the arm as he passed. "I think you're going to be the second most handsomest man at my wedding."

Pete thought of Michael for a moment before realizing she was talking about her fiancé. "I'll pretend to agree with that statement, but only because it's your wedding day."

"Thank you for defending my honor Peter," Firkle said straightening his tie, "as we all know-I've always been the looker of the group."

Henrietta laughed and wrapped an arm around both of them. "I'm glad you boys are both here today."

Pete slunk an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. Sometimes, more than other times the absence he almost created could be felt. A lot of things almost happen. He hoped that Michael didn't think about last Christmas anymore. He wouldn't know it if he did, they never talked about it. But he didn't want to think of Michael, alone and far away being sad about that. Anyway, Michael wasn't far away today, just a few streets away and that gap was about to close too. He tried to focus on the ceremony but all he could think of was how bad the back of his neck was going to burn the whole time knowing that Michael was in the crowd.