Hi there!

Thanks to everyone who has read and (especially) reviewed so far. Your feedback is what sustains me between chapters, something that has become even clearer to me while writing this story, in which the chapters and periods between updates are longer than I'm accustomed to. That being said, I will now leave you to the next day in our weekend saga and sincerely hope you enjoy it. Here's Saturday.

Happy readings!

TEPR

It's early, and Craig is surprised that anyone else is up this soon after sunrise. As he lies on his back fiddling with the loose muffler on his car, he is startled by a pair of pale legs and quirky running shoes suddenly at his side. His eyes travel up the reddish-brown hairy calves to meet the face attached to them. He is met with a steady grin that towers over him.

"Wanna go for a jog?" Kyle asks, as he begins to run in place.

Craig finds his host's too-early enthusiasm goofy but endearing. He ponders the offer, first studying Kyle's face, then his comically short shorts, then his face again, wondering if maybe he is still asleep and muddling through a bizarre dream.

"Why not," he finally says, accepting Kyle's hand when it is lowered to help him up off the ground. "I look kinda slouchy," he adds, examining his wrinkled jeans, greasy flannel shirt, and well-worn tennis shoes. "I was just planning on working on the car."

"You look fine," Kyle says, taking off down the gravel drive. Craig shrugs and follows. They continue for a couple of blocks, with Craig keeping pace behind Kyle's leisurely jog.

"Sleep well?" Kyle asks as they make their way from the neighborhood of sprawling old houses and well-kept gardens to Beaufort's historic downtown.

"It was an interesting night," Craig replies. "Either I don't remember some of you people very well, or folks are behaving more strangely than they did a decade ago."

"Dare I ask?" Kyle says, grinning mischievously.

Craig shakes his head. "You would have had to have been there."

"Fair enough," Kyle replies, increasing his speed as they circle the corner around an old hardware store.

"Fuck," Craig mutters under his breath as he tries to maintain his more athletic friend's amped-up pace. "Jesus, fuck, I'm out of shape," he says when he finally catches up to Kyle, who has stopped to stretch at a park bench and wait for him to catch up.

"Gotta stay active," Kyle replies, arching his back. "We're getting old, Craig. We have to take care of our bodies."

"Thanks, Dad." He notices Kyle's shoes. "What are you wearing? Is that a moose on the side?"

Kyle beams. "They're my shoes. I mean, I designed them. They're my company's."

"Shoe company? Jesus, Broflovski. I thought you were an accountant or some shit."

"Fuck no, dude. I'm a pretty successful small business owner, if I do say so myself. These puppies are now sold in nine states—and counting."

"Moose shoes?" Craig asks skeptically.

"Don't knock 'em until you try them. And don't dis the moose. It's the state mammal of Alaska and Maine."

Craig just stares at him. "I have no words."

Kyle grins. "Then let's keep jogging." After a couple more blocks, he breaks the silence again. "There's something I need to tell you, dude. Something big."

"Shoot," Craig deadpans.

"It's about my company. You have to keep it a secret. I'm really serious about that. The thing is, we're trading for pretty much nothing now because we're small. But we're about to get bought out by this huge corporation, and our stock prices are going to skyrocket. You catch my drift?"

"Yippee for you," Craig replies coldly. "Another notch in your belt."

Kyle stops walking, causing Craig to follow suit. He is a bit surprised by his friend's asshole response and for a moment tries to remember if he was always like this.

"No, dude," Kyle says. "I'm trying to help you. I want you to use this information to your advantage. You just can't fucking tell anyone, alright? I'd be fucked if the SEC knew we were having this conversation. But you should, you know, invest—while you still can. I can even spot you a little for now, if you want."

Craig shakes his head. "I'm not going to say anything to anyone, Kyle. Who would I tell, anyway? And I don't need your charity, jackass. I'm doing just fine," he says as he begins jogging away from his companion.

"I fucking doubt that," Kyle murmurs as he's left alone on the sidewalk. He remembers now how difficult Craig can be, how defensive. He remembers the last time he saw Craig before this weekend, three years ago when he was on business in Chicago. Craig was wandering around aimlessly, grimy and strung out. Kyle tried to be friendly and offered to buy him a coffee, and after some near-pleading on Kyle's part, Craig accepted. The encounter started awkwardly yet innocuously enough, but once Kyle tried to delve deep, Craig immediately shut down. Small talk failed, so Kyle moved to more serious topics. They discussed Craig's lack of recent success in the workplace, and he was even willing to admit that his depression had driven him to "experiment" with drugs a bit. Kyle did not press that issue further, though he did suggest rehab, which caused Craig to begin laughing maniacally before shouting at Kyle in the coffeehouse and telling him to mind his own fucking business, goddamnit.

Kyle wonders as he continues his jog whether Craig's life has gotten better or worse since that windy afternoon in the Chicago Loop. What has he been doing with himself? Has he even had a real job? Is there anything Kyle and Bebe can do to help him? As he ponders these questions, he opts for breakfast alone at the city diner, where the presence of him in jogging shorts and a t-shirt is no more unusual than it is unwelcome. Margie the septuagenarian waitress brings him a coffee and asks if he'd like the usual, and with that, Kyle's day begins again, this time on a better foot.

Two hours later, the smell of different coffee awakens Eric, who shuffles to the source of the aroma and finds Bebe making herself some eggs. Between her disheveled hair and bathrobe, Eric thinks she must not have been far ahead of him in getting out of bed.

"Are we the first ones up?" he asks, yawning and pouring himself a cup from the fresh pot of coffee.

She snorts. "Hardly. Take a look outside."

He glances at the front lawn and sees Clyde and Stan tossing a football back and forth. Tweek sits on the grass and looks on, slightly bored. Eric's gaze lingers on Tweek for a few seconds before his attentions return to Bebe.

"Did I miss anything interesting this morning?" he asks.

"Just a domestic dispute," Bebe replies, as she and her scrambled eggs join him at the table.

"Oh? Do tell."

"Well, Red and Clyde were supposed to leave this morning. Red insisted they go so that they could relieve the nanny, but Clyde said no. He told her he's staying until Monday, so she drove the rental back to Savannah to catch the next flight to Seattle without him."

"Shit. Did they fight? There must have been more to it than that."

Bebe shakes her head. "You're going to have to start getting up earlier if you want to catch the really juicy drama."

After lunch, Stan rides shotgun in an old Jeep that Kyle bought on a whim at an estate sale two years ago. It's pleasant with the top down. The wind in his face feels good, and it's nice to ride around the streets of this small coastal town, hiding behind his sunglasses in a state of quasi-anonymity where, even if people happen to recognize him, they at least aren't constantly trying to find him. Back in real life, riding around in nature with the top down isn't a thing that happens, but here—his favorite person in the driver's seat and an old friend behind him—things aren't so bad, and in a way, they're kind of perfect. He closes his eyes and lets it all wash over him until the silence is interrupted.

"How far did you say this place was?" Craig pipes up from the backseat.

"Another five miles or so," Kyle replies. "Tweek actually knows the land better than I do. She's been up here more than I have lately."

"Oh, yeah?" Craig asks.

Tweek nods from her seat next to him. "Yeah," she says. "Kenny and I used to come up here a lot."

"They were working on it together," Kyle adds.

"Well, Kenny did most of the work," she says. "I just helped out."

Craig smiles subtly. "That's still something."

Stan continues to sit silently, eyes closed and soaking it in. It is still hard for him to believe that he is here with these people, under these circumstances, marching through the wilderness. It is all so surreal.

When they arrive at the property, Kyle waves grandiosely to show Craig and Stan the expansiveness of it. "It's more than six acres," he says. "Kenny got it for a steal. He and Tweek have made a lot of progress on the old house."

"It still needs a lot of work," Tweek murmurs, trying to figure out what right to any of the remainder of Kenny's life she can genuinely claim. Will she continue to work on the land? Can she? Where will she go once the rest of these strangers have trickled away back to their own lives, and it's all said and done? What will she do then?

Craig approaches the decrepit house alone and studies it intently, looking for the potential in what's before him. Tweek follows sheepishly, lightly placing a hand on Craig's shoulder as they stare together.

"It was the last place we went before we came home that night," she says. "It was his favorite place."

"Can I see it?" Craig whispers.

She nods, and they enter together, leaving Stan and Kyle in the grassy expanse.

"This place is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from out there," Craig says. "It's nicer, too."

"Yeah," she replies. "Kenny really put his whole self into it. He was like that, you know."

Craig nods. "Oh, I know. We used to be really close. He was the first real friend I made at Boulder. Did you know he's the reason I'm friends with these people? He's the one who introduced me to them. Fuck, Kenny was something else."

Tweek smiles. "You remind me a lot of him, in the good ways."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not him. I would never do something like what he did."

"Kill yourself?"

"Yeah. Never. It's fucked up."

That is all that is said as they continue to explore the rooms, each marveling at the ruins before them.

Outside, Stan and Kyle trudge through the field, the latter giving his best friend an overview of the lay of the land. When they reach the boundary of the property, far enough away from Craig and Tweek and everyone else, Stan decides it's safe to drop his veneer.

"What's your secret, Kyle?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I just don't know how you do it. You seem so happy all the time, and I don't understand. I mean, I'm not saying you have a bad life. I think you have a great life—that's the point. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I'm fucking miserable, man. Nothing is right."

"Whoa. Where is this coming from? What's wrong, Stan?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I've just realized that this is it, you know? It's as good as it's ever going to get for me, and I hate everything about my life. It's so hard for me to feel connected anymore. I feel like a giant joke, and I have no one but myself to blame."

"You can't think like that, Stan. You bring joy to so many people."

Stan snorts. "Like a circus animal."

"Oh, come on. Don't be so cynical. It may feel like a sacrifice sometimes, but I think that the work you do is really important. You bring smiles to people's faces. You make people happy. In today's shitty world, escapism is a necessary form of entertainment. Good old fashioned mindless fantasy keeps us common folks sane when we need to unplug from the burdens of our daily lives."

"That was really poetic, dude. This is exactly what I meant—you're so fucking wise. Just being around you makes me feel better. I miss you, man. Fuck, I miss conversations like this. There aren't folks like you in Los Angeles. Everyone is so vapid. I miss being around real people."

Kyle grins. "Yeah, well, don't pity yourself too much, Mr. Millionaire. It's not easy for us lowly peasants to empathize with the struggles of our Hollywood overlords."

Stan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but you get it, though. That's why you're the best."

"If it makes you feel any better," Kyle says, "I'd love to be someone else occasionally."

"Why? You've got a great wife, great kids, dream job, two houses."

Kyle sighs, and his voice goes heavy. "Life's imperfections can be really disappointing, though. You understand that."

Stan puts his hands up. "No way, man. Not the Kenny thing again."

"It's selfish, I know, but this weekend is just one harsh, exhausting reminder. It makes me question why I let him stay at our place here, whether I should have allowed it at all. It's hard for me not to dwell on it, Stan. I've always been faithful. I love Bebe, but in some ways, their affair had been going on since Boulder—at least, emotionally."

"Jesus, Kyle, you've gotta be kidding. Bebe chose you, not Kenny. When are you going to get that through your head? You're the one she married. You're the one she loves. People make mistakes sometimes, and it fucking sucks, but that's life."

Kyle shakes his head. "I just don't understand cheating. It makes no logical sense to me."

"You're overthinking this, dude. Just let it wash over you and roll away. It's the only way to deal with it. What happened was years ago. It's over. Bebe moved on, and you have to do the same. If you're half as crazy about her as she is about you—and I know you are—then you two are the best couple I've met in the whole fucking world."

Kyle chuckles. "That's a pretty low bar, admittedly. Our only competition is the scum of Los Angeles."

"Hey," Stan says, patting him on the back, "try to focus on the positive. You're supposed to be good at that, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle says. "Say, one more thing: what's your shoe size?" Stan tells him 9 ½, and they set off to round up Tweek and Craig and return to the homestead. During the drive back, they pass Clyde and Eric in Wendy's car, on an important errand from Bebe.

"I fucking hate shopping," Eric says to his friend in the driver's seat. "I always have."

"Then why did you come?" Clyde dryly replies. "I could have gone alone."

"What, and leave me with Bebe and Wendy? No way. I needed to get out of that house, anyway."

Clyde rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm honestly glad you came. I know it sounds kinda weird since I've been surrounded by people the last twenty-four hours, but it's felt pretty lonely since we got here. Maybe it's just because I know Kenny's gone and I'm just sad or something."

Eric rolls his tongue around in his mouth. "Well, Clyde," he says, psychoanalyzing his friend as though he were a guest on a talk show, "sadness is a perfectly natural reaction to what's happened. As for your feelings of loneliness, maybe they can be chalked up to an awareness of your own mortality. Maybe you just realize that at the end of the day, you're all alone in this world, no matter who's at your side." Eric looks to gauge Clyde's reaction when he says that last part, wondering if his friend picks up on the fact that he's talking about his wife.

"Maybe," Clyde responds, largely ignoring the other's commentary. "Honestly, I think part of it is that I feel inadequate."

"How so?" Eric asks, suddenly leaning forward in interest.

"I don't always feel like a real man, you know? I guess sometimes I don't feel like I serve a purpose."

"Tell me more, Clyde."

Clyde knows that Eric can be a pain in the ass sometimes, and he is aware that most of their college friends don't care for him very much, but it is in moments like this that he truly appreciates Eric, who, even after all these years, he still considers his best friend. Clyde sees him for who he really is, and despite his harsh persona, Eric Cartman is actually a good person. He just has a weird way of showing it, Clyde reasons.

"It's just that I'm not getting any younger," he continues. "I thought I would have accomplished more by now. I thought I would have become someone, like you or Stan. Or even just regular-guy successful, like Kyle. But what have I done? I am no closer to a music career than I was in college. If anything, I'm a million miles further away. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like I missed my chance, you know?"

This is the part that Eric's never been good at—the advice part—and he knows it. He suppresses the urge to crack a cheap joke at his friend's expense and instead decides to offer something worthwhile. He considers his response as they pull into the grocery store parking lot. They enter through the produce section and begin tackling Bebe's shopping list in silence, starting with a head of lettuce and three medium tomatoes.

"But you love your family, right?" Eric finally asks as he weighs an eggplant.

"Of course I do," Clyde replies. "My boys are my world. I know how lucky I am not to have to work and that I get to spend my days with them. It's the fucking best sometimes. But then there are days when I feel like I'm lost in someone else's life. I mean, I guess I always saw myself being a dad someday, but it happened so quickly, it's crazy. And I definitely never thought I'd be the one to stay home. I was supposed to be on the road touring, coming home to the family that I was supporting, to my stay-at-home wife. I'll tell you: shit just doesn't go the way you think it will. There are so many days I wish I had your life—no wife, no kids, no baggage. You even live in Manhattan, a real city! There's so much freedom in the bachelor life. I really miss it sometimes, man."

"Hey, Seattle is a real city."

Clyde rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. It's not New York. You know, the whole reason I went to college in Colorado was so that I could get away from my family, away from Seattle. I never in a million years thought I'd wind up back there. I envy you so much sometimes. There are days when I imagine what you might be doing with all of New York City at your disposal, no one to hold you back or tie you down—a whole world of possibilities."

"Yeah, well," Eric says as they turn into the ethnic foods aisle, "it's not all glitz and glamour and cocktail parties. You're more than welcome to stop in sometime for a peak into my illustrious life of shitty Chinese takeout, Netflix, and rubbing one out when I can't sleep."

Clyde grins. "How cosmopolitan. I bet you only use the finest champagne to jerk yourself off."

Eric laughs. "Jesus. You're fucking gross."

"Not as gross as you. Or, at least, not as wild. I've seen the way you look at Tweek. No one else might have noticed, but I did. To each his own, I guess, but Kenny's barely cold in the ground."

Eric blushes, his embarrassment rendering him momentarily mute. "I wasn't going to do anything," he mumbles. "Unless the opportunity presented itself, that is."

Clyde shakes his head. "You are something else."

"Not that it matters anyway. I'm getting old," Eric says, gesturing to his receding hairline. "Kids like that aren't interested in guys our age anymore."

Clyde laughs. "Speak for yourself."

"Let me guess: all the young MILFs drool over you at the park when you take your kids on playdates because you're the only piece of man meat around. That's such a cliché, Clyde."

"Not exactly." He whispers, "Don't tell anyone, but I've been fucking the boys' nanny Claudia for like eight months now. She's twenty-three, recent college grad. Lives in a guest bedroom in our house. In bed, everything about her is better than Red. She moves different, she tastes different, she fucks different. She's just… awesome."

"Christ, Donovan. The way you're talking, I'd think you have feelings for this girl."

Clyde takes a deep breath. "I'm beginning to think that I do, man. It's starting to feel serious. I'm not sure what to do."

Eric shakes his head and slaps Clyde on the cheek. "Wake up, dumbshit. You have to fire her. It's either goodbye hot nanny or goodbye family. I know how your wife operates. If she found out about this, you'd be fucked."

"Hey! It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. Frame her for stealing some jewelry or cash or something, and kick her to the curb. Somebody's going to have to be a casualty. Might as well be her. Even if you break her heart, she's young. She'll get over it. Just write her a good letter of recommendation, and send her packing."

"Fuck," Clyde whispers. "You know, I thought that you, of all people, would understand where I was coming from. That's why I wanted to tell you first."

"Yeah, and now you know my opinion. I may think with my dick, Clyde, but I have a brain, too, and I know how to use it."

They shuffle silently through the last two aisles—frozen foods—picking up a carton of lime sherbet and a Boston cream pie. Eric breaks the tension as they approach the self-checkout: "Can I ask you a personal question, about Red?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Does the carpet match the drapes?"

Clyde laughs. "You're a fucking asshole."

While Bebe showers and the others are out of the house, Wendy ponders the immensity of her hosts' sprawling plantation house. How Bebe, Kyle, and their two kids could ever need so much space—in a vacation home, no less!—is something she'll never understand, but then, Wendy has never been one for extravagance. She does not often think about her humble roots in Nowhere, Nebraska, but it's easy to be reminded of them when all these ghosts of her past surround her. It was especially apparent for Wendy in college that she was in the socioeconomic minority in her friend group. After spending a couple of weeks hanging out with Stan and Kyle, who lived across the hall from her in their freshman dorm, she knew that she was different. She hadn't been born in Alaska and spent her formative years at a prestigious boarding school on the other side of the country like Kyle, or been raised by dotcom yuppies in Silicon Valley like Stan. She hadn't been cradled with a silver spoon in the Seattle suburbs like Clyde, or followed the privileged path to med school carved out by her parents like Bebe. She hadn't even had the stability of relatively boring, middle-class normalcy like Eric. Instead, Wendy had forged her own path and now considers herself a rare success story from the remotest regions of the Great Plains.

Of all her friends, Kenny had been the one with whom Wendy always felt the closest connection, even while she was dating Stan. It had never been romantic, but the bond they shared transcended friendship. Wendy had always admired that, like her, Kenny understood the challenges of thriving in a system designed to reward the already privileged and challenge those born into less fortunate circumstances. She was sold on Kenny the day he flipped off an asshole in their freshman philosophy seminar when the guy argued that a progressive tax would place an unfair financial burden on those already paying more than their fair share. Wendy hadn't been sure if Kenny would mesh well with her friends across the hall, but she desperately wanted him to. Kyle had initially been resistant (no surprise there), but Stan, to Wendy's delight, was almost immediately sucked in. He, too, drank the Kenny McCormick Kool-Aid. It wasn't until Kenny brought Craig around that Wendy finally felt like there was someone else in her friend group who understood what it was like to work your way up from nothing. Unfortunately, Wendy thinks, if the weekend so far is any indication, Craig has fallen hard.

Craig. A part of Wendy regrets that she waited until after a few glasses of wine to come onto him last night, that she didn't do it when she was completely in her own mind. But she also knows that it might have been impossible to initiate that sort of conversation sober. She does not at all regret that Craig was her first choice, though. With Kenny gone, Craig is easily the most kindred spirit Wendy has left in this house and perhaps—she is beginning to think—the entire world. As she ponders these things from the seclusion of the kitchen island, staring out onto the empty front lawn, Wendy's thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of Bebe, who prepares herself iced water after her shower.

"Well, look who finally decided to make an appearance," Bebe says, smiling. "Get your work done, I take it?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I hadn't meant to bury myself in my notes this morning, but it's unavoidable sometimes. By the time I resurfaced, everyone was gone."

"I sent Clyde and Eric to the store. They took your car. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not."

"And Kyle took the rest out to see Kenny's land."

"What's going to happen with that property, anyway? Kenny didn't have a will, I presume?"

Bebe shakes her head. "Not that any of us are aware of. The whole thing is such a fucking mess. With the funeral yesterday, I haven't had a whole of time to even wrap my head around it all, to be honest." She sighs. "But we'll figure it out. We always do. Then things will be bound to settle back into their regular groove—at least, I hope they do. At this point, I just want the rest of the weekend to go smoothly. I wasn't expecting Clyde and Red's little spat this morning; I'm hoping now that she's gone, everything will be civil. But enough about that. How are you? I feel like the two of us haven't had a real conversation since you got here."

"Well, finding the elusive Mr. Right has not gotten any easier. I've had no luck for the last decade, and I've gotten to where I can tell in the first thirty seconds if there's a chance in the world. Of course, there never is."

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

"But it is, Bebe. I swear: they're either married or gay. If it's not that, they've just broken up with a bitch who looks just like me. Or they need more space. Or they can't commit. Or they want to commit, but they're afraid to get close. The ones who want to get close, I don't want to be anywhere near."

Bebe sighs. "Dating can be really tough. You just have to ride it out. It will happen for you eventually, sweetie. I know it will."

Wendy scoffs. "That's easy for you to say. You're married to Kyle, the perfect man. Honestly, I've come to the point where I don't even want a man anymore. It's not even that the ship has sailed. I'm just done."

"So… what? You're becoming a lesbian? Joining a convent?"

"Ha! Maybe if I'm pushed past the brink of sanity. Honestly, what I really want, what I've known for my entire life, is that I want to be a mother. My biological clock's ticking, and I'm not sure how much longer I have."

"You can't be serious, Wendy. You're thirty-four."

"I know, but my mother went through early menopause, and so did her mother. Genetics are believed to be a factor. I can't take the risk, Bebe."

"So, what's the plan, then?"

"I'm going to have a baby."

"Who's the father?"

"I'm hoping to have that hammered out by tomorrow night."

Bebe's eyes go wide. "You're on the prowl this weekend?"

"I don't see why not. These are the best guys I know."

Bebe laughs. "Holy shit. That's crazy. I can't believe it. I mean, I'm really happy for you. It's just nuts. Who's the top prospect?"

"Don't laugh, but unfortunately, I discovered last night that Craig shoots blanks. Beyond that, Clyde and Kyle are out, obviously."

"Obviously why?" Bebe asks.

Wendy looks at her incredulously. "Well, while Clyde is attractive, he's also awfully dim. But also, more importantly, because they're both married. Bebe, I would never ask that of you or Kyle. You should know that."

"That leaves you with Stan and Eric, I suppose."

"Not Eric Cartman in a million years. Gross. I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to Stan because of our history, but honestly, I don't see another option at this point."

Bebe shakes her head. "But you do have another option, sweetie. Wait, and think it out. Visit sperm banks. Mull it over."

"No, Bebe. I've spent months considering this. I've done my research. I'm ready. I just have to get some alone time with Stan tonight, and I'll be set."

"I don't think it's going to be that simple."

"Why not? There are no obligations. I love him as a friend, and I assume he loves me in the same way. I know he'd do pretty much anything for me."

"Pretty much anything. Besides that, have you considered that it doesn't always happen the first time?"

Wendy scoffs. "That's not what they told us in high school."

Dinner tonight, Tweek realizes, is the first time she has seen all of them together in one room. Since the funeral, she has observed them in various public and private moments, often when they know she is there, but sometimes not. She was awake before anyone else this morning, though she did not stir until Craig wandered out to work on his car. Not long after Kyle left in his tiny jogging shorts, Tweek was greeted by the sight of an irritated and possibly hungover Red dragging her overnight bag to her rental. They did not speak, but Red's eyes told Tweek all she needed to know—not that Tweek didn't already have a general idea. The walls were thin enough, and the words Red exchanged with her husband in the early morning hours were not exactly whispered. She called him an infant, and he called her a cunt. It wasn't until Tweek sat on the lawn watching Clyde play football with Stan Marsh—Stan Marsh!—that she realized that maybe both of them were right, but maybe they were also wrong. Red isn't the friendliest person, but Tweek admires her tenacity. As for Clyde, he's kind of immature for someone so old, she supposes, but he is sort of cute in a dorky way, and that makes up for it at least a little bit. Tweek has only known most of these people a little over twenty-four hours, but that is long enough to know that she prefers them when they are happy—even Eric, whose gaze sometimes creeps her out. The attention is nice, and kind of surreal, but he's definitely not her type.

Having no idea what the future will hold, Tweek chooses to focus on what's left of the weekend and hopes she can continue to enjoy herself with these interesting, odd people who Kenny has caused to swoop in and temporarily surround her. Seeing them all together like this, it is easy enough to imagine what they might have been like in college, with Kenny among them. She imagines Bebe subtly flirting with Kenny when Kyle is not looking, a premonition for their affair years down the line. She imagines Kenny cordially making fun of Stan for dabbling in stand-up comedy. (Craig and Wendy, Kenny told her, supported Stan during this endeavor and even attended his performances. Kenny refused, even when the shows were free admission, on the grounds that he found the whole thing too depressing.) She imagines him playing tennis with Kyle, whose genuine niceness fascinated Kenny and whom he affectionately called "Einstein" for always being the smartest guy in the room. She imagines him and Wendy at a party, making fun of Clyde and Eric as they split a cheap bottle of white wine, their stage whispers morphing into obnoxious cackles as the night wanes on. She imagines him with Craig, who Kenny told her on several occasions was his best friend, even to this day, though the two of them had not been close in several years. With the exception of Kyle and Bebe, everything Tweek knew about these people before yesterday she knew from Kenny, whose stories largely support but sometimes contradict what Tweek is experiencing this weekend. More than anyone, it is Craig—about whom Kenny told her the most—who has been the focus of Tweek's attention. There is something about him that reminds her of Kenny, despite Craig's assurances to the contrary at the property today. Perhaps not surprisingly, it is Craig's voice that jolts Tweek out of her own thoughts and back to the dinner table.

"You know," he says to Bebe, grinning mischievously, "you and Kyle put on a great funeral. The weekend B&B for the houseguests is a nice touch. I might just have to have mine here." At that, Eric lets out a snort, and Clyde guffaws. Tweek notices that he, like most everyone else, has already had quite a bit to drink.

"Yeah, well," Bebe replies, "we reserve first priority for people who kill themselves in one of our bathrooms." She pauses and looks around the room for a moment. "God, that was a terrible thing to say. I have no idea why I said that. I think I've had enough," she says, pushing her nearly empty wineglass away from her. Kyle leans over and kisses her forehead before taking her hand in his under the table.

"Don't feel bad, Bebe. Everything about this is hard," Wendy says.

"Yeah," Stan adds. "And we're all really grateful for what you and Kyle have done. I know Kenny would be, too."

"Thank you," Bebe whispers.

"It was so lovely," Wendy continues. "Kyle's speech, Clyde's singing, the food. There were so many people. You know, I'd be lucky to get half that many people to my funeral."

"Don't say that, Test," Craig says, standing. He walks behind her and hugs her through the chair. "I'll come, and, you know, I'll even bring a date." At that she laughs, and so does just about everyone else.

Not long after, Stan rises and announces to the room that he is going to retire for the evening. Kyle leaves to do the dishes, and Wendy offers to help.

"They can have the dishes," Bebe says to the rest of the room, grinning. "I have something that will help us unwind," she adds mischievously.

"Oh, really now?" Craig asks, suddenly intrigued.

"Well," she replies, standing and grabbing Tweek's hand, "I may not be able to keep up with you, Mr. Tucker, but you should know I still appreciate the finer things in life once in a while." She leads Tweek into the living room, and the others follow—Craig and Eric and Clyde—and settle into their spots on the couches and chairs. Bebe retrieves her stash in a small, unassuming box from the lower shelf of a nearby bookcase.

"Would you like to do the honors, Clyde?" she asks, handing him the box. "As I recall, you always appreciated good grass."

"Still do," he says, grinning. He inhales as he rolls a joint. "Ah, yes. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, huh, Doc?"

Bebe blushes. "Consider it a prescription for a good time. But don't forget to follow doctor/patient confidentiality."

They smoke for a while. They laugh. Kyle finishes the dishes and joins them, reporting that Wendy has gone to bed. Not long after Clyde rolls a second joint, Craig announces that he needs a proper cigarette, and Tweek elects to step out with him for some air. As he lights the second joint, Clyde smiles at the sight of Bebe and Kyle curled up together on the couch.

"You two are fucking adorable, you know that?" he says. "Also, no offense, but there's nothing hotter than a fine lady who likes to smoke weed," he adds, nodding to Bebe. At that, Bebe and Kyle begin cackling.

"Jesus, Clyde," Eric says, shaking his head and stealing the joint from him. "Control yourself, man. Doesn't Red ever let you smoke, or is the leash not long enough for that?"

Clyde flicks him off casually, grabbing the joint back once his friend has had a go. "She turns a blind eye. Doesn't really care, I guess, but she doesn't partake herself."

"That's too bad," Kyle says, grinning. "It might mellow her out some."

"I bet I know who likes to smoke with you in that house," Eric adds, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

"Who?" Kyle asks, leaning forward.

"No one," Clyde replies quickly, kicking Eric. "Jesus, asshole."

Eric throws up his hands. "Sorry, sorry. I won't air your dirty laundry if you don't want me to."

At that, Kyle and Bebe exchange a glance. She shrugs, and he nuzzles his face into her neck in high, drunken bliss.

"What about you?" Bebe asks Eric, changing the subject. "Do you ever want to get married, or do you enjoy perpetual bachelorhood?"

"Fuck that," he replies quickly. "Marriage is for the birds. I'll take my freedom any day."

"You mean you don't ever imagine what it's like to have a family?" Kyle asks.

"Oh, sure. I've imagined it—only one woman for the rest of my life, changing shitty diapers, having to leave the city and move to Kansas or some shit. No thanks. Sounds like a nightmare to me."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "We live in Missouri, not Kansas, and St. Louis is hardly a hick town."

"Or even worse," Eric continues, ignoring Kyle's interjection, "I might have to move back to Denver. Nothing worse than having to go back to your roots when all you want is a little piece of freedom," he adds, glancing at Clyde.

"God, you're a dick," Clyde snaps, and the room goes quiet. As the four of them burn down the second joint in silence, an equally awkward scene begins to unfold in the study.

Why Wendy doesn't knock, she isn't sure. Perhaps it's because, in a way, she still feels as relaxed and comfortable around Stan now as she did when they were dating. Even though years have passed since their breakup, it is not difficult for her to feel that little has changed between them. Despite rarely seeing one another and living thousands of miles apart, Wendy still feels a deep connection to Stan. Or, at least, that's what she thinks to reassure herself that asking him to impregnate her is a good idea. Regardless, Wendy is so lost in her thoughts that the last thing she expects to see when she opens the door is Stan sprawled out on the futon, cock in hand as he peruses pornography on his phone.

"Holy shit!" he shouts, pulling a blanket over his crotch. "Close the door, Wendy. Jesus."

She does. "I can leave and come back," she says.

"No, that's fine. Just, uh, turn around. I need to get decent."

"Sure thing." She grins as she turns her back to him. She has seen Stan naked hundreds of times, though not in several years, and is amused by his sense of quasi-modesty in this moment. She chalks it up to nerves and being caught red-handed. His cock is just as she remembers it, and so is the rest of his body, largely, though things have begun to sag a tad, and he has lost a bit of the natural definition he had when they were younger. She supposes he will have a similar thought about her if he sees her naked tonight.

"Okay, the coast is clear," he says, standing. "Trouble sleeping?"

"No," she replies, deciding to be more direct than she had been with Craig last night. "I have a favor to ask, a personal favor." She moves toward him, perching on one end of the futon, and he takes a place at her opposite, sitting cross-legged and giving her his full attention. She tells him that she wants to have a baby and, after careful deliberation, would like him to be the sperm donor.

"You want me to what?!" he whispers, his eyes widening.

"I know it sounds like a big deal," she quickly replies, drawing for her repertoire of pre-rehearsed responses, "but there would be no obligation. You know that, Stan."

He shakes his head. "There's no way, Wendy. I couldn't. If word ever got out, the tabloids would blow it all out of proportion."

"Seriously? You think I wouldn't protect you?" She scoffs, realizing how offended she is by this. "You think… what? That I would somehow use this against you? I may be a lot of things, but I'm not petty, Stan."

"Christ, Wendy, no. I don't mean that. I'm just thinking, what if he grows up and wants to know who his father is? Say he's twelve years old and is dying to know, and you just don't have it in you to be dishonest with him anymore. That's a perfectly natural reaction. So you tell him, and word travels like wildfire at his school, then through the whole city, and then the world."

She laughs. "You're so dramatic, Stan. I promise I would keep it a secret. Besides, do you really think you're going to be headline fodder in thirteen years? You'll be an old man by movie star standards."

"Ouch," he says, mock-offended. "Is that what you call a seduction technique?"

"It was a bit harsh, wasn't it?" She smiles. "I'm sorry. I know it sounds weird, but I really do want this."

"Then why don't you go to a sperm bank? If it's about money, I'd be happy to spot you."

She shakes her head. "It's not that. If I was worried about money, I wouldn't be trying to start a family. I don't want some random guy's sperm. I want it to be a guy I know, a guy I trust. I want it to be you."

He stares at her for a long, quiet minute before finally apologizing and saying that he can't, that it would be too weird, even if he didn't have a celebrity image to maintain. She can tell when he says it this time that he means it. With that, she is as certain as he is that she will not be having Stan Marsh's child.

Downstairs in Tweek's room, the first thing Craig notices is Kenny's old guitar. When he had stepped out to smoke earlier, it had largely been to clear his head, to get away from the others. The idea of someone tagging along defeated the purpose in Craig's mind, but he supposes there are worse smoke buddies than Tweek. After all, she never says much, and she lacks many of the irritating qualities he finds in the likes of Clyde and Eric.

"I think I'm done," he says to her when he finishes his cigarette. "I've had enough drinking and laughing and fun for one night."

"Me, too," she says sheepishly.

When they reach the basement, she lingers for a moment in the common area and asks if he'd like to see her and Kenny's room. Compelled as if by something outside himself, Craig says yes, and the first thing he notices is the guitar.

"I can't believe he still has that thing," he says. "Kenny used to love to play—the old stuff, especially. He was pretty good, too."

Tweek nods in agreement. She slinks to the floor in front of the bed, and Craig sits beside her.

"Tell me something about yourself," she says after a moment.

"What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. I guess… just more about your life, and about them," she says, nodding in the direction of upstairs. "You're all so interesting. I want to know more about you. It sounds weird, but I have this feeling that you're all going to vanish in a couple of days, and I'll never see or hear from any of you again. I mean, I guess I know that's true. Besides Kyle and Bebe, why would I see any of you again? Your lives are in other places. I don't know. It's just so hard making friends, you know?"

Craig looks at Tweek and sees how nervous she is. He nods. "I know." He glances up at the ceiling and lets out a slow breath. "Can I tell you about my first job after college?"

She smiles. "Yeah, okay."

"After we graduated, I was living with Kenny. We didn't do much for a few months. Just kinda fucked around, eating up the last of our student loan money and doing the bare minimum to pay the bills. Everyone else was working or had gone off to grad school or moved back in with their folks, but we stuck it out renting a shitty, cheap little house two miles from campus. Just us and Esmeralda the Guatemalan exchange student. She and Kenny used to do yoga, get stoned, and make sopapillas together. It was like their ritual. It sucked when she dropped out of school and got deported. The day the sopapillas stopped frying was a sad one indeed. Not long after that, Eric Cartman, of all fucking people, called me up one day and said there was an opening at a public radio station where he did freelance reporting. They were looking for a part-time DJ, and he had apparently mentioned to the station manager that I hosted a weekly call-in show on campus sophomore year. Anyway, this station gig was graveyard shift, but I figured why not. It beat flipping burgers and mopping floors. I hit it off with the station manager, and after a few months, they made me full-time. When a staff reporter position opened up, I convinced him to hire Eric. It was the first and last nice thing I do for that jackass. Not even six months later, the asshole walked out on us for a 'better opportunity' with a TV station in Colorado Springs. Fucker left us high and dry one day to go read headlines to Bible beaters. Then, of course, he eventually made the jump to tabloid entertainment bullshit. Disgusting."

"You have to admit, he's really successful," Tweek says. "I mean, sure it's exploitative, but he's doing better than if he had stayed at the radio station."

Craig mulls it over for a moment. "I guess I just resented him for being a sellout. He always thought he was hot shit, even back then."

"What about you? How long did you stay in radio?" Tweek asks.

Craig sighs. "That's the thing. When I was working at the station, I started to get annoyed with Kenny. He kept dragging his feet and never wanted to find a job. We went through a series of disastrous roommates, and one day I finally called it quits. I backed out when it came time to renew our lease and made him fend for himself. I was making enough money to live on my own and was too annoyed by how lazy he was to offer to let him stay with me. It was a dick move. Anyway, that's when he told me how much of a sellout I had become. Kenny saying that shook me to the core, so much so that I quit the station the next day. Luckily, I had enough savings to keep me afloat until I got my bearings again. I eventually made good with Kenny, but it was never the same after that. We were never as close."

Tweek nods. "Have you ever been married?" she asks, changing the subject.

Craig laughs. "Yeah, once, actually. Met when I went back for my master's a couple of years later. She was finishing her PhD. We both came this close to graduating. She was ABD, and I just lost interest. We had good times. Got married after about a year. Stayed together for less than two. It could've worked, maybe, but I got depressed. It's around that time I started spiraling and first went to rehab. It didn't help, though. Things just kept going south. One day she told me that she had had an epiphany: she couldn't save me, but she was going to save herself. I couldn't blame her."

"I'm so sorry, Craig," Tweek says, grabbing his hand gently.

"No reason to be," he replies, pulling his hand back slowly. "We keep in contact, sort of. She married a professor at Georgetown. Doing much better now than if she'd stayed with me. I'm happy for her, honestly. She's a good person. Good people deserve to be happy." As he talks, Craig begins to absentmindedly pluck at the strings on Kenny's guitar. He feels weird about opening up to Tweek. He barely knows her, and he normally doesn't like talking about his personal life with anyone, let alone a perfect stranger.

"Can you play something?" she asks after a moment.

Craig shakes his head. "Nah. Music was always Kenny and Clyde's thing."

"But you know how to play?"

"Not well," he says, putting down the guitar. "What about you?" he asks, changing the subject. "Tell me about yourself. You must be more interesting than me."

"I doubt that," she says. "What do you want to know?"

He ponders the question. "You seem very confident for someone your age—in your identity, I mean. How old were you when you knew you were trans? If you don't mind me asking."

"I figured it out when I was around fourteen," she says. "I mean, when I was a kid, I knew there was something different about me. I wasn't, like, a stereotypical princess boy or anything like that. I just knew I had a lot in common with my sister, more than you can know when you're just a child. She was my best friend, six years older—my half-sister. She got sick when I was sixteen. It was this crazy, rare form of cancer, and when we found out, the doctors said she wouldn't last long. I knew I had to tell her who I really was before she died. I wanted her to meet the real me, and so she did. She told me she loved me, of course, and that she thought I was special. That meant a lot to me. When she died, I realized just how short life can be. That's when I knew that I was going to live my life the way I wanted. So I told my parents, and they didn't react well at all. I got kicked out and had to move in with my grandparents. My grandpa had pretty bad dementia, so when my grandma died, my parents put him in a home. I was eighteen by that point, so I was no longer their problem. I've been flying solo ever since, but I have an aunt and uncle who look out for me. They're the reason I was able to afford hormones last year."

"Could you live with them, if you had to?"

"Oh, sure, I suppose. I'm kind of enjoying wandering for now, though, you know? Besides, they live in Winnipeg, so before I ship off to Canada, I have to make it to the Grand Canyon. It was my sister's favorite place, and that's where she wanted her ashes spread. I just haven't made it out there yet."

Craig nods. "I see. Do you know the singer Sufjan Stevens?" he asks.

She shakes her head no.

"I met him when I lived in Michigan," he continues. "Pretty cool guy. We actually used to hang out some before he got famous. One of my favorite songs by him is about someone who dies of cancer. I thought you might know it, but I guess not."

Tweek's eyes shoot to the guitar. "Do you know how to play it?" she asks.

Craig begins to protest but then sees the look in her eyes and decides he owes this one to her. He sighs.

"Feel free to stop me at any time if it's terrible," he says, picking up the guitar. He hums a few bars and plays some notes to warm up. He introduces the song, "Casimir Pulaski Day", before he plays it. Tweek listens intently as he strums and sings, leaning in as Craig's soft voice and Kenny's ancient guitar fill the room for several minutes. Tweek finds herself on the verge of tears when he finishes but remains composed.

"It was really beautiful," she whispers. "Thank you."

They sit in silence together until Craig looks at the alarm clock on the bureau and sees how late it's gotten. He squeezes her hand, smiling gently as he does. He rises and tells her goodnight before disappearing through the door, retreating to his own private corner of the basement. He is lulled to sleep by the great silence that eclipses the room. It fills the air and weighs him down, tucking him into the refuge of the stained sofa cushions and stale patchwork quilts that tonight he calls home.

Thanks for reading! As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback.

Cheers (and Happy New Year),

TEPR