Hi there!

How many existential crises does it take to get to the center of a disillusioned octet? If you've ever asked yourself this question (surely you have!), then this is the story for you. On that note, this chapter is definitely the Big Chill-iest one so far, which is appropriate since all that's left after this is the epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed up to now. I hope you enjoy Sunday.

Happy readings!

TEPR

To Clyde's surprise, they are green as a Douglas fir. He is suddenly aware that he has never owned green shoes before and is not sure how he feels about this pair. They are a nice gesture if nothing else, he reasons. As one of the first ones up this morning, Clyde discovers the shoes on the kitchen table. There are six pairs—one for each houseguest, plus Tweek—with their names scribbled on the sides of their respective boxes in black marker. Clyde briefly considers peering into another box to see if Kyle ordered everyone a pair of green shoes, or if perhaps the footwear entrepreneur simply does not know his taste. He looks into Stan's box and finds it empty. He shrugs and puts his own shoes on, amused by the logo: the words Alaskan Maine hovering over a moose that is simultaneously majestic and cartoonish. The latter, Clyde decides, can mostly be attributed to the fact that the moose itself is wearing two pairs of Alaskan Maine running shoes on its hooves. He wonders if the animated moose on this moose's shoes having moose on their shoes, or if they're wearing shoes at all. He wonders for a moment if the moose on the side of his box go on for eternity, a never-ending string of self-producing logos. Clyde's deep thoughts are interrupted by Kyle, who appears at the kitchen door with a big grin on his face as his friend laces up.

"How do they feel?" Kyle asks, propping against the counter as he stretches. Clyde wonders if Kyle's shorts are always so short when he runs.

Clyde stands and walks purposefully around the kitchen. "Surprisingly comfortable," he replies.

"They look good on you," Kyle says. "Wanna go jogging with us? You might as well. You're wearing the appropriate footwear."

"Us?" Clyde asks.

Stan shuffles in wearing his own orange-and-white patterned running shoes. He is disappointed to see that there is not a pot of coffee waiting on him. Clyde can see that Stan has resigned himself to this atypical morning run, no doubt having been coerced into it by Kyle's relentless enthusiasm. Stan's shoes remind Clyde of a Creamsicle, and he decides that, if the footwear Kyle designs is any indication, then he is perhaps just a little bit insane.

Ultimately, Clyde joins them on their jog, unable to contrive a good reason not to do so. As they move, they discuss little of importance—mostly work. Kyle does most of the talking, and Clyde does the least, lost in his thoughts. Clyde had always enjoyed Stan's company, and though he knew it was silly, a part of him had always been jealous of Kyle back in college. Clyde was a weird kid and had few friends growing up, despite his better-than-average looks and what he considered a sharp sense of humor. It seemed like all of the other guys who did theater in high school were gay, and though he had no problem with that, Clyde could never relate to them or their boy troubles. When he met Eric in college, Clyde knew he had finally found another guy he could relate to, and he loved that. The only problem, of course, was that Eric is kind of an asshole. When Stan started hanging out with the two of them, Clyde had hoped he could shed the weight of Eric and be absorbed into Stan's other friend group, with Kyle and Wendy and all the rest. But he felt like an outsider with that group. He and Eric were always the ones relegated to the margins, and Clyde was never sure if any of them even liked him, other than Stan and Kenny.

Kenny. As he remembers his now deceased friend, Clyde drifts back to the present conversation between Kyle and Stan, in which the former is trying to convince the latter that a two-mile run each morning is just the ticket to getting out of his depressive slump.

"Why do you think Kenny did it?" Clyde suddenly asks when the conversation slows. "I mean, what the fuck? Wasn't he happy?"

"I don't know that he was ever truly happy," Kyle says, shaking his head. "I thought he was in a good place mentally—here, with Tweek and the land. He was always so unpredictable, though."

"How do you mean?" Clyde asks.

"Honestly," Kyle replies, "Bebe and I didn't know how he long he'd be here. At first he told us he just needed a place to crash for a couple of weeks while he figured some things out. We knew that wouldn't be the case but didn't see any harm in letting him stay here. We were caught off-guard the day we discovered Tweek living with him, but by that point, nothing was a surprise with him anymore. I never knew when I'd pop in for a visit whether he'd still be here. He once tried building a woodshed in the backyard. He said it was a gift for us for letting him stay there, but who's to say? For all I know, he was building it for some other strange purpose."

"Or maybe he was just building it for the hell of it," Stan chimes in. "Remember that movie review for the campus newspaper?"

"Oh, yeah!" Clyde says. "The stupid time travel movie."

"I don't remember this," Kyle says.

Stan grins. "It was this shitty sci-fi movie about how time is relative, and the twist at the end was that the entire story had been told in reverse. Kenny was so mad that he wrote his review backwards. I'll never forget the first sentence: Stupid fucking is movie this. That was the one that got him fired."

"I didn't know Kenny wrote for the newspaper," Kyle says.

"Probably because you never read it," Stan says. "You said the campus newspaper was a waste of time and money and just a way for the journalism students to feel like productive members of society. Cartman was so pissed at you for that one."

"I guess I was kind of pretentious back then."

"And a snob," Stan adds.

Kyle blushes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I was a dick in college."

Stan chuckles. "We all were, I think."

There is silence for a few seconds before Clyde speaks up again. "I was just thinking about Kenny again. I figure he must have felt like he was missing something in life. I just don't know what. He was so free, and it sounds like he was happy with Tweek. They had their land together. I don't get it."

"I don't know about Kenny," Kyle says, "but I've felt grounded by my family these last few years. Bebe and Sophie and Xavier are what make me happy. I wonder sometimes what it would be like for me if I didn't have them. I wonder if I would be half as happy as I am now. I know my work alone doesn't cut it. But I don't think that would have worked for Kenny. He was always such a loner. He was everyone's friend, but I don't know if he ever let anyone in."

Clyde nods. "That makes sense. I don't know if family is enough for anyone, though. Sometimes it's hard not to miss that freedom. I love my boys, but sometimes they're like a weight, you know? They're so awesome, and I would never give them up, but when I dwell on the thought for too long, I know that I want more out of life. I know that I can have more. I just have to wait for them to leave the nest."

Kyle considers probing further but decides against it. "It's important that you do right for yourself," he says, "but it's more important that you do right for your kids, since they depend on you." Kyle glances at Clyde, who is looking around curiously. It takes them a moment to realize that Stan has stopped running and is half a block behind them, leaning against a building for support. When they reach him, Kyle looks past his best friend's glazed eyes and sees that something is wrong.

"Dude, are you okay?" Kyle asks, putting an arm around his shoulder.

Stan takes a deep breath and shakes his head. He exhales slowly, successfully fighting off a batch of tears. Kyle shoots Clyde a look that asks him to give them a moment in private. Clyde nods, telling them he's going to head back to the house, that he knows the way. When Clyde's gone, Stan does his best to choke back tears, this time not as successful.

"Hey, it's alright," Kyle says. "Let's take a walk. I know a place we can talk in private." He leads Stan around the block to a small park, and they stroll to a bench that is far away from everything else.

When they sit, Stan takes another deep breath, and after a minute, he says, "I have a daughter."

Kyle experiences a rare moment of speechlessness as he stares at his friend. He stutters momentarily before successfully articulating a Dude, what?

Stan tells Kyle about Miranda, who just celebrated her fourth birthday last month. He tells him about Stephanie, the aspiring actress he met and knocked up at a party. He answers Kyle's questions as they come. He tells him that no, Stephanie has never once threatened to blackmail him and use his celebrity against him. He tells him that of course he gives her money—every month— because how could he not? He tells his friend that he and Miranda have a relationship but that she doesn't know he is her father. He wants to keep that part a secret, and Stephanie agreed that that was fine. That's what he used to want, at least. Now he is beginning to think that he wants to play a more active role in her life, but he knows he won't be able to un-spill the beans if he has regrets. He tells Kyle that he doesn't know what to do.

Kyle tells him that it will be okay and that he will figure it out. He tells him that Miranda is fortunate to have him as a father, whether she knows it or not. He tells him to follow his gut and that he will know when he's ready. Kyle tells him these things because they are what he is supposed to say, because there is nothing else he can say.

While Stan and Kyle chat, Clyde makes his way back to the sprawling clapboard house he has elected to call home for the weekend, far from his kids and his wife and his life. When he enters the kitchen, there is a silent tension in the air. Bebe sits at the table with Wendy, the latter fingering the new running shoes in her hands, clearly more focused on ignoring Eric, who watches them from the corner of the room awkwardly, silently fuming as he stirs his coffee. What Clyde doesn't know is that five minutes prior, when Eric entered the kitchen, he walked headfirst into a conversation about Wendy's plans for weekend insemination. From the hallway, he had heard Wendy discussing her failed attempts with Stan and Craig—Seriously, Craig? Fucking Craig?!—before bemoaning the fact that her options were looking pretty limited at this point. It was during this last sentence that Eric strolled into the kitchen, causing Wendy to stop speaking abruptly and change the subject.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you were looking for a little… help," he said as he poured a cup of coffee, placing deliberate emphasis on the final word. Wendy initially chose to ignore this remark, but when she did, he, of course, pressed her. "Perhaps I can be of service, Wendy. I am quite skilled at... certain things," he said, his pause for dramatic emphasis sounding more ridiculous than obnoxious.

"No thanks, Eric," Wendy replied, rolling her eyes.

Bebe sensed an argument on the horizon. "Maybe you could give us just a few minutes," she said to Eric, trying to avoid confrontation. It was simply too early in the morning for this.

"No, he can stay," Wendy quickly replied. "He's harmless. He just needs to mind his own business, that's all."

Eric glared at her as he poured cream into his coffee, walking across the room and realizing as he did that there was nowhere over there for him to sit. Not wanting to look like a fool or a pussy, he elected neither to join them at the table nor leave the kitchen. Instead, he stood in the corner, annoyed, his eyes piercing Wendy as he stirred his coffee for an unnecessarily long time.

It is during this time that Clyde stumbles in. "Stan and Kyle will be back in a bit," he says to break the silence. He does not know this for a fact, but he feels he needs to say something. "They decided to go on a while longer."

"Couldn't handle a little exercise, Clyde?" Eric asks spitefully, not breaking his stare.

"Made it further than you would have, you fat fuck," Clyde replies casually, grabbing a seat at the table. He looks at Wendy, who still studies her new shoes silently, and then to Bebe, whose eyes seem thankful for someone new in the room. "Where's Craig?" he asks her, for the sake of conversation. "I saw his car's gone."

"No idea," she says. "He and Tweek are MIA. Probably went to see the land again."

"I see," he says. They sit in silence for a while before Wendy finally excuses herself to shower. Once she's been gone thirty seconds, Eric decides he's waited long enough to make his point, leaving the kitchen without a word. When they're alone together, Bebe and Clyde exchange a glance before laughing hysterically, stifling their giggles as best they can.

"I wonder where they are," Bebe says between bites of celery from a rocking chair on her front porch. The vegetable doubles as a stirrer for her Bloody Mary.

"Craig's car might have broken down," Wendy says as she sips her tea.

"Oh, but surely one of them would have called." Bebe stands and walks to the edge of the porch, peering down the street, as if they might be there. "It seems sort of tacky—them just vanishing. They could have at least mentioned where they were going."

"Don't you think you're hovering a bit? They're adults. She's an adult, if that's what you're worried about."

Bebe sighs as she returns to her chair. "I don't know. It's just that Craig can be such a loose cannon sometimes."

Wendy nods. "This is true."

The screen door creaks open, and Kyle appears behind them. "The big game's in five," he says as he rubs Bebe's back. He leans in for a kiss. "Don't want to miss it, do you? Go Buffaloes!"

Bebe cocks an eyebrow at Wendy and then smiles back at her husband. "I think we're good. Thanks."

"Suit yourself!" Kyle replies as he jogs back into the house. Bebe notices that he is wearing a fan jersey from their alma mater.

"I always hated football," she says. "I was always amused at how much it engrossed the boys—well, most of them. Kenny seemed as bored by it as I was. I always found that refreshing."

"Yeah," Wendy adds, "Craig hates it, too. No doubt he'd be bitching and moaning if he was here. One time he and Kenny loudly played records for hours on end just to piss off the others while they watched the game. They were all half-drunk, so they didn't really care, but it was funny. I camped out in there with them, and we got so stoned while the music blasted. Good times. I don't know where you were."

"Studying, probably." Bebe rolls her eyes. "I was far too serious back in school. I'm glad I lightened up."

Wendy smiles. "So am I."

They retreat inside to rinse their glasses. Bebe chases her Bloody Mary with water while Wendy builds a house of cards on the kitchen table. The latter turns on NPR to drown out the sound of televised football in the next room. Bebe walks upstairs to fetch her tablet, pausing on the way back to linger in the living room, where four sets of eyes are fixed on the TV. She is amused by their arrangement: Clyde and Eric on the couch, Stan and Kyle on the love seat. At the end of the day, she muses, men are just overgrown boys. Some things never change.

When she returns to the kitchen, Bebe pauses by the window, peering outside once more, beyond the lawn and into the street, to see if maybe there is a sign of life. But there is not. She goes to the radio and changes the station.

"I'm sorry, Wendy, but the talk radio is killing me." She lands on an "oldies" alt rock station that is playing Nirvana. She debates how she feels about the music of the '90s being "old" now. A part of her hates it, of course, but another part can't help but feel accomplished, amazed by the fact that she's made it this far and lasted this long.

When the men begin shuffling in for more beer and Doritos, Wendy knows it must be half-time. Inevitably, while Bebe is away starting a load of laundry and after the others have come and gone, Eric pops in a couple of minutes before the third quarter starts.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning," he says. "It was really insensitive of me."

"Don't worry about it," Wendy says, not looking up from her nineteenth attempt at a card house. "We both acted like assholes." She says this, of course, not because she believes it to be true but because she wants to devote as little time over the rest of the weekend to speaking to Eric as humanly possible. Avoiding confrontation, she reasons, is probably her best course of action henceforth.

"I know how hard this all must be for you," he continues, laying on the sympathy pretty thickly. "It's almost tragic: a woman on a ticking clock who wants more than anything to have a baby, but every time she tries, it doesn't work out. I hate to see you suffer like that, Wendy, and I want you to know that I'm still willing to 'help out' if you want to reconsider my offer from earlier."

Her hands stop building, and she assassinates him with her eyes. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious," he says, walking closer. "You have a demand, and I have the supply that you apparently can't get from anyone else. It's simply economics, Wendy."

She rises, placing her hands firmly on the table. Card house #19, regrettably, is a casualty of this maneuver.

"Fuck. Off. Eric." She says each word purposefully, pointedly.

His eyes stare into hers for several seconds as he ponders her. Finally, he says nothing and storms off, convincing himself he does not need to miss any of the game.

Halfway through the sluggish fourth quarter, Kyle sees the flashing lights while he rummages through the refrigerator for a pick-me-up. Because the sirens aren't blaring, he does not actually notice until both cars have pulled into the driveway, Craig's beater followed by the police cruiser.

Kyle exchanges a glance with Wendy. They dash outside to find Craig standing in front of his car, arms crossed over his chest. Tweek is still in the passenger seat with the door closed. As the others flow out of the house to see what's happening, a female officer approaches the front porch.

"Afternoon, Kyle," she says.

"What's going on, Bev?"

"This delinquent a friend over yours?" she asks, nodding toward Craig.

"He's staying with me for the weekend. We had a funeral. What did he do?"

"I just blew through a fucking stop sign. That's all," Craig says, incredibly defensive.

"I pulled him over," Bev says, "because he failed to properly stop. I wasn't planning on giving him a citation because he's not from around here, but he has such an attitude on him that now I'm not so sure. When he told me he was a friend of yours, I just had to see it for myself."

"What, is Kyle too good to associate with petty criminals?" Craig says.

"Jesus, Craig, will you shut up?" Kyle snaps. "Look, Bev," he says to the officer, "I'm sorry about this. He's having a hard time. The guy who died was a really good friend of his, and a really good friend of mine."

Bev looks over at the assembled group on the porch. "Is that Stan Marsh?" she asks.

Kyle sighs. "Yeah, he's a friend of ours from college. Flew in from L.A. to be with us this weekend." Stan begins walking over, and Kyle fears he'll make the situation worse. "Maybe you could just let my friend Craig off with a warning?" he quickly adds.

"I'll tell you what," Bev says to Stan, crossing her arms. "My little boy's a big fan of your movies. If I can get your autograph for him, I think we can call it square. How's that sound?"

Kyle looks at Stan, who is nodding in agreement. "That would be excellent. Thank you!" Kyle says.

As Bev continues to chat with the movie star, Kyle walks over to Craig, who is still standing against his car, now staring off icily into the horizon.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Kyle asks, his temper beginning to flare.

"What's it to you?" Craig replies, not making eye contact. "And when did you become so buddy-buddy with cops?"

"Hey, asshole," Kyle says, grabbing him. "That cop happens to be a friend of ours. Twice she's prevented us from being ripped off while we weren't in town. She's just doing her job, which I might add she's damn good at. There's no reason for you to act like a dick."

"I don't need this shit," Craig says as he marches off to the house, flipping Kyle off as he walks.

Kyle shakes his head in disbelief and glances back at the car. Tweek is still sitting in the front passenger seat, her knees up to her chest. She looks like she's coming down from a panic attack. Kyle knows from experience that it's best to let her come down naturally and that she'll be better soon enough.

He returns to the house himself, waving his hand in appreciation toward Bev. She nods back, grinning as she continues chatting with Stan. Bebe, Wendy, and Clyde follow Kyle back into the house. Eric, seeing an opportunity to help a Tweek in need, approaches the passenger side of Craig's car and gently knocks on the window. When she looks up to acknowledge him, he gives a friendly wave. She opens the door cautiously.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," she says.

"Are you okay?" he says. "You look a little shaken up."

"I'm fine," she whispers.

"It's okay, really," he adds, crouching down beside her. "You can tell me. I have all the time in the world to listen."

Tweek takes a breath and thinks about how much she hates it all. She hates cops; they have never been her friend. She hates seeing Craig, who she really enjoys, and Kyle, her mostly gracious host, fighting. She hates when people fight, in general. She hates how much she likes Craig this soon after Kenny's death. She hates that a part of her wants to sleep with Craig, though a larger part just wants to be with him all the time. She hates that, up until the cop starting tailing them, she had been having the best day she's had in a couple of weeks, that sitting with Craig and talking and drinking cheap wine in the makeshift living room of the old house on the property made her happier than she's been in a long time. She hates that after tomorrow, she'll probably never see Craig again. She hates herself for thinking these things, and when Eric Cartman gently rests his hand on her knee in a gesture of kind solidarity, she hates him for pretending to understand what she's going through and preying on her sentiments in a moment of presumed vulnerability. She hates him for it a great deal, in fact.

"Don't touch me!" she snaps.

"I'm sorry," he says, pulling away quickly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Move," she says, trying to get out of the car. Eric quickly stands and backs away so as not to be plowed down. "I don't know what kinds of ideas you have about me and you, but you can hang it up. I'm not some princess that needs saving."

Tweek marches back into the house, leaving Eric alone the front lawn. He waits thirty seconds to walk back in himself, wanting to preserve at least a modicum of dignity.

By the time Eric begins what he imagines to be a sexless walk of shame, Stan and Bev have drifted to the side of the house, unseen by anyone else. After Stan gives the officer his autograph, she sticks her tongue down his throat, and he rubs her through the crotch of her slacks. They move like that for a minute, their hands roaming freely, out of eyesight of houseguests or neighbors. After giving his half-hard cock a long, firm squeeze through his jeans, Bev asks Stan for his number. He complies.

"I expect something good to happen before you leave town," she says when she turns away.

"Or what, Officer?" he asks, returning her flirtation.

"Or I might just have to lock you up for a long, long time," she replies, winking as she retreats to her cruiser.

Stan floats back into the house on a hazy cloud of hormones, giddiness, and preemptive regret. Especially after last night's bizarre encounter with Wendy, Stan assumed there would be zero chance of him getting laid this weekend, but now it seems the sex gods are smiling down in his favor. He mulls it over for a moment but ultimately decides he does not feel guilty for wanting to fuck this cop, nor should he. He owes nothing to Wendy, particularly not a baby.

From this vantage point, it seems serendipitous that Bebe had offered to wash the dress shirt Stan spilled white wine on yesterday evening. It's nothing, she told him as she threw the shirt on top of her laundry basket. I'm washing a load, anyway. How serendipitous indeed. The intellectual part of him knows it is stupid, but he considers this his lucky shirt, and it is. He is sure that if an accountant or Rain Man or even someone like Kyle tallied it up, they'd find that this shirt has brought Stan sex more often than not. If he has his way, it will do so again tonight.

He knocks on the door to the bedroom politely when he sees Bebe on the phone with her back turned. He enters the room, and Wendy gives him a little wave from the bed. Bebe turns around and looks thoroughly exasperated.

"No," she says to the phone, "you may not spend three entire weeks in Ann Arbor with Jennifer's family." And then: "It was very considerate of them to invite you, but your father and I would like to spend some time with you during the break, my darling."

Bebe nods to a clothes hanger on the closet door knob, where Stan's freshly pressed shirt is suspended inches above the ground. He walks to it and takes it, nodding appreciatively in Bebe's direction.

Wendy watches Bebe as she talks with her daughter. Before Stan interrupted, Wendy had been envying this conversation. She knows, on an intellectual level, that having children is difficult and brings with it many challenges. She knows this secondhand from Bebe, who has relayed to her in great detail many of the frustrations that Sophie and, more recently, Xavier, have brought with them. Despite that, Wendy knows more than anything that she wants a child, warts and all. She has entertained the glamorous thoughts of motherhood, but she is also prepared to bear the brunt of it.

"Your turn," Bebe says, walking over and pushing the phone in Wendy's direction. "I can't talk to her when she's like this."

Wendy takes the phone and clears her throat. "How are you doing, Sophie?" she asks, as though she had not just heard the argument that unfolded. She listens intently as Sophie fills her in on the high points. When she has a moment to get a word in, she does. She tells her what Bebe couldn't because that's how kids are: the wisdom of adults is okay as long as those adults are not the ones raising you.

Bebe smiles. Though she can no longer hear what Sophie is saying, she can tell by Wendy's laughing that her daughter, as is often the case, did a 180 when her "aunt" took the phone. As she continues to watch and listen, Bebe feels happy that Wendy is so good with Sophie but then feels sad at her friend's predicament, at what she has tried and so far failed to accomplish this weekend with the eligible bachelors of the house. She will have to think it over a little while longer, but Bebe knows on a primitive level that she must intervene. She just has to find the right time to do what needs to be done.

Dinner, Kyle observes, starts more quietly than yesterday. There's a certain—what's the word?—joie de vivre missing, and he thinks it has something to do with the high tensions in the house. Personally, he hopes that he can avoid further confrontation with Craig but isn't holding his breath on that one. Additionally, there is some awkwardness between Stan and Wendy, who also seems to be growing increasingly annoyed with Eric—but who isn't? Even Tweek seems irritated by him, and Kyle wonders what offensive thing Eric has no doubt said to offend her this weekend. Milling about in his thoughts, Kyle does not realize how silent the room has become until Eric pipes up, piercing the air across the room.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Tweek?" he says, piquing the curiosity of everyone at the table.

Tweek shrugs, seemingly cool, though Kyle can see through her. The fingers of her left hand tapping against the table, he has observed over time, is an indication of her nervousness.

"What was it like, finding him?" Eric asks.

Tweek takes a breath and closes her eyes. She remembers the bathtub, the awfulness of it. "Not as bad as you'd think," she says. "But it was bad, you know?"

He leans forward. "How so?"

She starts to speak but then stops. "I'm sorry. This is weird. Can someone else do this? I don't like talking about myself as much as you guys do."

"I suppose that's fair," he says with a tinge of condescension.

"Has anyone seen any good movies lately?" Clyde asks after a moment. "I feel like I haven't gone to see a movie in forever."

"Why does everyone keep doing that?" Stan asks, annoyed, speaking for the first time since he arrived at the table.

"Doing what?" Clyde asks, a bit surprised by his friend's outburst.

"Every time we start talking about Kenny, someone changes the subject."

"It's a dead subject," Craig deadpans.

Stan glares at him. "I'm fucking serious. We're all here together this weekend, and we're supposed to be remembering him and paying homage to his memory. Instead, we've avoided thinking and talking about him whenever possible. I don't fucking get it. He was our friend."

"That's not fair," Clyde says. "I can't stop thinking about him."

"Neither can I," says Tweek quietly, silencing the room. "He was everything to me."

Kyle, fearing an argument on the horizon, tries to provide a voice of reason to corral the others.

"Not everyone grieves in the same way, Stan," he says. "I think sometimes we joke or change the subject because that's all we know how to do."

Bebe nods in agreement. "It's not easy for any of us. We're angry, and we're hurting. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I feel guilty, too. Sometimes I find myself wondering who Kenny even was these last few years."

"Same here," Wendy says. "I only lived a few hours away, and not once did I visit him after he moved here. It makes me feel like shit."

Kyle tries to bring it full circle. "We're all feeling this complicated mess of emotions, and it's hard because we're all still trying to process his death."

"I think that's a crock of shit," Craig says bitterly. "Everyone needs to stop patting themselves on the back and call it like it is. For most of us, Kenny was nobody anymore. He died a long time ago. That's what we need to be acknowledging."

"Fuck you, asshole," Stan snaps. "You're a crock of shit."

"That is so cynical, Craig," Wendy says. "You, of all people, should know that's not true."

"Should I?" he asks. "How well do you really know me, Wendy? How well do any of you know each other? Face it: it's a cold world out there, and at the end of the day, it's every man for himself. We can all pretend we're the best of friends, but the truth is, we knew each other a long time ago for a very short period of time. That's it. I feel no more connection to you people than I do the pariahs begging for change on the streets."

"What the hell happened to you?" Wendy says, disappointed. "You're better than this, Craig."

Kyle buries his face in his hands. "Can we please stop fighting? Please?"

Craig stands. "Fuck you, Kyle. You can't just sweep everything under the rug whenever something doesn't go your way. And fuck the rest of you, too." He pushes in his chair and storms out of the house.

"Goddamnit," Tweek whispers, sighing as she follows him a few seconds later.

It is a long eight seconds before Eric breaks the silence. "I know what Kenny would say if he was here," he says. "This calls for a good old fashioned orgy."

This is elicits a snort from Clyde, and after a moment, Wendy starts laughing. Bebe stands and stretches, grabbing a near-empty casserole dish.

"Could you give me a hand with something in the kitchen, honey?" she asks her husband. When they are alone, she sets the dish down and pulls him with her to the pantry. She pushes her face into his and slips her tongue into his mouth. "I need to ask a favor of you," she whispers as she kisses him. "It's okay to say no, but I hope you say yes."

"What's the point to any of it?" Stan asks as he passes the bottle of merlot to Clyde, who swigs from it liberally before passing it to Eric.

"There is no point," Clyde says. "That is the point." He is impressed by his own depth.

"You two are killing me," Eric says. "Of course there's a point! The point is to have fun and get laid as much as possible. Lots of booze, lots of chicks, lots of fun. What's not to love?"

"Sounds like a really fulfilling life," Stan says as he rolls his eyes and finishes off the bottle.

Eric snorts. "Excuse me, Mr. High and Mighty. I'm sorry I don't feel as guilty about my success as you do."

"Yeah, Stan, lighten up," Clyde adds. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying the good life."

Stan knows he's wasting his time with these two. Kyle is the only person he can really talk to about this stuff, and sometimes he forgets that. He checks his phone: nothing. He sighs and decides to approach the conversation from a different angle.

"This weekend has just put everything into focus for me," he says. "I mean, what did Kenny's life really add up to?"

Eric shakes his head. "So much wasted potential."

"Yes," Stan says, "that's my point! What if I'm next? What if my plane drops out of the sky tomorrow? What if yours does? Or yours, Clyde? I can't help but feel that no matter what I do, I'm never going to be my best self. Sometimes it just feels like everything sucks, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Oh, god," Eric says. "Here we go with this shit again."

"I know what you need," Clyde says to Stan. "You need to get laid. Always work for me."

Stan scoffs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Stan checks his phone again. To his delight, a new message has materialized: Shift just ended. Wanna meet somewhere, Commander?

Yes, please.

He clears his throat and stands. "I think I'll do that, then." He retrieves his jacket from where it's draped on an armchair.

"Whoa," Eric says. "Just like that? Where the fuck are you going?"

"I think he's going to bone the lady cop," Clyde says matter-of-factly.

"Dude, seriously?!" Eric asks.

Stan ignores them and leaves the room. As he approaches the front door, he encounters his best friend at the landing of the stairs.

"Going out?" Kyle asks.

Stan nods. "Going to pay a visit to Officer Bev. I wanna do my part to support local law enforcement."

Kyle laughs, shaking his head. "Salud, my friend. You have a spare key to let yourself back in?"

Stan retrieves his keys from this pocket and jingles them casually in Kyle's direction.

"Send my regards," Kyle adds, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Stan playfully flicks him off as he lets himself out, locking the door behind him.

Kyle takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he is about to do. In their years of marriage, Kyle has allowed himself to stop being surprised by the things Bebe says and does that he once considered outside the norm. That was, of course, before he was ever in a serious relationship or had children, back when all he knew was the extraordinarily narrow lens through which he viewed the world. Time had undoubtedly changed him, though, just as it changes everyone. Over the years, Kyle has particularly found himself espousing more liberal views of sexuality. Granted, he does not think about his own sexuality all that often, relatively speaking. Tonight, though, is one of those nights when he is compelled to confront his sexuality mano a mano, prepared to vanquish it like a wild animal that is eager to lurch forward and rip out his throat at any moment. Kyle is not sure if this imagery is helpful or harmful as he knocks on the guest bedroom door, clad only in his bathrobe.

"Come in," he hears her say from the other side. He does.

"I'm not wearing anything," Wendy says from under the covers. "I thought you might want to know that."

Kyle closes the door behind him. "Good to know," he says, clearing his throat. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asks her.

"Like I'm definitely ovulating."

He laughs and that, and so does she.

"Sorry, that was obviously not what you were asking."

He chuckles. "It's fine. But you're good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," she says, contentedly. "This isn't weird for you, is it?"

Kyle ponders the question before answering honestly. "A little, but I'm okay with that."

"Fair enough," she says, leaning forward to give him a light kiss on the lips. He reciprocates after only a split second's hesitation. "To be honest," she continues, "it feels like I got a really great deal on a used car."

He chuckles and sheds his robe before slipping under the sheets beside her. They fumble like teenagers, curious and the slightest bit hesitant, but better equipped than they were back then. They slip into one another and make music while the moon sings.

On the floor in her room in the basement, Craig apologizes to Tweek for being an asshole today, for being an asshole always. She grabs his hand in a show of solidarity, not letting go when he initially tries to retract. To her surprise, he does not protest their handholding further.

"I didn't mean to freak you out," he says. "I didn't realize you have a thing about cops."

She shakes her head. "It's fine, really. People like me, we just have to watch ourselves. Cops aren't always a safe haven. It can be scary. I've heard stories, you know—cops raping trans women and shit like that. It's really messed up, but it happens more than you'd think."

"Shit. I'm really sorry to hear that."

She moves closer to him and rests her head on his chest. She listens to him breathe for a minute before asking, "Did you mean what you said at dinner, about not caring about the others?"

"Yes," he says. "I probably shouldn't have said it, but it's the truth."

"That makes me sad."

"Why's that?"

"Because I want you to be happier. I want all of you to be happier."

"Are you a happy person?"

She shakes her head. "Not usually. I haven't met a whole lot of happy people in my life. I don't know what they're like."

He nods. "I'm sorry if what I said at dinner offended you—about Kenny, I mean."

"It didn't offend me. It just made me sad. We all have problems." She sighs and moves closer. They sit in silence until she asks him to tell her the story of how he met Kenny.

"Oh, man," Craig says, genuinely smiling for the first time since they left the property this afternoon. "It was crazy. There was this protest in front of the student union, not a very common thing where we went to school. Student housing prices were doubling, or something crazy like that. I decided to join the protest because fuck that shit. I didn't have a lot of friends back then; some things never change, I guess. Anyway, there were all these people, and nobody really knew what we were doing, and then all of a sudden, there's this crazy guy coming at us, shaggy blonde hair blowing in the wind, butt fucking naked running across the quad. When he got to where the rest of us were, he shouted something like fuck this place, and I could tell he was on something. It didn't take long for the campus police to come nab him, which sucked because I knew this was someone I definitely wanted to get to know better. Luckily, I recognized him. He was the guy who re-shelved books on the second floor of the library, back where people used to like to fool around. To be honest, I think he just enjoyed being a peeping tom, and that gave him a good excuse to do that."

Tweek smiles. "That sounds like Kenny."

"Why did you want me to tell you that story, anyway?"

"Kenny once told me that the day he met Craig Tucker was the single greatest day of his life. I asked him whether it was that day in particular that was special or if it was special because it led to him knowing you."

"What'd he say to that?" Craig asks.

"He just shrugged."

"Sounds like Kenny."

Tweek looks at Craig for a moment and climbs up onto the bed. She looks down at him, and he follows suit, taking a seat beside her on the mattress.

"I shouldn't have said those things at dinner," he tells her. "Kenny was my best friend. We grew apart, but I still cared for him, in a way. I'd occasionally wonder where he was or what he might be up to. None of the rest of these people really meant all that much to me. I always liked Test, but not really the way she liked me. I wasn't into women as much back then. Until I met my wife, I definitely preferred guys."

"Really?" Tweek asks, leaning forward. "Did you and Kenny ever have sex?"

"Once, right after we graduated. We were drunk that night. He was kinda terrible, to be honest."

Tweek blushes. "He must have gotten better over time."

Craig laughs. "Glad to hear."

"I'm not surprised you had sex. He never said as much, but the way he talked about you, it almost sounded like he was in love with you."

Craig nods. "In a way, I think that's true. And I guess I was sort of in love with him, too. But it wasn't really about sex or anything like that. What I felt for him—he was more like a brother, a brother I was in love with, I guess. That's a little fucked up, but it's how life is sometimes. Kenny and I had something real, whatever it was. We thought we were onto something. We hung out with Stan and Test, but they never really got it, you know? It was like they were outsiders, pretending. And the rest of them are fine, I guess. This is kind of fucked up, but if there's anyone I can say this to now, it's you: a couple of times this weekend I have wished it was one of the others who killed himself instead of Kenny. Maybe Clyde, or Eric. Kenny was the wrong one, the best one. It just doesn't seem fair. I know that's stupid because it was a suicide, but you know what I mean, right?"

"I know exactly what you mean," she says. She slips her arm around him, almost protectively, and rests her head on his chest again. She grabs her phone and puts on Pandora. They sit like that, music washing over them, until they both want to sleep but also don't. Eventually she reclines on her back, and he takes his place beside her. He grabs her hand and begins to drift off. Soon enough, for a little while, they are both someplace better.

Upstairs in the living room, Clyde also sleeps on his back, sprawled across a love seat with his legs dangling off the end. He snores more loudly than anyone Bebe has heard snore before.

"I wonder if he has some kind of sinus problem," she ponders aloud.

"Nah," replies Eric. "He always sleeps like that. I got used to it when we roomed together junior year."

Bebe, in her half-drunk, half-high state on the couch, cannot help but marvel at how tolerable Eric is when it's just the two of them like this. Not that she finds him as insufferable as Kyle and some of the others make him out to be. In a way, Bebe has always appreciated Eric's comparatively brash behavior. He is generally savvy enough to avoid being crass and aware of just how far he can push someone's buttons before they break. Bebe can't help but admire that quality in him, if she's completely honest with herself.

"The house is weird tonight," he says. "There is sex happening. I can feel it."

Bebe snorts. "You can 'feel' it?"

"There is most definitely sex in the air. It's intangible, but it's there. I can sense it, like an aura."

Bebe shakes her head and chuckles, but maybe Eric does have a sixth sense; they seem to be the only two unfazed by the sexual energy that hangs thick in the air like a fog of molasses. Wendy and Kyle, for the sake of this very special occasion, have obviously given into it. Neither Craig nor Tweek is particularly interested in sex tonight, but this fact bonds them closer together than any sort of physical intimacy might. Stan, in absentia, has surrendered himself to this sexual energy three times this evening already—a record since sophomore year of college—just as he surrounded to Officer Bev when she restrained him in her bedroom with a pair of police-issue handcuffs: being sexy in public, third degree. Even Clyde, in his dreams, has escaped to a more desirable locale, plowing Claudia the nanny in the back room of a bowling alley while his sons rampage through the arcade with their mother.

"The sexual tension is so high," Eric continues, "that I might surrender to it myself." He clears his throat and scoots closer. "Well, hello there, Bebe," he jokes.

She laughs, and he takes the chance to segue the conversation. He mentions the same "investment opportunity" to her that Kyle enthusiastically shot down during the repast. She laughs again, this time with a tinge of pity for his desperation. She tells him good night and leaves him there. Flanked by a snoring Clyde, Eric thinks that, all things considered, being here in this house, surrounded by all of these ghosts, is not such a bad way to pass a weekend.

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. Stay tuned for the riveting epilogue!

Cheers,

TEPR