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needs me right now. Philippe dumped
him right before Christmas, and Bryn’s been in an alcohol-fueled funk ever
since. He keeps refusing to eat, but I’m not giving up.” The concern in
Augustine’s big blue eyes looked genuine.
    “Why on earth would
Philippe dump him? Those two were totally in love. Did you do something to
break them up?” Joey wanted to know.
    “Why do you assume
everything is always my fault?” Augustine asked, hands on his hips like a
petulant child.
    “Because everything is
always your fault,” Joey said, laying a few strips of bacon in the pan. “And do
you really not know that the L and T stand for lettuce and tomato? See if you
can find some. And toast a couple slices of bread, if you think you can manage
that without burning the house down.”
    “I can’t, actually. I
ruined the toaster,” Augustine admitted.
    “How is that even possible?”
Joey asked, finding a loaf of bread himself and turning on the oven.
    “I tried to make a
grilled cheese sandwich in it. It caught on fire. I had to toss it out in the
backyard to keep from burning the house down.”
    Joey rolled his eyes
and put a couple slices of bread in the oven as Alastair and I took seats at
the breakfast bar to get out of their way.
    “Is there some reason
you’re dressed like a deranged Christmas elf?” I asked.
    Augustine sighed
dramatically. “The pajamas are Bryn’s, of course. I’ve been here for three
days. I wasn’t going to go home for any of my things and leave him unattended.”
    “So, did Bryn actually
call you when Philippe left?” I asked Augustine.
    “Yes.”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “To cuss me out,” he
said.
    “Because the breakup was
somehow your fault?” Joey asked.
    “Not…directly,”
Augustine said. He produced a big head of lettuce from the fridge and said,
“What should I do with this?”
    “I have a suggestion,”
Joey muttered, turning the bacon over in the skillet.
    “Tear off a few leaves
and wash them, then shake them out and set them to dry. Do you really not know
that?” I asked Augustine.
    He looked at me
levelly. “Do you know how many centuries it’s been since I’ve had a reason to
be around food? And even then, I had people to cook for me, I didn’t do it
myself.” I raised an eyebrow at him and he went and did as I said.
    I glanced at Alastair.
He’d remained silent since we got here, his eyes never leaving Augustine. And
after initially staring at Alastair in horror, it seemed Augustine was now doing
the opposite, trying to avoid looking at his progeny at all costs. He was
concentrating on slicing a tomato at the moment, using a ceramic plate as a
cutting board and pretty much totally botching the job.
    Augustine sliced into
his finger and swore vividly, dropping the knife with a clatter. And Alastair
was at his side in an instant, taking Augustine’s hand and pressing a clean
towel to the wound as he asked, “You ok?”
    “Oh God,” Augustine
murmured, pulling his hand away and turning his back on Alastair. “Don’t be
nice to me. I can’t bear it.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I hate myself
for what I did to you,” Augustine said quietly. “And I hate that it actually worked .
You’ve forgotten how much you despise me, and I feel guilty as hell about it,
Alastair.”
    “As if you’re capable
of guilt,” Joey muttered, pulling the pan off the stove.
    “Look, I need to get
back to Bryn. He’s been unsupervised for almost half an hour. So can we save
the discussion about my alleged lack of remorse for later?” Augustine asked,
pulling the towel off his hand. The cut had healed completely, and he washed
his hands quickly as Joey sliced another tomato and assembled the sandwich expertly.
    We all cued up to climb
the back staircase to Bryn’s third floor bedroom, and Augustine said, “Be
forewarned. We’re going to find one of two people up there. Either manic Bryn, destroying
everything in a blind rage, or depressed Bryn, slumped in bed