Page 565 - A Little Life: A Novel

So many people there hadn’t seen one another in so many years that it
was a very busy party, the kind of party they had gone to when they were
young, with people shouting at one another over the music that one of

Richard’s assistants, an amateur DJ, was playing, and a few hours into it he
was exhausted, and leaned against the northern wall of the space to watch
everyone dance. In the middle of the scrum he could see Willem dancing
with Julia, and he smiled, watching them, before noticing that Harold was
standing on the other side of the room, watching them as well, smiling as
well. Harold saw him, then, and raised his glass to him, and he raised his in
return, and then watched as Harold worked his way toward him.

“Good party,” Harold shouted into his ear.
“It’s mostly Richard’s doing,” he shouted back, but as he was about to
say something else, the music became louder, and he and Harold looked at
each other and laughed and shrugged. For a while they simply stood, both
of them smiling, watching the dancers heave and blur before them. He was
tired, he was in pain, but it didn’t matter; his tiredness felt like something

sweet and warm, his pain was familiar and expected, and in those moments
he was aware that he was capable of joyfulness, that life was honeyed. Then
the music turned, grew dreamy and slow, and Harold yelled that he was
going to reclaim Julia from Willem’s clutches.
“Go,” he told him, but before Harold left him, something made him reach
out and put his arms around him, which was the first time he had
voluntarily touched Harold since the incident with Caleb. He could see that

Harold was stunned, and then delighted, and he felt guilt course through
him, and moved away as quickly as he could, shooing Harold onto the
dance floor as he did.
There was a nest of cotton-stuffed burlap sacks in one of the corners,
which Richard had put down for people to lounge against, and he was
headed toward them when Willem appeared, and grabbed his hand. “Come

dance with me,” he said.
“Willem,” he admonished him, smiling, “you know I can’t dance.”
Willem looked at him then, appraisingly. “Come with me,” he said, and
he followed Willem toward the east end of the loft, and to the bathroom,
where Willem pulled him inside and closed and locked the door behind
them, placing his drink on the edge of the sink. They could still hear the
music—a song that had been popular when they were in college,

embarrassing and yet somehow moving in its unapologetic sentimentalism,