Page 78 - A Little Life: A Novel

shirt and listening to Jude tell them that he had burned his arm baking the
gougères, and that Andy had had to apply a salve.
“I told you not to make those fucking gougères,” he could hear JB say,

happily. He loved Jude’s baking.
He was overcome, then, with a powerful sensation: he could close the
door, and go to sleep, and when he woke, it would be a new year, and
everything would be wiped fresh, and he wouldn’t feel that deep, writhing
discomfort inside of him. The thought of seeing Malcolm and JB, of
interacting with them and smiling and joking, seemed suddenly
excruciating.

But, of course, see them he did, and when JB demanded they all go up to
the roof so he could get some fresh air and have a smoke, he let Malcolm
complain uselessly and halfheartedly about how cold it was without joining
in, before resignedly following the three of them up the narrow staircase
that led to the tar-papered roof.
He knew that he was sulking, and he removed himself to the back of the

building, letting the others talk without him. Above him, the sky was
already completely dark, midnight dark. If he faced north, he could see
directly beneath him the art-supply store where JB had been working part-
time since quitting the magazine a month ago, and in the distance, the
Empire State Building’s gaudy, graceless bulk, its tower aglow with a garish
blue light that made him think of gas stations, and the long drive back to his
parents’ house from Hemming’s hospital bed so many years ago.

“Guys,” he called over to the others, “it’s cold.” He wasn’t wearing his
coat; none of them were. “Let’s go.” But when he went to the door that
opened into the building’s stairwell, the handle wouldn’t turn. He tried it
again—it wouldn’t budge. They were locked out. “Fuck!” he shouted.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Jesus, Willem,” said Malcolm, startled, because Willem rarely got

angry. “Jude? Do you have the key?”
But Jude didn’t. “Fuck!” He couldn’t help himself. Everything felt so
wrong. He couldn’t look at Jude. He blamed him, which was unfair. He
blamed himself, which was more fair but which made him feel worse.
“Who’s got their phone?” But idiotically, no one had his phone: they were
down in the apartment, where they themselves should have been, were it
not for fucking JB, and for fucking Malcolm, who so unquestioningly

followed everything JB said, every stupid, half-formed idea, and for fucking