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Almost nobody knew just how Eli Cash had become such a permanent fixture in the Tenenbaum household. Most assumed Eli must have been in Richie's class at school. This assumption was patently false. In fact, Richie was a year below Eli, and he'd known nothing of Eli Cash except for his name the first time Eli had shown up on the doorstep at 111 Archer Avenue. Eli and Richie were actually the only ones who ever knew Eli's claim of being Richie's friend from school had been a lie. But the false claim had become the truth in not so very long, because Eli had already known Richie well enough to know that Richie never would have called Eli on his lie. Unlike the Tenenbaum children, Eli had never been a prodigy at anything. He had never even been much good at anything until he had discovered his talent for lying that day he had mustered up the courage to knock on the Tenebaum's front door. It had been a turning point in his life in more ways than one. Nevertheless, getting up the courage to knock on the same door was considerably harder the second time around, over two decades later. Etheline was the one who finally answered the door, dark glasses perched on top of her head. "Eli. Come in." "I'd actually rather not until you know why I'm here," Eli said, pushing his hair back with one hand. Etheline glanced at the bags at his feet. "Did you need to stay for a while?" Eli nodded. "If it wouldn't be an inconvenience." "Of course not," Etheline said. She opened the door further to let Eli in. "You can stay in Richie's room." "Richie's room?" "Yes. He's not staying here anymore," Etheline said, and started up the stairs.
Eli was lying in Richie's bed and staring at the wall murals when Margot came in and leaned against the doorframe. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Looking at the walls. I never really paid much attention to them before." "No, I mean what are you doing here." "I don't know," Eli said. "Yes, you do." Margot crossed the room and lay down next to him. "I can give you his address, you know." "Your mother already gave it to me." Margot shifted onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. "And what? Were you waiting for approval?" "Do I need it?" he asked quietly. "Not from me," she said. She picked at the blanket for a minute. "So how's your writing going?" "Really well," he said. Then, "I heard about your play. I'm sorry I missed getting to see it." She smiled. "No, you're not. But it's okay. I never read your last book."
It had been four months to the day since they'd last seen each other when Eli knocked on Richie's front door. Richie interrupted Eli just after the shave but right before the haircut, because he had been on his way out at that exact moment. Eli knocked twice on Richie's chest before registering the change and turning to see Richie. "You're back," Richie said. "You moved," Eli replied. For a long, silent moment, that seemed all they would say. But then Richie made an aborted motion toward Eli's head. "Where's your hat?" Eli shrugged, fringeless jacket putting up no swaying protest at the movement. He squinted as he looked up at the sky. "I went to Wounded Knee while I was in the Dakotas," he said by way of explanation. "Oh," Richie said. "Yeah," Eli agreed, and looked back at Richie. Then he took two steps forward and dropped his forehead to rest on Richie's shoulder. "I haven't written anything in six months." Richie said nothing, but he raised his arms from his sides to wrap them around Eli. Richie didn’t make it to his appointment that day, and Eli never even knew he'd had one to miss.
Eli finished one page and passed it to Richie, who read it quickly and started drawing in the margins with precise, bold pen strokes. "What was the first story you ever wrote?" Richie asked. Eli thought for a moment. "It was about a little Apache boy growing up in a white neighborhood. When the kids on his block played Cowboys and Indians, they always made him be the Indian, even though he really wanted to be one of the cowboys." "So what happened?" Richie asked. "One of the cowboys got hold of his father's gun and accidentally shot the Indian kid." Richie stopped drawing. "He died?" "Yeah," Eli said. "That's terrible." "I know." Eli started writing on a fresh sheet of paper. "This story will end better."
Eli had been staying at Richie's apartment for five days when his things began disappearing from the Tenenbaum household. It started with an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush and continued until there was no discernible trace of him left in Eli's old room. Instead, his clothing slowly filled Richie's nearly empty coat closet, and his toiletries took up residence in the half-bath off the living room. They ate breakfast together in the mornings and watched bad soap operas during the afternoons. While he was writing a short story for Richie to illustrate, Eli joked about getting a job as a soap writer. Making dinner one night, Richie mentioned starting a tennis program for children. They talked about Richie's family often. They didn't discuss their current living situation. The closest they came to talking about it was during the first week of August when Richie asked, "Are you going to go back to the university this fall?" "No," Eli said, and started making the couch up for bed. "I resigned before I went to rehab. I don't think they were ever going to give me tenure, anyway."
Richie woke up one night to find Eli sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his bed. "What is it?" he asked, voice rough with sleep. Eli reached up and ran his thumb across Richie's left eyebrow. "Your eyelids look really fragile when you're asleep," he whispered, like he was afraid of waking someone else. "Do they?" "Yeah. Also, I'm in love with you," Eli said. His hand was still resting on Richie's cheek, so he could feel the smile begin before he saw it. "I know," Richie said. "Margot told you, didn't she?" "She didn't tell me anything I didn't already know." Richie wrapped his hand around Eli's wrist. "Do you want to sleep in here tonight?" he asked. Eli finally smiled back. "If it wouldn't be an inconvenience." "Not at all," Richie said, and pulled back the covers. End.
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