History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

“Hello?”

  “. . . One, two,” I finish. He interrupted me at an odd count—we’re not off to a good start. “It’s Griffin.”

  “Hey,” Jackson says. It’s quiet for a bit, and I can hear him breathing—short, quiet breaths you probably heard while he was sleeping. “Thanks for calling.”

  I nod like he can see me. “Everything all right?”

  “No,” Jackson says. “No point pretending anything is all right. No pressure, but are you doing anything tonight? I know this is a little weird. Yeah, it’s weird. But I wanted to throw it out there. I could really stand to get out of the house.”

  I’m not sure how I would answer this for myself. I only know what you would want me to do. “I think Theo would like that,” I say. It’s true. I know Jackson and I playing nice will make you happy, especially since we never got that right when you were alive. But agreeing to this still makes me nauseated.

  “You’re right,” Jackson says. “He would’ve.”

  “I can meet you at Theo’s. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “See you.” I hang up.

  Our conversation was three minutes and two seconds long. Better.

  I force myself out of bed. Maybe something good will come from talking to Jackson. No one gets it, Theo. The guidance counselor assures me I’ll heal with time. My cousin thinks I’m too young to be in love. Wade doesn’t know anything about love. My parents thought I was in good-enough condition to go to dinner instead of letting me hide in bed underneath my covers. I know that’s not healthy; I’m not stupid. But you and I had plans. We didn’t have a map to reach our destination, and your detour with Jackson left me very lost. Still, I held hope we’d find our way back to each other. And then you died, and now I’m left wandering around with zero sense of direction. Talking to someone else who’s lost might help.

  I throw my navy peacoat over your hoodie. I slip into some dark jeans and the worn-out, scuffed-up boots you bought me for my birthday this year—our inside joke on how stupid it feels to buy boots during May when it’s sneaker weather. Even though your call wishing me a happy birthday came a day late, the boots arrived on my birthday and they’re my favorite. Thanks again, Theo.

  My dad is fading when I walk out into the living room. He snaps awake when he sees me out of the corner of his eye. My mom is already asleep on the couch’s armrest, her feet tucked between my dad’s legs. He pats her knee.

  “I’m sleeping here,” she murmurs. She throws a sweater over her face and is a goner.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asks. “It’s almost eleven thirty.”

  “I’m meeting with—” I almost say your name. Whenever I was staying out late on weekends or non–school nights, all I had to do was tell my parents I was with you and I was home free. But I catch myself. “Jackson. I need to get out for a bit. He does, too.”

  Dad lifts my mom’s leg off his lap and gets up from the couch, covering her with a decent blanket. “Did he call you?”

  “Ellen gave me his number because he wanted to talk to me, so I called him.”

  I can tell he’s surprised, if not concerned. “Want me to drive you guys somewhere? It’s supposed to snow again any minute now.”

  “I’m in the mood for a walk, Dad. Is that okay?”

  “Your phone is charged?”

  I nod.

  Dad hugs me. He makes me promise I’ll call him if I want to be picked up, and that I’ll answer whenever he calls. Yes, yes, yes, yes . . .

  You’re going to watch me hang out with Jackson one-on-one. It feels unusual, something unrepeatable in one lifetime, like you’re on a rooftop with your two favorite people to watch Halley’s Comet streak across the sky. Except there’s no way you would’ve ever been able to have Jackson and me in the same place, not even for a comet. Instead, I’ll be walking the streets where we lived with someone who isn’t you, someone who was in love with you, too. Isn’t this the best of both worlds for someone who was torn between two boys?

  HISTORY

  Friday, September 26th, 2014

  I have no guesses as to why the guidance counselor wants to meet up with Theo at the end of the day. I bump into Wade between classes, and he has no clue, either. He shrugs it off and says we’ll find out later, but it makes me feel small not knowing. Theo is happy, right?

  It’s hard enough faking interest in seventh-period earth science. I need to know these differences between igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic rocks and other stuff for weekly quizzes and Regents exams, but I swear I paid attention to 2 percent of this afternoon’s class. I was too anxious for Theo’s news. Once the final bell rings, I completely skip going to my locker and head straight to Theo’s, and I’m relieved seeing him there already.

  “Hey,” I say, kissing him on the cheek. Everyone knows we’re dating, and it hasn’t been a big deal. A lot of our classmates spread throughout sophomore and junior year assumed we were dating back when we were still just best friends, and the freshmen crack that code easily because Theo and I arrive most mornings holding hands. It’s been really cool that our deans don’t give a damn. “What’s going on? We’re not waiting for Wade.”

  “Clearly not,” Theo says, smiling. “I’m sorry for the suspense.”

  “I’ve been totally fine,” I joke, loosening my tie.

  “Right.” Theo stops unloading his bag and leans against his locker, a picture of us on the inside, pinned by a Tetris sticker. “The guidance counselor called me in to talk to me about early admission. Spoiler alert: I have kick-ass grades across the board. I’m even beating out some seniors this month in my AP classes. Ms. Haft even used the word ‘wunderkind,’ and it took all my will not to propose right then and there.”

  “Wow. Uh, what has to happen for you to get in?”

  “They want me to write an essay before November first to submit to colleges,” Theo says. “Ms. Haft thinks I should apply to Harvard, but I really like the animation program at Santa Monica College. I have to talk to my parents about where their finances are. Dude, I could be in California by this time next year.” He closes his eyes while he leans his head against his locker, smiling and lost in this dream where he’s free of me. “Isn’t this awesome?”

  I’m not giving my face a chance to betray me, so I hug him before he can open his eyes. “You deserve this, Theo. I’ll help out any way I can.” I hope that’s not an empty offer for both our sakes.

  I’m scared, though. The possibility of Theo’s moving across the country sort of feels like it could be the beginning of the end. I was already nervous about what was going to happen to us when I enter my senior year as he begins college. Now there’s a chance he’ll be two years ahead of me. It doesn’t feel promising. I can’t beat these paranoid feelings out of my head.

  I back away, and he’s beaming. His face lights up in the same way when a trailer comes on for a new movie he’s really excited about. He has this preview in his head, and he can’t wait to see if it’s everything he’s daydreaming about.

  I smile for him. But it’s a lie. I’m not happy.

  TODAY

  Thursday, November 24th, 2016

  Now would be a good time to retreat to our zombie-apocalypse bunker, because the end of the world is here: I’m on my way to your house to pick up the person who stole you from me.

  I don’t hate Jackson, Theo. But I don’t have to be his friend. The only reason I was even friendly when I met him was because I couldn’t be an asshole. I couldn’t ever look like I was against him or wanted to sabotage your relationship. When we had our eventual reunion, you would be able to see how my love for you trumped my own happiness. But now—as vulnerable or pathetic as this sounds—Jackson is someone I’m turning to. I’m not strong enough to suffer alone.

  It’s snowing a little and freezing, and the cold air bites at my exposed neck, ears, an
d my hands when I pull out my phone to text Jackson: I’m two songs away.

  I delete the text and in its place send, I’m like six minutes away.

  Jackson wouldn’t have understood the first text; I’d only send that to you. I’m not confusing him for you, but I’m walking the usual route to reach your block. In the time it’s taking me to fight against the wind, to pass the supermarket with bikes chained to parking meters, the car rental place, the bagel spot that is stingy with their jelly, and the pet shop with the lights currently off, I’ve heard “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” by Bob Dylan twice. You knew how to measure my distance in songs. Jackson doesn’t.

  This block is legit memory lane for me, and the sudden force of it is almost too much. The spot in the street by the post office where you almost got hit by the car, leading to your broken promise of never dying; your neighbor’s stoop where we sat and cried after breaking up, wiping our tears with sleeves and each other’s hands; the front step leading into your lobby that you always forgot about, stubbing your toe at least twice; the sidewalk where we played Frisbee, waiting for the mailman to bring your letter of acceptance; the many times we got locked out, but most especially that week after we discovered sex and couldn’t get into your empty apartment; how after you moved to California I would sometimes find my lovesick self standing in front of the intercom, wishing I could press 2B and summon you down here into my arms.

  I’m not going upstairs. I’d never make it out of there. I can’t even get myself to go into the lobby.

  I text Jackson: I’m downstairs. And cold.

  Within a couple of minutes, Jackson comes rushing toward the front door, pulling a coat on top of a lighter jacket. Maybe that jacket is one he uses for those supernatural rainy days in California, days where he pulls over on the highway for life-changing boys like you.

  That wasn’t called for. Condom-over-mouth: I know the drill, Theo.

  “Hey,” I say, throwing a what’s-up nod. Jackson is a foot away, already shivering, and I almost lean in for a half-hug situation but pull back.

  “Hey.” Jackson zippers his coat and tugs a hat down over his head, some hair sticking out from the sides. “Sorry, I couldn’t find my other glove upstairs.” He slides one glove on and sticks his bare hand inside his coat pocket.

  I would’ve drop-kicked you if you returned to New York with this can’t-soldier-through-the-cold attitude.

  “Where are we off to?” he asks.

  “Not sure,” I say. “Follow me.”

  For a while I take in nothing but cars honking, the slosh of melting snow, the occasional passersby on their phones. I glance to my right, and Jackson has fallen behind, side by side with my shadow cast from a building’s beaming sensor lights. He spins, walking backward to dodge the wind. I switch from my straightforward left to his backward left. But then he flips around and I swap back to my original spot while he holds his scarf in front of his face. I’m sure I dizzied you with that dance, Theo, but Jackson has no idea what the hell is happening. We turn a corner where we’re protected a little better from the heavier winds.

  “How was dinner?” I ask him. I figure hearing it from him won’t be even a tenth as painful as hearing it from Ellen or Russell or, worse, Denise.

  “Not great,” Jackson says. “They didn’t want to sit at the table. We set up base in the living room and ordered some Chinese food. Denise put on the Disney channel, but I don’t think she was watching. I offered to bake some cornbread or brownies, but no one was really interested.”

  “Denise didn’t want to help bake?”

  “No,” he says.

  It’s even worse than I thought.

  Jackson stops in front of a shuttered deli, jump-starts again, getting a little ahead of me as if he has any clue where we should go. I speed-walk and catch up, which, given the same length of our long legs, is a bit of a race, but I win; it’s nice winning against him.

  “I shouldn’t have been there tonight,” he says. “I don’t belong.”

  No, he doesn’t. He’s that blue W-shaped piece of the Celestial Sky puzzle you and I fought over, the one I kept trying to fit into the wrong spot despite your insistence. In the puzzle that is your house, Jackson doesn’t have a space carved out for him.

  “I feel really guilty that Theo spent his last Thanksgiving with me.”

  He should feel guilty. If you had known that was going to be your last Thanksgiving, I know you would’ve come home, even if it meant carting Jackson with you like luggage full of shiny new video games—ones you’d play for a while before your interest eventually faded because you missed the classics.

  You and I have always been good about letting things go, especially things that are out of our control. I could probably throw some memories his way to prove this, but I’m hoarding them.

  I remind myself that just because someone is forgiving, it doesn’t make asking for forgiveness easy. Remember that, Theo.

  “Nothing you can do about it now,” I say after a minute.

  I brace myself against another assault of cold air, the snow in my face. I hide my hands in my sleeves, folding my arms across my chest to keep my coat close. I stop walking when Jackson falls out of vision. He tucks his gloved fist in his pocket and holds his bare hand open in front of him. It seems backward at first, but I remember doing this as a kid. This must be Jackson’s first real snowfall, and he smiles when he catches some. He closes his hand, crushing the snowflakes; wipes it on his jeans afterward; and steps toward me.

  “Can I tell you a Theo story?” Jackson asks. He’s speaking with the urgency of someone who’s been locked up inside his home all day, dying for human interaction, an urgency I understand.

  Part of me wants to say yes, the other part is screaming, Hell no.

  “I don’t want this to be weird, Griffin,” Jackson says. “We should be able to talk about Theo. If that’s impossible, we can part ways tonight and never see each other again. I’m sure that’s what everyone is betting will happen anyway.” He sounds sort of sad when he says it. He’s also one hundred percent right. “But I think we can be better than that.”

  It’s true. I know it is. It’s why I’m out here in the freezing cold on Thanksgiving night. You would want us to keep your memory alive. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell that this person—the person who asked you to stop being friends with me—would suggest a relationship of our own. I don’t know if I can stand hearing about your happiness with him, but maybe it’ll help me understand you better. Maybe it’ll help me add pieces to the puzzle of your life. Time for a test run.

  “What’s your Theo story?”

  Jackson crouches, picking up snow and forging a snowball—maybe his first, I don’t know, since there’s been snow on the ground since before your funeral—and he throws it at the wall. “Theo freaked out after I told him I’d never touched snow before. It’s kind of a lie because there’s a photo of me as a kid making a snow angel by the Brooklyn Bridge, but I don’t actually remember any of that. Theo was hoping it would snow when we came for his birthday, just so he could see me . . .” He stops himself.

  “So he could witness your first snow,” I say.

  I get it. It’s like when you finally introduced me to the original Star Wars trilogy one weekend. Watching Jedi battles was fun, and imagining myself wielding a dual lightsaber was badass, too, but my favorite moment by far was the smile on your face after pressing play on your laptop. You turned to me like I was supposed to have already formed a glowing opinion, when all I’d seen were big yellow words info-dumping me.

  Here’s where it gets tricky. Jackson’s story hurts, but only because I’ve experienced that same happiness before.

  “Follow me,” I say. I know where we’re going now. I lead him toward Lincoln Center. I have my own story to share.

  When I had you here, walking this walk with me, we held hands like no one would e
ver think there was anything off about it. We straggled to enjoy as much time away from parental supervision as possible, even when our socks were wet and our toes were cold. With Jackson, I hurry. Soon we’re at the entrance, walking across the wide, brightly lit steps. The elegant plaza and columns and grand banners promoting the latest ballet always reminded me of a setting I’d find in a fantasy novel—I told you that the first time we came here as a couple. I gravitate toward the Revson Fountain. I’d always called it the “big fountain” before you came along with your specifics. I know the flowing jets of water and lights are off because it’s winter, but there’s still a wrongness to it all, like the fountain has died and been abandoned.

  “I’m going to go ahead and guess you and Theo came here and made wishes,” Jackson says.

  For that brief moment I forgot Jackson was here. I’m about to break down and cry in front of him. I shiver, not from cold, and step away. He’s not someone I want a hug from.

  “Yeah, we made wishes. And the whole thing is kind of bullshit.” I flip off the fountain. “Look, there are so many coins in here. People actually thought their spare change could buy them stuff, like actual riches or something else. We’re all suckers.”

  Jackson stares at the water. “I always thought it was more religion than fantasy,” he says. “Ignore everyone throwing in money for more money. Everyone else is praying. Throwing a coin into a fountain is a little less disappointing than praying in some church. You go straight to the Big Man’s house, you expect results.”

  I turn to him. “Question: How the hell can you believe in God? After Theo?”

  Jackson shrugs. “I don’t spend my Sundays at church, but I’ve always taken to the idea of bigger plans. I had big plans with Theo—now I don’t. There’s got to be something to take away from this. I refuse to believe he died pointlessly.”

  “Theo didn’t die so you could personally learn some big lesson on life.” I can feel my face getting hot.

  Jackson comes closer to me, and I take a step back because I’m shaking harder and he should be nervous about being left alone with me. “That’s not what I’m saying, Griffin. That would be a complete waste. I know that; you know that. I’m just not going to give God the silent treatment because I’m pissed off Theo is dead. Theo believed in God.”