History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

  “I don’t need you to tell me what Theo believed in,” I snap. I’m sorry, Theo. I should apologize to him, not just to you. “Sorry, I’m . . . I’m in a bad place and . . .” I don’t understand why he would be talking to God for comfort when he could be talking to you. “I should have known this, but being back here without Theo sucks.”

  “Yeah. It’s one of the reasons I’m not excited to go back home.” Jackson turns back to the fountain. “I know it’s taboo to share, but what would you wish for?”

  “I know you’re more interested in what Theo would wish for,” I say.

  “That would require resurrection,” Jackson says.

  “I guess it’s not that taboo to share,” I say. Some of my wishes would also require a resurrection to come true.

  I tell Jackson some of the things I wished for, like your mom’s good health when she had that breast cancer scare. How I wanted you so badly to have a scholarship so your parents would have more money in their pockets to fly you back and forth to New York whenever you missed home. I don’t tell Jackson about some of the other wishes I made, like on this past New Year’s Eve, where I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe because I was wishing you would call at midnight and tell me you missed me and loved me and would come back to me and be mine again someday soon.

  “That was really nice of you,” Jackson says. “Selfless.”

  “I only ever wanted the best for him,” I say. I’m not sure I believe I was the best fit for you, Theo, but I do think I was better than Jackson.

  Jackson digs around his coat pocket, pulls out a handful of change, closes his eyes, mouths something, and tosses all the coins into the fountain.

  I’m not asking him what he wished for.

  He steps side to side, his shoes sloshing, rubbing his arms. “It’s cold,” he says.

  I can barely survive another minute of this myself. I’m ready to call it a night, but I don’t have much to look forward to alone in my room. “It’s also late. If you want, you can come back to my place for a bit to talk.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jackson says. “Maybe there’s a coffee shop open?”

  “My dad is awake, and he’ll feel a lot more comfortable going to sleep if I’m home,” I say. “But if you think it’s weird, it’s okay.”

  “No, I want to keep talking. Let’s go. Should we take a cab, though? I’m not sure I can survive a walk.”

  I’d give your West Coast boy shit for not toughing it out, but a ride sounds nice. We head uptown along the curb, heading in the direction of my building as we wait for an empty cab in the dead of night. One finally pulls over beside us after a bit. Jackson jumps in first, warming up behind the driver—on what will be my left side if I get in. I consider settling into the right side, just angling my body so I’m facing him, but I’m already clawing at my numb palm, so I race around the other side and open the door.

  “Stealing your seat,” I tell him.

  He shifts to the right and I get inside. If he’s confused or troubled, he doesn’t show it. How much did you tell him about me, Theo? Does he know about my OCD? He closes the door on his side as I do mine. I give the driver my address and we’re there in eight minutes. I pay in cash and we get out, running into my building.

  It was 2011 when you came over to my house for the first time. Your parents were spending the day with Denise at her classmate’s birthday party. They didn’t want you home alone. Your parents called mine, and I got really excited when my dad told me you were coming over for a few hours because we were on summer break and it was harder to hang. You brought over a puzzle of a medieval castle while we watched X-Men DVDs. As we put it together we made our own plans to see each other again soon—assuming my parents were cool with me running wild with you, of course—and I could feel how much you missed me too, and it was cool, even if we never said it.

  But bringing Jackson home is something completely different.

  The outside of my building looks sort of fancy, but as we go inside, I can’t help but notice things I never paid attention to before: the lack of a doorman; chipped paint on the dark-blue railings; the smudges of fingerprints on the elevator buttons, no one employed by the superintendent to wipe them clean daily; the yellowed stain on the hallway carpet. I’m hoping Jackson doesn’t see them. It’s stupid because I know I go to a private school and get healthy monthly allowances, but I hate that Jackson will compare the awesomeness of your building to mine and feel sure that you were always above someone like me.

  We reach my door. Jackson leans against the wall.

  I unlock the door and peek in, finding my dad asleep with my mom on the couch, the TV still on. It’ll be hard to have a conversation with Jackson in the living room with them there. We tiptoe inside and head straight to my bedroom, and Jackson closes the door behind us.

  “I swear my parents have their own room,” I say. “My mom just likes sleeping on the couch from time to time.”

  Jackson doesn’t reply. He takes in my room, starting with the framed photos of you on my bed. Outside, stories of you with him can prick and stab me. But here in my room, where memories of you are leaping off the bed and shelves and walls and desk, we’re on my turf. I can use our history as a weapon if I want to. Except I don’t. I’m not going to take your death out on him, especially not with you watching.

  I can’t watch him.

  Jackson moves over to my bed, hovering over the photos before finally picking up the one of you smiling at me from the bench. “What was the occasion?” he asks quietly.

  “My parents’ anniversary, couple Aprils ago,” I say. “They’ve been together since they were seventeen, I think. I don’t know, my dad claims sixteen and my mom says seventeen, but I think they’re counting different anniversaries, if you get what I’m saying.” I shouldn’t look at that photo with Jackson here because I might crack, but I miss seeing your smile outside my memory, so I join him. “That was a chill afternoon.”

  “Your parents have a good marriage?”

  “Yeah, they’re great. I get confused sometimes when I walk into a room and find them talking and laughing. I figured they would’ve said everything that’s to be said by now, you know? Nope. They never shut the hell up, and I love it.” Only then do I realize he’s asking because of his own parents.

  Jackson sits down on my desk chair, shrugging in his big coat. He glances up at me, clearly bummed out, then looks back at the wedding anniversary photo. “I’m not even going to pretend you haven’t had the same dreams as me. I know you loved Theo like that, too.”

  Love. I love you; this isn’t a past-tense love.

  He doesn’t wait for me to say anything before he goes on. “But people don’t take me seriously, like I’m not allowed to be destroyed over Theo and love because I’m not even old enough to legally drink. My dad actually had the balls to tell me I have the rest of my life to fall in love again.”

  “Sounds like you need to skip some weekend visits when you’re back home.”

  Jackson sneers. “He won’t notice or care. He works for the airline, so it’ll free up his weekend to either stay in another city and meet women at bars or—sorry, I’ll shut up.” Not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, but he’s always saying sorry for something, right? Now he’s staring at me. “Do you feel defeated, too? It reminds me of this race I was in where I was in the lead and fell and busted my knee, and everything I was running toward was done.”

  I hope this isn’t his sly way of telling me he thinks he was winning you over. If there was ever a time for him to be apologizing over something, it’s now. “I was running the same race, Jackson. And you weren’t in the lead.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, I swear. I just never counted myself worthy enough to score a dude like Theo. That’s what I meant about being in the lead,” Jackson says.

  I avoid his eyes. “Sorry.”

 
“I get it. You and Theo grew up together and were each other’s firsts for pretty much everything. But you do get that I loved him, too, right? And he loved me, even though I sometimes had trouble believing it because of you. I don’t know why it matters so much to me, but I wish you wouldn’t write off what he and I had, especially since every couple has to start somewhere. You just beat me to the punch.”

  I think I’m supposed to say something here. But I can’t.

  “You’re pissed, aren’t you? Look, talk to me. Whenever Theo and I were disagreeing about something, we always talked it out immediately. If we let it build up, it would turn into something far worse than it had to be. Please talk to me, Griffin,” Jackson says.

  Shutting up and shutting down have always been what I do best during confrontation. You called me out on that. Still, I’m trying much harder than usual not to say something unforgivable. It’s your forgiveness I’m gunning for here. Keeping my mouth shut about my problems with you is something I planned on being better at when we got together, especially after you told me how talking through stuff was working for you and Jackson. It’s not that I didn’t want to resolve any issues; I just didn’t want to do it in the heat of the moment, when there was a chance I’d say something undercooked and hurtful.

  But you threw some blows Jackson’s way, too.

  In the early months of your relationship, you turned to me whenever you two were fighting. Jackson didn’t like how close we were, how you never let him cut me out of your life. Since I couldn’t say anything bad about Jackson, I was forced to tell you to give it time, that everything would iron itself out. And every time you called me back, I hoped it was to tell me how you and Jackson broke up, how it wasn’t ultimately about the fights but because of how much you still love and miss me. But without fail, the calls always went the route of, “We worked it out, just like you said. Thanks for hearing me out, Griff.”

  I sit down on my bed. I have no idea what to say now.

  Jackson stands, zipping up his jacket. “I’m going to go.” He walks toward my bedroom door. “I’m sorry I bothered you with all this.” He stops and shoots me this disappointed look, not too different from the one I’d find on your face when I was camping out in my silent zone. “I’m sorry I tried, Griffin. I really thought you would get it.”

  Whether I like it or not, I have to speak up. Jackson also has history with you. I’m sure you both had inside jokes, favorite spots, pictures that will sting me but might be worth seeing to see your face again, stories that may introduce me to who you were out in California. There’s a side of you I never saw. Jackson not only knew that side, he loved you for it.

  “Don’t go,” I say. “You’re right. We love the same guy, and it’s weird, and he would want us to talk anyway, even about the stuff I don’t want to hear or the things I’d rather keep to myself.” I get up from my bed and go to my closet. I pull out the air mattress, the one my parents bought for the rare occasions they allowed you to sleep over after we started dating—not that we used it. “You should stay. It’s gross outside. Maybe we can have a do-over tomorrow morning.”

  He hesitates. “You sure?”

  I unroll the air mattress on the opposite side of my room, away from my bed. “Yeah, it’s cool.” I pull my phone charger out of the outlet, throwing it onto my bed, and plug in the air pump. It’s noisy and might wake up my parents, but there’s no way around that. It’s a quarter to one, and I’m ready to pass out after I get to listen to your voice mail.

  “Thanks, Griffin,” he says quietly.

  “No problem. I can get you something to wear.” Out of habit I reach for your drawer and pull it open. I freeze for a second, taking in your four T-shirts, two pairs of pajamas, gym shorts—even though you hate the gym—socks, a Monopoly onesie you brought over as a joke, and a hoodie. I’m never dressing Jackson in your clothes. I close your drawer and open one of mine, tossing out a long-sleeved shirt I’ve outgrown and pajamas onto the air mattress. “Do you want some water?”

  “If you don’t mind, thanks.”

  I leave my room, pee, brush my teeth, tiptoe around the kitchen while getting two glasses of water, and return to find Jackson in my clothes. I hand him his glass. I’m still thrown off by his presence—this guy I’ve wanted nothing to do with—by how he is actually spending the night in a room where I did everything with you from sleeping to sex, playing video games to putting together puzzles, fighting and trading weird kisses, bad karaoke and slow dancing to no music—this place of being ourselves and being each other’s, and so much in between and everything else.

  I grab him a comforter from the closet, a pillow from my bed. It’s all stuff only I used, not what you used; those stay with me. I’m left with three pillows, so I toss him a second without explaining why.

  “I’m passing out,” I say, switching off the light. Jackson is hit with a slant of moonlight. “Bathroom is to the left of my room if you need it.”

  “Thanks,” Jackson whispers, like I’m already sleeping. “Good night.”

  I roll into bed, still in my jeans and your hoodie, and turn my back on him. I hug your pillow to my chest and rest my face where you used to rest yours. My phone is dying, but I connect my headphones and press play on your voice mail, over and over.

  In the middle of the fourth listening, Jackson calls out to me.

  “Griffin? Sorry, Griffin, you awake?”

  “Yeah?” I stare at the wall.

  “Thanks for giving me a shot. I see now why Theo never shut up about you.”

  I don’t respond. But I put the phone down. I press my face deeper into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, and I do my damn best to fall asleep, but my ear tugging and need to cry keep me awake. You kept me alive when we were apart. I promise I’ll always do the same for you.

  Jackson’s crying wakes me up. He’s trying to suppress it, but it keeps slipping out. He sounds a lot like me the past few days, how I’d give in to the grief but make sure I wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better. I can’t turn around because if the bed creaks, he’ll know I’m awake. I don’t know how to comfort this outsider.

  Jackson, like me, loves you. Also like me, he is stuck in this universe without you. I know what you’d say: there are limitless alternate universes. Is there one where you’ve decided to watch over Jackson from the afterlife? No, that’s wrong. Even Jackson said you were always talking about me. I refuse to believe I’m living in a universe where you’re not even with me in death. I refuse to believe that you’re hurting for him right now as he cries, tilting your telescope a little bit to the left to find me wide awake, not doing anything to comfort him. You must think I’m the worst human ever, and I swear I’m not. I’ve made some mistakes, sure, and if you’ve already caught on, I’m sorry, but I can’t reverse time and undo them. You’ll have to forgive me.

  That’s assuming you’re in this universe, that you’re watching, Theo.

  HISTORY

  Friday, October 31st, 2014

  The haunted mansion jigsaw puzzle I’m piecing together with Wade on Theo’s bedroom floor is really coming together. I’m not sure if this is good or bad. It’s a two-hundred-piece puzzle we’re spending time on instead of partying with everyone else on Halloween.

  Wade looks up, holding the piece needed to crown the ghost king, tapping it against the shattered windows of the mansion. He’s dressed as Doctor Who. “Hey, Theo? Would you mind hurrying the hell up?” he asks. “How often does Halloween land on a Friday?”

  “More so than it lands on Friday the thirteenth,” Theo says without missing a beat. He’s not even fully dressed up yet. He’s still at his computer, reworking his early-admissions essay.

  “I was eleven when I said that,” I moan. “Let it go.”

  I love Theo, but I also really love Halloween. There’s a party in Brooklyn with fog machines and karaoke
and a deejay and, above all, a costume contest we’re all trying to get to, but Theo’s essay is due at midnight. He was going to submit it at 7:00 until he made the big mistake of reading it one last time. Turns out he no longer believes in everything he spent the past month writing about. Now it’s 9:45—odd minute—and we’re still here in his fog-less, karaoke-less, deejay-less room.

  At least there are costumes. No one here is really a fan of Doctor Who. But Wade is wearing this tweedy jacket, red bowtie, matching fedora, and carrying around some wandlike stick—all because of Shania, the party’s host, a big Doctor Who fan and Wade’s latest crush. Since Wade doesn’t care about the character, a bet has started up. Every time Wade is called “black Doctor Who,” Theo owes Wade a dollar.

  Of course, Theo and I are in the greatest getups this universe has ever seen: zombie pirates. It’s a tribute to our relationship, obviously, but it’s also just stupid, goofy fun. Tonight I’m Griffy the shipmate, who was slain by One-Eyed Theo the Bloody—except Theo still doesn’t have a single drop of fake blood on him that didn’t come from hugging me.

  “How much more time do you need?” Wade asks. “I’m sure your essay is fine.”

  “If I were shooting for ‘fine’ we would’ve been out the door a week ago,” Theo says, spinning away from his laptop to glare at us. “Everything could change if I get everything right here, okay?” He rarely gets this fed up. In his eyes there are few emergencies in the world worth freaking out over. “I would have to be really dumb to think I’m the smartest dude out here. There are so many candidates more qualified than me, and I’m not counting on them screwing up their essays for me to get in. I have to be the best.” He hides his face in his hands. “Sorry. You guys should probably head out without me.”