History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

  I don’t want to ask Jackson anything. I was wrong before. I don’t want to be clued in to your life without me. I can’t do this. I run out, almost tripping over myself. Jackson is calling for me, but I can’t be with him right now, so I charge out of your apartment and down the stairs.

  Thank God I never took off my jacket because it’s freezing out here. I stop running at the corner, shaking. I look to the sky, squinting at the sun between the clouds, before closing my eyes to see your face in my memory more clearly.

  But the you I’m remembering isn’t the same you I found upstairs in your room.

  You were finally able to speak back to me, Theo, and I don’t like everything you had to say.

  I’m beat down by the time I walk through the front door. One of the lessons I’ve learned over and over since our breakup and your death is how the pain becomes physical. My body aches. I’m so drained, you would think it was like the time we rode our bikes around Central Park for three laps—the number still bothers me—and we powered up that steep hill. My stomach tightened, my legs burned, my arms were sore, and my throat was dry. I’m just as ready for a nap now as I was then.

  I go straight for my room, ignoring my mom as she closes her laptop and calls for me. She shouts for my dad to let him know I’m home, but alone time means only you and me. Not Mom, not Dad. I walk into my room, close my door, and throw myself on my bed, too drained even to cry. I hope you don’t think this means I’m grieving you any less. Blame it on my body. I’m burrowing into our pillows when my door opens. True to my idiot nature, I forgot something key in the game of warding off unwanted people: the lock. I wish I could vanish into one of my alternate universes right now.

  “Did Jackson get back okay?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, Jackson is back at Theo’s, where he’s grieving his loss,” I say, turning around and sitting up. “You were ready to call Theo Jackson’s loss again, weren’t you?”

  She nods, like I actually needed her to confirm what was what. “You both loved him, Griffin. I’m not pretending his pain isn’t there, too.”

  “Nope, that’s Dad’s job,” I say.

  “What did your father do?” Mom asks.

  Dad stays quiet, probably debating whether or not he’s going to arm up and go to battle with me.

  “He made Jackson really uncomfortable . . . like, even I wasn’t that cold to him,” I say. I can only imagine being outside my state, outside my time zone, in the home of someone who tried to make an enemy out of me, feeling unwelcome and helpless.

  “Cut it out, Griffin,” Dad snaps. His tone reminds me of when I would get into trouble as a kid over little things, like trying to sneak into their bedroom to scare my mom while she was working, or yelling fake words over and over for attention. “You can’t be pissed at your mother for being too nice to that guy and pissed at me for being too cold to him.”

  “So you admit you were cold to him?” I snap back.

  “I won’t deny it; I wasn’t very welcoming. But that’s because I know my son. I don’t believe you’re actually upset at your mother or me. We won’t fight you if you don’t fight us. What does Wade call us? Team Griffin?”

  “The Griffin Squad,” I correct.

  “The Griffin Squad,” Dad repeats. “We know seeing Jackson can’t be easy, but you soldiered through it anyway. I hope it’s helped you out in some way. If not, he’s gone and you never have to see him again. But we’re here for you and want to know what you need from us.”

  “I do need something,” I say.

  “What?” Mom asks.

  “Space. Please give me some space. I’m really tired.” I can’t cry. I can’t fight.

  Dad begins protesting, but Mom shuts him up, thankfully. They’re out in no time, and I find enough energy to close the door behind them, locking it this time. I get back in bed and crawl under my covers, expecting to fall asleep instantly. Of course I don’t. Considering the week and year and month and life I’ve been having, I’m stupid to think I’d even be lucky with the small things.

  HISTORY

  Thursday, December 25th, 2014

  This is the first year the squad isn’t doing Secret Santa. We usually pull names out of Wade’s fitted hat, but now that Theo and I are dating, there was no way we weren’t going to get each other gifts on the side if one of us drew Wade’s name. It’s the kind of stuff that makes our relationship unfair to our friendship with Wade. We broke tradition, which Wade seemed a little bummed about, but he snapped out of it when he realized he’d be getting an extra gift.

  Having already spent the morning and afternoons with our own families, it’s nice to kick back in Wade’s bedroom. We’re listening to his jazz playlist on his new speakers. Theo holds out his phone and clicks on my name.

  “Check out your new contact photo.”

  It’s the photo I texted him this morning of me standing beside my Christmas tree, holding the Ron Weasley ornament he got me on the day our history began. It’s wild how two seasons later, I’m still blushing because of this guy.

  Wade must see it, because he distributes the presents Theo and I left underneath the mini Christmas tree when we first arrived.

  Theo and I agreed at the beginning of the month that our presents had to be “thoughtfully random.” It basically just meant I couldn’t buy him a puzzle and he couldn’t buy me anything Harry Potter–centric, which sucks because I got zero Harry Potter–related gifts this year for the first time since I don’t know when. A key chain would’ve been appreciated. The gift Theo got me, a small box wrapped in emerald-green paper, makes me wonder if I put too much thought into my gift for him. Mine is in a big box.

  We look at each other nervously.

  We go in a circle, pushing Wade to go first.

  Wade starts with mine, which is this little-known novel, The Adventures of the Courtesan and Golem. It’s a dark comedy about a barren prostitute who steals a potion from her sorcerer client to create a child and ends up bringing a golem to life.

  “I have no idea if it’s good,” I say, holding up my hands. “But you were dropping hints recently you’d be interested in giving fiction another shot if something different crossed your way. If you know more books like this, you need to stop hogging them and share.”

  Wade smiles. “Thanks a lot, Griff.”

  “Griffin,” Theo coughs out. He insists on being the only person besides my dad who calls me Griff.

  “Control freak,” Wade coughs back. He shakes his head and scans the back cover. “This sounds up my alley. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m in. Thanks, Griffin.” He opens Theo’s present: a dozen different ties. There’s also a note telling him to step up his wardrobe game. “Wardrobe is about to be on point. Thanks, Theodore McIntyre. Is it okay if I call you that, Theodore McIntyre?”

  “Theo will do,” Theo says, smiling. They fist-bump.

  “Your turn,” I tell Theo.

  “Bastard.”

  Theo opens Wade’s gift: an illustrated cocktail recipe collection.

  “Once your early admission is approved, I want you to know how to underage-drink responsibly,” Wade says.

  Theo and I laugh.

  Then Theo slides my gift for him a little closer. I really wish this moment could be private. You don’t have to be dating someone to tell if they don’t like a gift. Unless someone here is secretly and exceptionally good at hiding their bullshit, I like to think we all have pretty good bullshit detectors. He torments me by tearing open the wrapping slowly, but joke’s on him: there’s still an ordinary box he has to get through, too. Once he breaks that open with his keys, he pulls out a bust of Batman. It takes him a second to see that it’s not Bruce Wayne’s face staring back at him. It’s his own, thanks to this website I found that puts people’s faces on action figures and dolls.

  Theo laughs so hard he falls over. I’m close to collap
sing with him out of relief.

  “I don’t get it,” Wade says.

  “On Halloween Theo joked one day Batman would take off his mask and we’d see it was him all along,” I say. We were shooting for “thoughtfully random,” and I hit that mark. Bull’s-eye.

  Once Theo recovers and gives me a thank-you kiss, he props Batman-Theo beside him and gestures toward my gifts. “Open Wade’s first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Disclaimer,” Wade says. “It’s sort of a couples thing, but I think you’re more likely to freak out over it, Griffin. But don’t mistake this as me being okay with you two being super-inseparable. I just had this idea and couldn’t shake it.”

  I tear open the wrapping paper, and all I see is the back of a frame, but when I flip it over I see my face and Theo’s face. Together. Not like a mirror, but sort of. Different parts of our features are blended together to create one face: his blue eye, my hazel; the small string of freckles along his nose, my bump on the bridge; his bottom lip, my upper; his blondish eyebrow, my dark one. It’s a portrait and a puzzle.

  My hand actually shakes a little at the thoughtfulness of this. “Wade, wow. Thanks so much.” I toss the picture in Theo’s lap and hug the hell out of Wade, probably for the first time ever, then sit back beside Theo. “I’m going to hang it up as soon as I get home.”

  “Figured you would. Let’s see what Theo got you.”

  “The best for last, of course,” Theo says. “Drumroll, please!”

  We all sit still for a few seconds before banging on the floor with our fists. There’s weight to the small box. I tear open the wrapping, and it’s a little treasure chest. “Please tell me there are mini zombie pirates inside,” I say. Theo shrugs. I unlock the chest and inside there are four winged figurines with a little note.

  “‘A compulsion of gryphons?’” I read with a smile.

  “Thoughtfully random, right?” Theo is crazy excited. “Gryphons because of your name, obviously. Those little bastards are hard to find, by the way, but I found one with Wade in a thrift shop and ordered the other three online.”

  I examine them, stopping when I see a little plate on one’s back. “What’s this?”

  “Collective nouns just never make sense. A murder of crows, a smack of jellyfish, a business of parrots. Nonsense. Straight-up nonsense. I made up a compulsion of gryphons for you. Compulsion works because you have those little quirks and because I made magnetic clips out of the gryphons so they’re bound together.” Theo hands me another plate from his pocket and demonstrates by placing it inside my shirt and tossing a gryphon at it so it’s magnetized there. “Do I win Christmas? The point of Christmas is winning it, right?”

  “You both win Christmas,” I say.

  “Good answer,” Wade says.

  “So-so answer,” Theo says.

  I put all the plates inside my shirt, magnetizing all the gryphons. I don’t tell them I was lying. They didn’t win Christmas. I did. How could I not? There’s a compulsion of gryphons soaring around my heart.

  Wednesday, December 31st, 2014

  If I’d sat down with a psychic last January and she hit me with some prediction on how I’d begin dating Theo in June, I would’ve spent my year staging an elaborate mission to steal back my ten dollars. Even if psychics are real, I don’t think I would’ve survived the anticipation. Sometimes it’s okay to be surprised. It’s going to sound stupid, and I wouldn’t ever say this out loud, but the way Theo and I came out to each other was sort of like getting caught in a thunderstorm. Storms can suck when they’re knocking out power and ripping apart houses, no doubt. But other times the thunder is a soundtrack to something unpredictable, something that gets our hearts racing and wakes us up. If someone had warned me about the weather, I might have freaked out and stayed inside.

  But I didn’t.

  It’s New Year’s Eve, a few minutes till midnight. The party my parents are throwing in the living room for their friends and favorite neighbors is busy enough that no one has noticed how Theo and I have slipped into my room with glasses of champagne.

  “Cheers,” Theo says.

  “Cheers.”

  We clink glasses and swallow our first sips of champagne. It’s dry, crisp, and sour—exactly as the bottle advertised. We don’t close my door. In the event my parents do realize we’ve gone missing, I don’t want them thinking we’re having sex, especially if there’s any chance it’ll lead to another awkward talk with my dad. But it’s about to be midnight, and we’ll want to be alone for a few reasons.

  I place my champagne down on my dresser and turn the TV on so we don’t miss the countdown. Four minutes until 2015.

  “We’re going to kick next year’s ass, right?”

  “Maybe we don’t kick next year’s ass, bully,” Theo says, throwing on his best serious face. “Maybe we invite it into our homes and take it out to dinner?” He cracks. “Nah, we’re kicking next year’s ass.” Theo places his glass down, too. He comes into my arms, holding me tight. He rests his chin on my shoulder for a few moments before snuggling his forehead against my neck, flesh on flesh.

  The countdown is beginning, and the freezing crowd in Times Square is a chorus carrying us into January. My chest is tightening.

  “Four,” I say.

  “Three,” Theo says.

  “Two.”

  “One.”

  “Happy New Year.” I shake my head in disbelief, marveling at the guy in front of me. It’s New Year’s, and I get to hold someone, and I get to be held. I get to kiss someone, and I get to be kissed. We kiss while “Auld Lang Syne” plays in the background, and I keep it together for as long as possible, but then I break and I’m crying.

  “Griff, what’s up?”

  “This song gets me sometimes.” I close my eyes. I’m a little embarrassed to be crying in front of him. “I love you, Theo.”

  “I love me, too.”

  “Be serious for two seconds. I’m crying.”

  “Okay. One, two . . .”

  “I take it back.”

  “I love you more, Griffin,” Theo says, pulling me closer to him. “I’m blown away by how happy you make me. Thank you for being there for me when I’m stupid enough to think I’d rather be alone.”

  When Theo gets into Santa Monica College—and he will because he’s Theo—it’ll be tough, but I apparently blow him away with how happy I make him. I won’t drop that ball.

  I can’t predict what will happen this year, but I’m okay with more thunderstorms.

  TODAY

  Sunday, November 27th, 2016

  I’m going to call him, okay?

  I owe Jackson that, and I owe you that.

  I sit on a bike railing, my feet swinging. It’s cold and getting dark, but it’s the only place where I’m certain of privacy since my parents are constantly in my space. I wait for the time to change, and once it’s 8:34, I hit call on Jackson’s nameless number. I might create a contact profile for him after this. He picks up after the fourth ring, dangerously close to the fifth.

  “Griffin,” Jackson says. There’s water spraying in the background.

  “Bad time?”

  “I answer and make calls in the shower all the time,” Jackson says.

  “Any phone casualties?”

  “A couple,” Jackson admits, and I wonder if he’s as surprised by the lightness in his voice as I am. Maybe he’s even relieved to talk about something that won’t get him crying. “Did you get my text yesterday? I’m not sure if it went through or not but I—”

  “I got it,” I interrupt. “I actually thought we should talk before you bounce. Unless you’re showering because you have somewhere else to be . . .”

  “I don’t,” Jackson says. “I’m only showering because I have nothing else to do. Denise and her parents already went to bed.” It’s weird to hear Ja
ckson refer to Russell and Ellen as Denise’s parents, not yours. “Did you want to come over? I’m sure Russell and Ellen won’t mind.”

  “Dry up and get dressed,” I say. “There’s an entrance to Central Park on West Seventy-Second. It’s not that far from Theo’s, but if you get lost, use the map on your phone.”

  “What time?”

  I almost tell him I’ll be there in six songs. “I should be there in twenty minutes. See you then.”

  I hang up, wondering if I’ve actually given him enough time to finish off his shower, properly dry himself so he doesn’t return to California with a killer cold, get dressed, track down his second glove, and find me at the park. If he’s late, he’s late. I’ve spent a lot of the past year waiting—mostly for you. Here’s hoping Jackson actually shows up.

  I was good on time getting to the park. Jackson, on the other hand, is not. I’m staying warm holding the two coconut hot chocolates from the café, each with four pumps of caramel syrup. You always claimed this was your genius concoction, like you were some mad scientist. These coconut hot chocolates were must-haves during fall and winter, like the Spider-Man Popsicles were during spring and summer.

  I keep an eye out for Jackson, left to right, right to left. I sip from my cup and finally spot him jogging across the street toward me. His jacket isn’t zipped up, and his hands are buried in his pockets.

  “I got lost, sorry,” Jackson says.

  “It’s okay. I should’ve picked you up.” I hand him his drink. “Here, it’s a drink Theo invented. It’s nothing too weird, just coconut hot chocolate with caramel. Have you had it?” Please no, please no.

  Jackson shakes his head. He cradles the cup, warming his hands, and stares at it.

  “Theo also talked about making his own Theo smoothie, but he never got around to it.”

  I expect him to comment. He nods and doesn’t say anything; I don’t know if he’s unimpressed or lost in his head. He looks around. “I’ve been here before, back in February.”