History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

  “I had no . . .” Jackson is crying and, damn, I’m almost there with him.

  It’s fair to say he had no idea, but it’s also fair to admit he could’ve known. I see myself in him more than ever right now; it’s almost as if we’re made of the same messed-up clockwork, ticking and ticking out of balance.

  “She’ll punch me if I chase after her, right?”

  “Is a punch really the worst thing that can happen to you right now?” Anika asks him.

  Jackson’s head drops.

  “If you’re not going to go after her, I should,” Anika says. She leans over and gives Jackson a quick hug. “Let me know when you’re leaving town. We should try and . . . well, not do this again, but we should catch up.” She waves to me. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more.” She rests her hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Happy birthday.” She rushes off.

  “I suck,” Jackson says. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

  The waiter cautiously steps over. “Are you two going to order?”

  I tell him we’re going to leave and apologize for the holdup. I leave a ten and usher Jackson out. I’m relieved my anxiety is going away, probably because I’m freezing to death once we’re back outside. I have to force Jackson’s arms back into my dad’s coat while he’s crossing the street, heading in the complete opposite direction from the train station.

  “I’m the worst,” Jackson says. “I had no idea, but I could’ve called.”

  “You don’t suck,” I tell him. “That whole thing sucked. We will never know what she’s going through. But she also has no idea what we’re going through. This isn’t some competition about who gets to be more upset.” Damn, grief is complicated enough without wondering how someone else is handling their own shade of it.

  “Which way is the High Line?” he asks, sniffling. His nose is already red.

  I respect Jackson’s silence as we walk toward Tenth Avenue. I try to convince Jackson to let us take a cab, but whenever I stop to hail one, he keeps going. If he’s reacting like this for offending his friend, I can only imagine what happened when he lost hold of you in the ocean.

  I still can’t bring myself to ask him about that day. Your death is proof that I shouldn’t blindly trust these false promises of more years and months and weeks and tomorrows and hours and minutes just because I’m young. And I know Jackson is the only person who can fill in the blanks for me on the afternoon you drowned; he’s the only one who can delete all the horrific things I’ve imagined once and for all. If Jackson goes, those answers will be gone forever. But I still can’t get myself to go there, to press him on what it was like to be by your side when you died, what it was like to watch the lifeguard try and pump oxygen into your corpse.

  Honestly, Theo, I’m scared the truth might actually be more painful than my imagination.

  Jackson is shivering and hugging his chest by the time we make it to the High Line, but if his legs are as stiff as mine, he’s soldiering through, following me up the stairs to the top. I’ve never seen the High Line during winter. I wish Jackson could see the train tracks, but there’s a pretty cool quality to the white-dusted potted plants and snow-covered wooden seats.

  I hope in your lifetime you once managed to stroll through here during winter, even though I think you would’ve told me if you had.

  Jackson doesn’t seem to appreciate the wonder, or to care about being up here at all. He walks straight to the railing and stares down at the traffic. The wind hurts; it’s a lot colder up here than down on the streets.

  “I should’ve stopped Veronika, right? I should’ve apologized and cried with her and asked her how she’s doing,” Jackson says. I can barely make him out over the wind. “I would’ve done that a year ago, a month ago. I don’t buy into everything she said about me being too obsessed with Theo. But I do feel really damaged without him. I keep pushing people away . . . I let her go. Do you feel that way, too?”

  “One hundred percent.” I stare at the traffic with him. If drivers could see their ridiculousness from our vantage point, there would be so much less honking, so many fewer snarls. “Did Theo talk about how he stopped speaking to Wade?” I ask him.

  Jackson shakes his head. “Not much. It happened over the summer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Theo stopped bringing you both up around that time,” Jackson says. “He could tell it made me uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

  I nod. It’s so damn cold. I really wish we were having this conversation indoors. “I get it. There were times it felt like he was trying to avoid saying your name, too.”

  What a mess you’ve left behind, Theo. The mess isn’t your fault, it’s mine and Jackson’s, but man. This is dirty business here.

  “All I know is they got into an argument,” Jackson says. “Why did you stop talking to him?”

  “Loyalty to Theo,” I say. “And now that I can turn to Wade, I don’t. I think we’re pushing people away because if we can’t have Theo, we don’t want anyone else.”

  “But I’m letting you in. I wasn’t counting on that.”

  “We’re both fading from ourselves, I think.”

  We’re exactly what I hated in Veronika not even an hour ago.

  He doesn’t agree or disagree.

  I grab Jackson’s arm and drag him away from the railing, the moon to our backs. We hurry down the stairs and dive into the first available cab, our bodies shaking and teeth chattering. The driver has the heater up as high as it will go, and it’s either very weak or my body was minutes away from turning into an ice block.

  “How can I make this right, Griffin?”

  There are no easy answers here. This won’t be as simple as an apology. Jackson and I are broken, in desperate need of repair, but the only mechanic we’re interested in seeing is our favorite person—and you’re clocked out forever.

  “I don’t think we’re in a good place to try and fix friendships right now in our current state,” I answer. I’m honestly not sure if this is some lie to make it easier or an unfortunate truth, but it’s where I stand. “Maybe if we keep letting things crash and burn, everything else is bound to fall back in place.”

  Or maybe the fire will grow.

  HISTORY

  Wednesday, August 26th, 2015

  Once we’re sure his parents aren’t coming back upstairs, just in case they forgot their car keys or wallets or something, Theo and I throw off our clothes as if they’re on fire. We jump into bed. This is the last time we’re going to be naked together for months, and I’m not going to let these boxes of his folded clothes and belongings ruin that. We’ve been dating long enough that whenever we do have time to sneak some sex in, we don’t usually spend that much time kissing, but this afternoon is different. Theo is kissing with force and hunger, and everything about this feels very final to me. I lock my arms around him, like a wrestler grappling an opponent, and I never want to let him go because I know what has to happen next.

  Friday, August 28th, 2015

  I’m quiet as Theo, Wade, and I walk to the post office to ship Theo’s four boxes to California. Theo’s flight is tonight and already I can’t keep it together. If I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out. Theo and Wade seem fine though, talking about the second Avengers movie instead of using this time to reminisce. They’ll regret it later; I already am.

  The post office is another block down, just across the street.

  “I’d Hulk-smash you right now if it gave me the ability to run like Quicksilver to California,” Theo tells Wade. “I could even race my packages there.”

  “What the hell? Why can’t you Hulk-smash some stranger?” Wade asks.

  Theo laughs. “Pulverize some nameless citizen? That’s not the Captain America spirit. He can’t be your favorite character anymore. Your new favorite is Daredevil, the Ben Affleck version.” He steps off the curb, turning
around to see Wade’s face.

  “I’m going to miss your bullying—dude, watch—”

  A car honks its horn and Theo stops walking backward in the street.

  “Theo, move!” I scream.

  Theo turns around and sees the car. He bullets forward toward the post office, tripping over the boxes he’s dropped, falling flat on the street. The car swerves with a screech at the last moment, nearly hitting Wade and me, and brakes at the corner. The driver gets out. He’s in a rage, shouting at Theo for being reckless and stupid, but I block out everything he’s saying. All that exists is Theo. I run and kneel beside him. He’s staring up at me, but I don’t think he really sees me.

  I hug him, reassuring him over and over he’s okay, reassuring myself over and over he’s okay. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.

  He’s going to be okay. And I’m going to have to be okay too.

  I help Theo up while Wade talks the driver down, convincing him to back off, to get back in his car and forget the whole thing. I lead Theo to the post office, where we both lean against the wall by the entrance, sinking to the ground. I grab his hand and rest my head against his shoulder.

  I should tell him I love him, or how I don’t know what I would’ve done if that car ran him down. But I don’t. “I think we should break up, Theo.”

  Theo jerks but doesn’t let go of my hand; he’s snapped out of his shock. “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this the past couple of days. I’m scared I’m going to be holding you back somehow,” I say.

  “You’re not,” Theo says. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk getting in your way.”

  “You’re not in my way, Griff. You’re the reason I even got my essay done.”

  That’s not true, and he knows it. He would’ve gotten it done without me. I’m not the reason he qualified for early admission in the first place. That’s all him and his brain.

  “Everything is going to change when we’re not in each other’s faces, you know it. I’m not saying we should stop being friends. I want everything to make sense and there’s something not right with . . .” I can’t do this. “There’s something not right with trying to play the long-distance game for two years.”

  “So you don’t love me anymore, Griff?”

  We haven’t looked each other in the eye this entire conversation. I’m staring at the cigarette butts on the curb. Wade has the common sense to hang out by the mailbox on the corner and leave us alone.

  I shake my head against Theo’s shoulder. “It’s the opposite.” My throat tightens. “You’re screwed because I’m never going to stop loving you. I’m counting on us getting back together when our lives fit better. You’re endgame for me. But you have to promise me you’re not going to be stupid and walk into traffic. Don’t die at all. Okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll never die,” Theo says, hugging me closer to him.

  “I mean it. Promise me.”

  “I promise you: I’ll never die.”

  I sit up and turn his head to mine, kissing him and squeezing his hand. I’m doing the right thing. He’s going to focus on himself and figure out the life he wants and hopefully I’m in that picture. I’m going to be okay.

  Theo’s crying a little and initiates our kisses: the butterfly kiss; the caveman kiss, one where we stay pressed against each other’s forehead way longer than usual; the Eskimo kiss, which breaks me and makes me start crying too; and finally the zombie kiss.

  “I’m eating your tears,” Theo says, laughing. “Gross.”

  I laugh with him. I really hope I’m right, how this is best for him. It would suck if this is the last time we’re ever going to be this close to each other. It already sucks how I’m breaking my own heart for his happiness.

  But if he’s happy, I’m happy. Right?

  TODAY

  Thursday, December 8th, 2016

  I’m sitting on someone’s right during free period.

  My breaths are tightening. I’m so itchy it’s as if an army of ants is launching an assault on my body. I want to scream, but I’m in the library, the place of mandatory silence, a freak-out-free zone. It’s one more thing I can’t control. I try and keep calm by scratching my palm, but the whole thing is ridiculous. I can’t bury my anxiety deep in my hand, like a dog and his used-up bone in a backyard.

  I thought this seat was a better spot than the other last seat available, which is to the left of Wade. I don’t know the guy next to me, but the more and more I try to avoid Wade’s eyes as he peeks at me from across the room, the more and more I get to know the guy a little better, like how he hums songs I don’t know and nibbles on his pen cap. These little facts are enough to turn him into a capital p Person, a Person who’s on my left, a Person who should be on my right.

  I have to ask him to switch seats. It’s what I should’ve done in the first place. I know myself. I should’ve known that the more and more I push thoughts about Wade and his own grief aside and how guilty I feel he’s suffering alone, the more and more I was going to zoom in on someone else. I lean over, which feels bizarre. I really wish you or Jackson were here right now to distract me from all of this.

  “Hey. Can we switch seats?”

  The pen cap falls out of the guy’s mouth. “What?”

  “Can we trade seats?” I’m eager to get this resolved, eager to be where I belong, eager to get these antlike itches off of me, eager to get my temperature back down, eager to be out of Wade’s sight, eager to be invisible.

  He points to a phone connected to an outlet. “My phone is charging.”

  “You can leave it there.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No one’s trying to steal your phone.”

  “Says you.”

  “Are you a freshman?”

  “Sophomore.”

  That explains his arrogance. “Just give me your seat.”

  “Why?”

  I shouldn’t have to explain my compulsion to him. But he has what I want. But he’s a stranger who knows nothing about me. But maybe he won’t be such an asshole if I gave him the chance to understand. But maybe people should be kind without reason.

  “It’s personal,” I say.

  “I personally want to keep an eye on my phone,” he says.

  I stand and kick my seat back, losing control of myself in this controlled environment. “You’re not even supposed to have your phone on you!”

  The sophomore leans back, surprised, maybe a little frightened. The new librarian approaches with caution. She doesn’t know I’m not normally some troublemaker, and I doubt she’s going to know how to handle me, either.

  “See, now we’re both going to get written up,” I tell the sophomore. I bet you anything I’m sitting to his left in detention.

  Then I see Wade rushing toward me, his backpack and textbooks abandoned at his desk. I’m catching fire. The librarian is about to say something, but Wade jumps in between us.

  “I’m sorry about him,” Wade says, and his apology makes it sound like he’s sorry for my entire existence. “He’s grieving right now.”

  The librarian’s eyes widen. She nods in understanding about who I am. I wonder how she knows. I’m not close with her, but on the other hand, I would’ve bet everything that for the past few days, I’ve stunk of grief and looked like a poster boy for depression.

  “I understand and I’m sorry for your loss, but you have to keep it down in the library or—”

  “We’re going right now.” Wade grabs me by the shoulders and steers me out into the hall. I take a deep breath, ready to cry.

  I shake him off. “Don’t touch me.”

  “How are you doing? You don’t answer any texts or calls.”

  “Take a hint then.”

  “I’m not going to back off, knowing
the state you’re in,” Wade says. He rubs his eyes. “I knew Theo, too—for longer than you—but okay. You’re not being fair treating me like I fucking held Theo’s head underwater and—”

  I turn left and run. If I don’t run, this hallway will become a crime scene. He shouts his apology for that unbelievably dick-headed thing he just said, but I keep going. Wade has never been good with words, but now I can’t get this visual out of my head of you, out in the ocean, being drowned by the person you trusted the most before I came around.

  I’m getting the hell out of here—off this floor, out of this building. I almost trip going down the stairs, and I half-wish I did and broke my neck. I’m sorry; that’s not okay to say. You know I would never give up on life like that, especially knowing yours was stolen. I would never just press a button and power myself down.

  I run to my locker.

  Remembering my combination is hard, but my fingers turn the dial and do their thing. I grab my coat and slam the locker shut, charging to a side entrance. The dean is coming down the stairs.

  “No running, Griffin!”

  I don’t stop. I rush past her and push open the door. She calls for me, chasing after me with no jacket or sweater, but I lose her quickly. I run through the street, almost slipping because of the slush, and I run into the train station and text my dad to let him know I’m coming home and never going back to that place.

  This all happened because someone was sitting on my left.

  We’re all gathered in the living room, discussing what went down at school. Jackson is sitting to my right, as it should be, and my parents are sitting across from us on the chairs they dragged over from the dining-room table. Everyone has calmed down, myself included. I wasn’t surprised to learn from Jackson that my mom was freaking out after she got the call from my dad telling him I ditched.

  “You’re staying home from school tomorrow with me,” my mom says. She’s trying to make eye contact with me, but I continue staring at the TV, even though it’s off. “You’re too vulnerable in that environment right now.”