by Adam Silvera
Theo takes a deep breath, his head shaking a little. “Later, Griff.”
I log out.
I stare at my phone, waiting for this picture.
I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. Every word he said felt like a brick to the face. He’s not trying to hurt me; I trust he loves me enough to never intentionally destroy me. But once a brick is thrown, it’s out of his hands and it’s up to me to dodge it. If I duck, Theo will think I’m not strong enough to withstand the pain. He may be right.
I wonder if Jackson will look like I imagine, which is everything I’m not: lean, with a surfer’s tan; hair more golden than Theo’s; unreal blue eyes some crush would be poetic about; roll-out-of-bed stubble that looks intentional.
My phone buzzes and there are two attachments. I click them open before I can change my mind. The first is of Jackson, alone, sitting on some floor somewhere. He’s not what I was expecting at all. He reminds me of myself. We have the same complexion, same dark hair, same long legs, and same smirk. Theo found himself a Griffin clone. I’ll throw money down that Theo walks on Jackson’s right.
I check out the second photo, this one of Wolverine-Theo with his arm thrown over Cyclops-Jackson’s shoulders, and both of them are smiling.
The weird thing is, I actually feel better. I don’t think I’m out of the running here. If I have to let Theo throw bricks at me in order to keep him in my life, I don’t have to let them hit me.
I can catch them.
Thursday, December 31st, 2015
Last year on New Year’s Eve, I thought a lot of nonsense about storms being awesome. Then an actual storm brought Theo and Jackson together. I also didn’t really account for lightning, which feels like it’s struck over and over.
Lightning hit when Theo got his acceptance letter.
Lightning hit when Theo packed up his room.
Lightning hit when Theo moved away.
Lightning hit when Theo met Jackson.
There’s nothing I can do but allow myself to keep getting struck. Even if I stop talking to Theo, that won’t help with my imagination. It doesn’t help tonight, when I’m trying to force myself to fall asleep early because I know there’s no chance Theo will pull himself away from Jackson to call me at midnight, my time. I can’t stand to be awake at the exact moment hours from now when he’s kissing Jackson in a completely different time zone.
Theo will finally be visiting for his birthday, so if I can be strong until February, if I can keep bouncing up whenever lightning strikes, there’s a chance I can win him back.
TODAY
Monday, December 12th, 2016
Jackson pulls into the parking lot of a church. I should remind Jackson where I stand on this God character, but this place is beautiful. I’m practically sticking out of the window to admire the sand-beige bricks and sunlight glinting in the stained-glass windows. You never mentioned going to services with Jackson, but I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. I’m trying to be respectful here, but my feelings on faith at the moment are the same feelings I have for the church itself—beautiful and promising on the outside, but possibly disappointing on the inside.
I won’t share any of these nonbeliever thoughts with Jackson. He’s clearly here with a purpose, maybe to pray for you, wherever you are.
Jackson gets out of the car and I do the same. It’s so nice out here and I feel weird thinking it, but it’s nicer to grieve during a winter in California than back in New York, where the weather makes life miserable enough. He’s already helped me by letting me run away with him.
“Get in the driver’s seat,” Jackson says.
“Say what?”
“I’m teaching you how to drive.” Jackson goes toward the passenger’s seat.
“Wait. You’re not here to pray?”
“No, we’re using the parking lot. It’s a Monday afternoon. Not exactly a busy time.”
I start to laugh. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Damn it, Griffin, language.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but why not? I get in the front seat; Jackson sits shotgun. He buckles up quickly like there’s a chance I will send us gunning into the church in the next moment or two. Being in the driver’s seat is odd. It’s been a couple of years since I even sat shotgun.
Jackson instructs me on where to place my hands, and I call him out for being a bad role model when he was driving—his left arm was out the window. He teaches me everything there is to know about the mirrors and turning and signs and even etiquette, as if I’ll be tailgating someone momentarily.
I get started. It’s exhilarating, even at fifteen miles per hour. It feels a lot like the arcade games we would race in, except it would be really bad for both Jackson and me if I drive us off a bridge right now, because we probably won’t respawn. Jackson encourages me to move a little bit faster, which, of course, nerves my foot into stepping on the pedal a little too hard, so I hit the brakes and Jackson’s head flings forward. I’m surprised it’s still attached to his shoulders and not flipping through the windshield. In this church lot, I will go ahead and say God bless the person who invented seatbelts.
Jackson doesn’t kick me out of the driver’s seat. He laughs it off and coaches me to keep going and not to freak out.
It takes a few minutes, but I start to get the hang of it. I’m driving in circles like a pro. It’s freeing to be in the driver’s seat, to decide if I’ll go left or right, forward or reverse. It’s freeing to be in control.
•••
Jackson didn’t force me to drive us on the highway—a good thing; otherwise we probably wouldn’t have arrived at your college in one piece. The student housing building seemed bigger and nicer in the pictures on the school’s website and the photos you texted me, but in person it’s a little drab. Maybe that’s another reason you liked staying over at Jackson’s so much, with his friendly dog and even friendlier mother.
It’s weird seeing students in hoodies in warm weather like this. There must be some California phenomena where residents mistake sixty-degree temperatures as cold. You’ve done this yourself. Back in December or January, I can’t really remember, we were on the phone and you mentioned needing to run back to your dorm room to grab your hoodie because it was a little chilly. Meanwhile, I was dealing with a winter that felt very subzero. I was wearing sweaters underneath my coat but forgot my gloves, so holding the phone was brutal on my fingers. It was a good-enough excuse to get off the phone. You sounded too happily Californian and unfamiliar. I’m okay with admitting that now.
Jackson parks and immediately a couple of girls come charging toward him, offering him their condolences and telling him how much they miss you. A lump lodges itself in my throat; I should have expected this. He keeps turning to me, and I don’t know if he’s trying to introduce me to these girls or if he wants me to come up with an excuse to rescue him from this, but more students join the crowd and keep us apart.
I recover quickly. This is both a show of how loved you were and of how deeply connected you and Jackson were. Jackson looks like he’s about to cry now, though. I’m catching snippets of memories, all clamoring to be heard at once:
“So funny, like, I spat out my margarita laughing the first night we hung out.”
“He was so cool about letting me cheat off his homework if I loaned him video games. He was mad chill.”
“I thought I was the king at chess until I went up against him.”
“I went over to see if he could fix my TV remote and I had the greatest four-hour chat with him.”
They miss you. They might have even been your friends.
I grab Jackson’s shoulder and pull him away, mumbling that I have to steal him away for something. Jackson is shaking, and I wrap my arm around his shoulders. Everyone quiets. They watch us walk toward the building, and they must be confused as hell, possi
bly mistaking my friendship for intimacy—but the only thing I care about is making sure Jackson doesn’t collapse, especially not before we go into your room to pack up your belongings. At least we’ve figured out a way to turn my running away into something constructive. Even my parents approve. We have to decide what’s okay for Jackson to keep and what should be sent back to your family.
Jackson leads me through the halls. The endless doors are identical, except for some with the occasional flyer or decoration, but Jackson never loses his way. There are still times where I get confused getting home if I go a different route or get too lost in my head or whatever song I’m listening to. But Jackson could probably find his way to your room blindfolded. I know it’s West 10 from all the mail I sent you—but if I’d somehow forgotten and was here without Jackson, it would’ve been easy to figure out by what’s outside: bouquets of flowers, candles, and mourning notes taped to the door.
The lump returns. I can’t read what people say about you; it hurts too much. Jackson and I aren’t the only ones hurting. I don’t know when you gave Jackson a key to your room, but he unlocks it and lets us in, and we’re careful to step over the flowers.
“Here we are.” Jackson’s voice is shaky. “It feels like a ghost town.”
I only know this room through photos you and Jackson posted on social media at the beginning of this semester because you were celebrating being roommate-free for sophomore year. On your desk is your laptop, your iPhone dock-slash-charging station, the pirate bobblehead and coloring books I sent you in my first and last care package, and a Star Wars mug with pens inside. The single bed is unmade. It’s so small, and whenever Jackson slept over, you two must’ve been forced to really push up against each other so no one fell off the edge. I have no idea when you and Jackson had sex for the first time, but the first time you casually mentioned it to me was a couple of months after you were already dating him, a little joke as if you were testing the waters to see if I would laugh. I did, but I knew you could tell it hurt me, because you never brought it up again. Either that or you and Jackson stopped having sex, which, let’s be real . . . I know you.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to go get a couple of boxes,” Jackson says softly, leaving me alone.
I hate that you’re not resting in that bed right now, asleep, or with your headphones, listening to a song you would recommend to me. I go to your desk and pick up the pirate bobblehead. I flick his cutlass, watching him shake his head around and smiling the biggest smile. It’s as if he’s the sole surviving pirate who didn’t get infected by the zombie virus, who’s now in possession of maps to everyone else’s buried treasures, setting sail to collect them all. I keep flicking and flicking until Jackson returns.
“Do you care if . . . do you care if I keep this pirate?” I ask him. I know I got it for you, but I don’t know if Jackson has a connection to it too; weeks ago I wouldn’t have even asked.
“That’s yours,” Jackson says, setting down some boxes.
“Thanks. Theo and I had this ongoing joke about pirates.” I sit down on the bed, still flicking away in twos.
“The zombie-pirate apocalypse, right? He told me about it.”
The pirate turns me into a kid—a crying, confused kid. Jackson sits beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I bounce the pirate across my leg, like he’s walking the plank, and send him diving into the ocean, into Jackson’s lap. Jackson winces and laughs a little while pulling me closer. It’s unsettling how nice the body contact is. I wonder if he’s feeling the same way. I shift a little, hoping to burrow into his side a little more closely, but he lets go of me completely, possibly mistaking my movement for discomfort.
Maybe he’s not feeling the same comfort I was. Maybe I was pushing myself past a line I shouldn’t be crossing.
We work on packing your room up. Jackson packs away shirts and jeans I don’t recognize into one box; I clear out your desk and drop it all into the second box. It’s a task that takes a little less than twenty minutes and no more than two boxes.
I’m still crying a little when we’re done. I can’t believe your entire life out here could be stored away in two boxes.
I can’t even pretend I’m tired because of jetlag like any other guy crossing time zones for the first time. It’s only day one of the Theo Tour, but it’s exhausting me in ways I didn’t predict. Jackson is the same, obviously. He’s been quiet since we got on the highway. He completely ignored my backseat-driver request to turn on the music to try and cheer him up.
The spy pen on his rearview mirror catches my attention again, so I ask him where he got it, even though I suspect it’s from you.
“Seventeenth birthday present from my dad,” Jackson answers, taking a second to look at it before returning his focus to the road. “He knows I got over birthday presents somewhere around thirteen or fourteen, but he still picked this up for me at an airport in Chicago anyway because I was really into spies as a kid. I lied to Theo last year and told him his collector’s edition Daredevil action figure was my favorite gift ever, but it’s actually this spy pen.”
I’m sure the action figure was a close second, Theo.
“That’s actually really awesome,” I say. “No offense to him, but that’s not what I would expect based on everything I know about him. I know he’s generous with free flights and stuff, but this is different.”
“Exactly,” Jackson says. “That’s why I got over birthdays, I think. I kept getting all these presents from my mom and dad, and every time it felt like they were buying me. I got the master bedroom and my car from my mom. I got a really nice laptop from my dad. Then my dad picks up this spy pen, which is basically just a flashlight that can also write in invisible ink, but it reminds me of when I was a kid and my parents worked together to create missions for me with fun codes to crack.”
I let this all sink in. “You’re happy they split though, right?”
“Yeah, they hate each other. But something as small as creating spy games for my entertainment reminds me of the teammates they could’ve been.”
“If you’re going to tell me you keep it on your rearview mirror so you can always look back on those times, I will punch you in the dick.”
Jackson laughs. “Don’t punch my dick. I’m not that philosophical. I keep it on my rearview mirror because it will get lost anywhere else. Besides, with all the back and forth, the car is really my only constant thing.”
“You’re dangerously close to the edge of philosophical bullshit.”
“Okay, fine, fine. I keep it in my car at all times because I sometimes have a thought so private I need to whip out the pen and get it off my chest, but with invisible ink so no one will ever read it.”
I raise my fist, like I’m about to smash it down on his dick. “I know how invisible ink works. Try again.”
“I never know when I might need a flashlight?”
I lower my fist. “Better.”
He smiles and I catch myself smiling too in the mirror.
Without warning, Jackson pulls over on the highway, an intersection running alongside a cliff, and switches off the ignition. I don’t know why my mind jumps to the worst thing possible without any substantial evidence to support it, but I turn around expecting to find a cop car behind us even though Jackson’s driving is perfectly fine, if you ignore all the times he closes his eyes to sing or takes his hands off the wheel. The severity on Jackson’s face would suggest as much, but he snaps off his seatbelt, turns to me, and says, “This is roughly the spot where I met Theo.”
I have no words. I’m numb.
I get out of the car, and Jackson does the same. I feel really out of it until I step on something metallic, the crunch knocking me out of my daze, and I see it’s just a Pepsi can someone likely threw out a car window. The ground is beautiful; it’s this mixture of dirt and sand, and if I had to describe it for someone back home, I
’d say it’s like the baseball field in Central Park. But when you met Jackson, it would’ve been dark and wet, maybe even muddy. It’s weird, but I somehow wish your footsteps survived untouched, like in cement, so I could step where you stepped. But I don’t need it. I no longer need to study every inch of your path that led you to climbing into his car on that rainy day—I finally see what you saw in him.
“Did you guys ever come back here?” Maybe that’s too intimate to ask, but it’s safe to assume. You and I loved riding the L train together, always wondering if whatever car we were in was the exact car where our own history began, the prologue to what should’ve been an epic love story.
“Once a month,” Jackson says.
“Why only once?”
“We’d save it for anniversaries,” Jackson says. “I know celebrating every month is stupid, but it really meant a lot to me. Theo was my first serious relationship, and I wanted everything to have meaning, especially after how worthless I felt with my ex. I definitely had to be the one to remind him of the date, but he was always happy to entertain me.”
You and I celebrated anniversaries too. They were also my idea, but that faded after seven months—at least until our first year, and even then we didn’t really do anything special. We would acknowledge it, take a moment to jokingly appreciate surviving each other, and move on. I thought everything we did was special, even something as simple as an afternoon with an adult coloring book.
“Theo was accommodating that way,” I say.
I can picture it, you and Jackson sitting on one of these boulders watching traffic, or even just standing and holding each other. I really wish I knew how to be truly happy for you when you were alive. When you brought Jackson to New York, I should’ve been more open to meeting him.