The hallway outside the library entrance was quiet and lined with posters made by children. There was a display of flowers, and hearts from the children’s craft hour in alternating bursts of pink and red. Through the double doors of the library itself, a woman briefly looked up and smiled, then went back to her book.
“It’s empty,” I whispered.
“It is Valentine’s Day,” he said.
We walked the stacks, his arm around me, taking in the warmth and the quiet, like we were strolling the beach. He led me through the fiction aisles, to the row of computers, hidden away in cubbies. “Come on,” he said, tugging my hand and leading us toward the periodical desk. It was empty, and there were a few single cubbies for working scattered around the perimeter.
“My favorite desk,” he whispered, leading me toward the cubby pressed against the window. He quickly looked over his shoulder before opening the bottom cabinet. Inside was the computer tower, humming. But there was a shelf above it, with a separate drawer. Caleb opened the drawer, reaching deep into the dark, and pulled out a handful of candy, the wrappers echoing in the silence.
“This is yours?” I asked.
He smiled. “They give me a hard time about bringing food in. But you know how I am about food. So I keep some reserves on hand, just in case.” He patted the top of the desk, and I hopped onto the surface. He unwrapped a candy, offered it to me.
“They never find it?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “I’ve been using this desk for a year. Nobody checks the drawers.” I peered inside the open drawer. There was also a pen inside, and what looked like his math homework, half-completed. “Promise you won’t tell,” he whispered.
“Promise,” I said as the taste of butterscotch filled my mouth.
“Come on,” he whispered, pulling me off the desk. “We’re not done here yet.”
There were large, uncovered windows facing the trees. Beanbag chairs in the shapes of animals, in the kids’ section. A framed print of an atlas map on a wall, signed by the artist.
He kissed me in the travel aisle, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, and I thought, I love him, I love him. I really do.
—
In the days after his death, I’d spent plenty of time with the map program open, looking for where he might’ve been heading.
The bridge was on the route we took for the beach, so I was familiar with the passing landmarks. I thought of the food places we’d stopped at on the way, or on the way back. Picking up ice at the gas station for the cooler we were hauling with us to the shore. The ice cream shop, open seasonally during summer hours only. I supposed it was possible he was in the sudden mood for a hoagie. But there were closer places, on the way back from the meet to his house.
I had traced the roads that forked off after the bridge, looking for any possibilities. I’d thought, briefly, of the library again. He was the only student I knew who used the library outside of school. Most of my classmates, if they needed a library, used the school facility. If they were going to a study group, they’d meet at someone’s house.
But he really would go study at the library. I think he liked getting out of his house. I think he liked the silence. If I drove by his place and he wasn’t home, and he didn’t answer his phone, I’d know where to find him.
He had found himself some solace there.
For a while, I was convinced he’d been heading there. After the meet. Except he hadn’t brought his backpack with him, that day. It was, I had heard, still in his room. He had taken nothing with him that might tip us off. And so everything circled back to me.
I have a lump in my throat, standing with the shell in my hand. I want to keep this. I’m scared his mother will find out. Still, I take the risk, sticking it into my purse. I remember the moments later on when I felt it wouldn’t work between us, that there was too much to mend, but as I work my way back, I remember this part as well.
These moments when I was so sure, so one hundred percent made of a single feeling, that I know it wasn’t a mistake.
That I can take the pieces together. I loved him, once. I loved him, once, despite everything to come. I loved him, and I lost him, and it makes sense, then, that I would feel pieces of myself in this room, too.
I know what I’m looking for, with this endless search, where I can’t seem to get enough, no matter how much more I find.
He took parts of me when he went, and I can’t seem to get them back, and now I’m digging through everything, trying to piece together myself as well.
I clear off the rest of the trophies and books, and all that’s left is the marked-up white shelf, and a piece of gold fabric wedged in the gap against the wall. I pull on the fabric, and a trail of ribbon emerges.
—
It was Christmas.
He pulled this off the box I’d wrapped, tossed it behind him over his head. Balled up the wrapping paper, and did the same.
It was snowing, the big, fluffy kind that piled up on the windowsill, coating everything in softness. He opened the box, revealing the keychain in the shape of a flattened metal helmet, flipped over to show the signature of his favorite player—my dad knew the player’s mom through a mutual business partner, and got the signature for me. I’d been looking forward to giving him this for the last few weeks, and couldn’t stop the smile from spreading as he pulled the keychain from the box.
I held my breath as he dangled it on his pointer finger.
God, the look on his face.
I stand on my toes, looking to see if there’s anything else wedged behind the gap in the shelves, but there’s nothing. I bring one of the new boxes over to the side of his room and drop the contents of his shelves inside, kneeling beside it as I tape it up. I plant my hand against the carpet behind me to push myself upright, and a sliver of glass hidden in the crease against the wall digs into my palm. I brush it off and hold it up to the window. It’s clear, the shape of a triangle, with a slightly purplish tint. I move my hands around the edge of the carpet, digging my fingers deeper into the fibers, and find another shard.
There are two more by the time I’m done, all scattered against the wall beside the bedside table. I leave them on the wooden surface, moving them around like a jigsaw puzzle. But nothing fits. There are too many missing pieces. I try to think about something breakable that had been here, that’s now gone. Something on the surface that could’ve been knocked over.
There’s the lamp, the wires from his chargers, an empty plastic cup from a sporting event. Maybe a glass cup was also here, I think. Maybe a picture frame. I close my eyes, envisioning the surface of the bedside table once more, but nothing comes to mind.
But what does come to mind is the way he’d always knock things off the surface. The Danger Zone, he called it. It became a joke: Don’t put anything there if you fear for its safety.
Caleb threw his arms out in his sleep. He said he’d once knocked over a lamp when he was younger, so he made sure the new lamp was out of arm’s reach. When I came over one day in May, I remember him turning over his hand, the scratches from the broken glass across his knuckles. He said he’d broken something in his sleep. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was—what item is currently missing from his room.
“Caleb,” I’d said that day, thinking he needed to have this looked at, get stitches, or at least put on some bandages. But then he caught sight of Max outside his window, and his face switched to a smile. Max had a towel thrown over his shoulder.
“Max!” he called. “Be right down!”
“Come on,” Caleb said to me, and then he pulled me down the stairs behind him, grabbing two towels from the linen closet on the second floor. I frantically tried to keep up the pace.
“I thought we were doing this tomorrow,” Caleb said, walking out the back door to meet up with Max.
Max looked up at the sky. “Might rain tomorrow. Today’s better,” he said. Then he nodded at me, an afterthought. “Jessa,” he said.
I
looked at the sky, which was a light gray, and said, “What’s better about today?”
Caleb’s smile stretched even wider. “You’ll see.”
—
The bridge is one town over from Caleb’s place, on the way to the shore. The Old Stone River snakes through his town and the next, before making its way to the inlet, emptying into the ocean. Most days, it doesn’t look dangerous. The water looks peaceful, from above.
The three of us stood pressed up against the guardrail of the single-lane bridge, Caleb’s car parked around the bend, off the side of the road.
I was shaking my head. I’d started shaking my head as soon as I realized what they expected me to do, and I hadn’t stopped since.
“What are you scared of?” Caleb asked.
“Sharks,” I said. “Drowning. Hitting my head on the way down. Breaking a leg. Getting arrested.” They were both watching me, neither sure if I was serious. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“Sharks don’t live in rivers,” Caleb said.
“A, I know you’ve seen Jaws. B, it’s inspired by a true story. C, a story that happened here.”
Caleb smiled wider, apparently amused by the many forms my fear took. “There’s no sharks in the river today.” And Caleb had this way about him that let me believe him.
“What about the rest of the list?” I said.
“I’ll go first. I’d never let you drown.”
And then, before I could protest, he stood on the metal guardrail, still facing me on the road, placed his arms out to his sides, smiled, and stepped backward.
I lunged to the edge just in time to see him break through the surface of the water, and heard him let out a shout. “Come on, Jessa! The water’s nice.” He shook his hair out from his eyes, treading water.
I thought of the cut on his hand. Sharks under the surface. Rocks and roots and mud. And then I felt something vibrating under my feet.
“Car!” Max called to Caleb, and then he grabbed me by the hand, sprinting down to the far end of the bridge, ducking into the tree line at the road. I was breathing heavily by the time the car went past.
Max dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “Listen. You won’t get arrested, because it’s a narrow bridge and the cars have to go slow. We can feel them coming before they see us. You won’t break your leg, because it’s deeper than it looks. The water’s higher than last year, and I’ve never hit the bottom. And you won’t hit your head, because you’re going to lean forward, and I’ll hold on to you until you tell me to let go. Okay?”
It was humid, and he was talking low, and he felt closer than he should be. I nodded. “Okay.”
He stepped back into the road. “Then let’s do this.”
I made my way back to the jump spot and watched as Caleb treaded water below.
“Ready, Jessa?” he called.
I kicked off my flip-flops, held on to the guardrail as I stepped onto the opposite side. Held my breath. Max put his hands on my waist while standing behind me on the other side of the guardrail. “Lean forward,” he said. And I did.
I looked down, which was rule number one of things you shouldn’t do. Caleb was chanting my name. The water looked motionless and the deepest blue, from this angle. Max’s hands tightened on my waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt, holding me steady.
I closed my eyes, held out my arms, imagining I was someone else, who was unafraid.
“Let go,” I said, and then I felt the absence of his grip—and I was falling.
The water was hard and crisp and it took my breath away when I hit it, and I was already swimming for the sunlight at the surface. I broke through, took in a gasp, and noticed Caleb smiling, swimming toward me. He was laughing, and then so was I, as he reached me. “See?” he said. “You loved it.” He reached for my arm. “Told you I wouldn’t let you drown.”
Max took a running leap straight from the road, pushing off the guardrail with his back foot, tucking into a cannonball that sent ripples through the water when he hit the surface.
We swam for the riverbank, and when we were back on shore, Caleb said, “Told you she’d do it.”
Max grunted and climbed back up to take another jump. Caleb looked at me, like I’d done something to make him proud. “Sophie never jumped,” he whispered.
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t jump at all. That all I did was tell someone else to let go, and gravity took over from there. Max did it for me, holding on to me until I was ready. I leaned forward, and then I fell.
—
In Caleb’s room now, sitting on the edge of his bed, I smell the river, as if we’re still there, or as if it’s here instead. I feel the water moving faster, the current picking up. And then I picture darkness, nothing but water, pushing us faster, pulling us under.
I tear open the drawer of his bedside table, thinking there might be pieces of whatever had broken inside. But it’s practically empty. There’s a pencil, a paper clip, a list written in his handwriting, crumpled up and flattened again. It looks like it’s a list from the end of last school year, projects due. It says English Final. Library. Science Final. 22. Card for J.
I think back to June, when we were taking finals, wondering what 22 could stand for. And what he could’ve been giving me a card for. I can’t think of anything. I don’t remember any cards at all. And then it becomes clear. The J is for Julian. The 22nd was the date. The day of his graduation party.
—
Caleb hadn’t shown up. I tried not to let it show on my face, when Julian was so happy, and his friends—our friends—were all there. Knowing how hard they’d all worked for this moment, and my parents too, and all the mixed emotions that came with getting him to this point but also letting him go.
I tried not to let it ruin my time, either. But it was late afternoon and Caleb hadn’t been answering my texts or calls all day.
My dad was grilling and my mom was talking to the other baseball parents. I was checking on the drinks. I was getting more ice, when needed. I was answering the call of Jessa, can you that I’d come to expect, and for once, I let it take the place of the circle of thoughts running through my head: Why wasn’t he here? Why didn’t he tell me? Why wasn’t he answering my calls?
“Jessa,” my dad called from the back sliding glass doors. “Can you do me a favor and check on the boys. Just make sure they’re not doing anything too stupid, okay?”
I stopped arranging fruit. “You’re going to have to define too stupid, Dad.”
“Just…,” he said, and he looked up at the sky for an answer, as if filtering an explanation for his teenage daughter was too much to ask. But I knew what he meant. There was an ice bucket of cheap beer that had recently gone missing from the back deck. There were sounds of cheering from the side yard. But he wanted to give them space. Let them celebrate.
“You mean, I should make sure they’re not, like, sacrificing virgins to the Greek gods or anything?” I’d said, trying for humor.
But his face turned red, almost scarlet, and I realized I’d used the V-word, which was strictly against protocol in father-daughter conversations.
“Something like that,” he said, taking the fruit platter from the counter.
Just then, Hailey walked in, in a sundress and ballet flats, red lipstick, wrapped gift in hand. I greeted her with a smile and our mission.
“Can you define too stupid?” she asked my father.
My dad groaned at the ceiling and mumbled to himself, and Hailey didn’t get why I was doubled over in laughter.
“We’re on it, Dad!” I called after him, as he carried the fruit out back.
Around the side of the house, in the flattened area sheltered by trees, Julian and some of his teammates were playing a pickup game of football. Except after a moment, I realized it wasn’t really a game of football—it was Julian trying to make it past a team of five alone.
“Hey, Julian,” Hailey called, and he paused, looking over his shoulder. “Need a teammate?”
He shook his head and took off, before getting brought down by Max and Liam, just shy of the makeshift end zone, his arm extended into the strip of grass between trees, which currently housed the missing cooler of beer.
“That counts,” he said, one hand inches from the container.
Max pulled a beer from the cooler, handing it to him. “Only because it’s technically your beer,” he said, and they laughed.
Max waved from the end zone, and Julian called, “Who’s next?” and Hailey turned to me with a grin. “Do you think this counts as too stupid?”
Hailey slipped off her shoes, held out her arm for the ball. “Over here,” she called. “Except we’re a team of two.”
I laughed, stepping out of my own shoes. But Julian shook his head. “Uh-uh. No.” He looked firmly at each of his friends.
But Max was smiling, and he tossed the ball in my direction. “Let’s see what you got, then!”
I caught the ball and turned to Hailey. “Ready?” I asked.
“Wait a minute,” she called, tying up her hair.
Hailey crouched low, and I smiled in her direction.
“Okay, go,” she said. It was on.
I threw Hailey the ball first, let her weave her way as far as she could get, until Liam picked her up in a bear hug and she screamed, “My dress!” And when he put her down, she laughed and took off, calling “Suckers!” over her shoulder.
She headed straight for Julian, who I knew would not let her by no matter what, because to do so would mean letting his younger sister and her best friend get at their beer. And without looking, eyes still locked on Julian, she tossed the ball to the side, knowing I’d be there. All I had to do was make it through Max, from my side.
I ran straight for him, a game of chicken, guessing he would let me by rather than knock me down. But he didn’t budge. Shook his head just slightly as I approached, and I tilted my left shoulder into him as I ran. Max was much taller than me, and there are certain unbendable laws of physics, and I knew he had me stopped. His arms came around my waist, and my momentum ground to a halt. But at the last minute, he seemed to lose his balance as I tried to push him away. His body tilted back, and we were falling.
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