Tell Me Something Real

by Kristen Kehoe

  A sob escapes, and I wrap my arms around him, crawling closer when he does the same, our hearts beating together, our bodies enmeshed while I sit on his lap and he holds me up. Holds me tight before he lets me go.

  “I want to give you everything, too,” I say. “I wish… I wish I could give you everything right now.”

  His breath halts, his arms get tighter, and then his body jerks when he exhales. His hands find their way to the base of my neck, and up into my hair. “You already have. Don’t say goodbye,” he pleads. I nod against his chest. “When you have it all—the more that you deserve, the life that you finally get the chance to make, and you’re ready to share it with someone, I’ll be there.” He presses his lips to the crown of my head and wraps me tighter. “I’ll always be there.”

  Life goes on.

  It’s a strangely obvious saying—one I’ve never really thought of until this moment.

  No shit, life goes on—if it doesn’t, we’re dead.

  But, right now, I’m in between. In between the living and the dead, mourning those who are gone, and trying to participate with those who are here, like me.

  Colt’s been dead for two months, and Lincoln’s been gone for a week. I’m back at school, standing in the hallway of a school that was theirs, not mine, missing them, while everyone else walks from the doors to their lockers, from their lockers to class, greeting me with head nods or my name, talking to their friends that are still here, and worrying over the new semester.

  Me, I’m still standing here, wondering how I do everything the same, when everything’s changed. This place… it just lost two of its own, and yet, life is moving as though they were never here.

  I hate that I know it has to.

  The scene unfolding around me is too similar, so similar in fact, I could go to my locker and grab my books, walk to class and settle in like everyone else and feel like this day was the same as any other from the previous five months.

  Except, the locker seven down from mine is empty—there is no blonde-haired girl in mismatched socks and brightly colored running shorts manhandling the locker door until is swings open. Just like there is no football-playing cowboy standing a head taller than the rest of the student body, making his way down the halls, and adding his loud voice to the already chaotic noise.

  The cousin who became my best friend, and the girl who showed me what love felt and looked like, they’re gone, but everyone else is here, like me, moving forward. Unlike me, however, they were able to tuck away the memory of their classmate who ended his life tragically and too soon, and his best friend who disappeared not long after.

  For most of the people in these halls, life doesn’t stop with these horrific moments—it goes on, tucking the memories of the dead and gone into commemorative cases and plaques, things people walk by each day without really seeing.

  “Hi, Ford.”

  I blink, looking away from Lincoln’s empty locker, and up into Jacqueline’s sympathetic face. She looks beautiful in the way she always does—shiny brown hair curled, wearing a soft sweater and leggings that are trendy and perfectly matched; purse instead of a backpack, and a face that is flawless.

  Seeing her reminds me of the months that I fought my need for Lincoln; the wasted time I can never have back.

  “I wanted to see how you are doing, you know, with everything. I know today must be hard.”

  “Every day is hard, Jacqueline. So, today is like any other.”

  She nods quickly, like she’s trying to cover up for her question, and I wish I could soften my words and apologize for being a dick, but I can’t. She’s like so many—appalled in a removed way, but no more impacted by the suicide of Colt than the stranger next to her. And Lincoln… she was nothing to these people long before she disappeared.

  But Colt and Lincoln are more than social currency and fodder for party conversation to me.

  “If you need anything, I’m here. As a friend. Someone to talk to.”

  “I don’t want to talk, and I don’t think I ever will, but thanks,” I say, relenting because this girl, she can’t possibly know what this feels like. And I don’t wish it on her. Losing someone the way we lost Colt—Lincoln and me and Evie, Maggie and Beau—it’s one of those feelings that you can never describe. And I find that I don’t want to.

  Over Jacqueline’s shoulder, I spot a familiar face, and relief blows through me, concern on its heels. “Thanks for checking on me, Jacqueline. I have to go.”

  Slamming my locker without grabbing any books, I make my way through the throngs of people in the hall, ignoring their looks and the few who shout my name. When I reach Evie, she offers me a small smile.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  We stand there, both of us floundering, because we’re in a familiar scene where nothing is the same. I look at Evie’s pale complexion, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, and the way her already lean figure seems near gaunt. And then I look at her eyes, seeing the same desperate haunted look that’s met me in my mirror every morning.

  Stepping closer, I keep my voice down. “You want to get out of here?”

  Her face is blank for a second, like she doesn’t quite understand what I’m asking, and then the first bell rings, jolting her out of whatever space she’s in and reminding her where she really is. Evie nods, swallowing. “Yes.”

  Together, we walk the opposite way of the crowd, headed for the back doors that I once led Lincoln out of, and to the street where I parked the farm truck Beau and Maggie lent me when I got my license back.

  Evie and I don’t talk until we’ve pulled out. The further we get from the high school, the easier both of us breathe, like the weight of everyone’s stares and expectations have lifted and we are free to just be.

  “I can’t seem to find my normal.”

  I glance over at Evie, whose got her feet pulled up on the seat and her knees tucked against her chest, her body angled so she’s resting against the door. She’s wearing yoga pants with an oversized Dry-Fit, and despite her height and my memory of how she dominates on the volleyball court, she looks fragile.

  “I know what you mean.”

  She’s silent, and without any real destination in mind, I get on the Twenty and head west.

  “He didn’t leave me a note, Ford.” My gut clenches, and my heart stutters, but I don’t shut her down. Evie and I… we’re all we have in this moment. “He slept with me, spent time with me; he made me fall in love with him, and then he left me the morning after with two words. Forgive me.”

  She sobs a little, and I let her. This is something else I’ve learned, from being with Maggie, from watching Lincoln when she was here: you can’t comfort someone in this kind of pain. All you can do is be there, ready to listen and let them lean when they need it. But crying—expelling the anger and fear and sadness that comes from the feelings Evie has deep inside of her? There’s nothing to do but let her cry, and hope it helps her.

  “I know it’s selfish, and I know it’s not about me, but why didn’t he leave me a note? Why didn’t he love me the way I loved him? Two words? In a text.” Now, she’s yelling, sitting up so her feet are on the floor and her body is facing mine. “‘Forgive me?’ For what? What does he want me to forgive him for? Leaving me? Killing himself? Taking my virginity and telling me he’d never forget that moment?” She slams her hands on the dash, once, twice, and then again, sobs ripping from her until I don’t have a choice but to pull over and quit the engine.

  “I don’t know, Evie.” I say the words when I reach for her, knowing that I can’t make it better, but that I can give her someone to hold onto, someone who hurts the way she does.

  “I can’t forgive him, Ford.” Her voice is muffled when she falls into my arms, her frail body shaking until I wrap her tighter, and wish like hell I could find a way to disagree with her. Or a way to explain that maybe, just maybe, that’s what Colt wanted. He wanted her to be mad so she could move on.
Fuck, I don’t know.

  I still don’t know why he left. All I know is I both miss and hate him, just like her. Just like Lincoln.

  “It doesn’t make you selfish.” I lean back, looking at her, knowing that the words might not be heard yet, but in a few months, when she’s ready to look at life and start engaging again, they might make a difference then. “What Colt did…it was selfish. However much he thought it was his only answer, you and me? Lincoln?” Just her name guts me. I clear my throat. “We loved him, and we trusted him to lean on us, the same way we leaned on him. He broke that trust,” I say, and realize that maybe I needed these words, too. Brushing back her damp hair, I swallow. “You can miss him and be mad at him, Evie. There’s nothing wrong with anger. Just like there’s nothing wrong with sadness.”

  After a minute, she exhales and nods, leaning back and wiping at her cheeks with the heels of her hands. I slacken my hold, but keep my arms around her for a second longer, just to make sure she knows I’m here. Evie and I—we’ve just become each other’s life lines.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  I take a second, turning on the truck and clicking my blinker, pulling out into traffic before I answer. “No, but I don’t expect to. She needed to go.”

  Evie nods, looking out the window. “I’m sorry, Ford.”

  Reaching over, I put my hand out and wait for her to take it. “Me, too, Evie.” We ride like that, holding onto one another until we reach a small town on the Coast, just over an hour away. “Do me a favor?” She nods. “Eat something. I made her a promise,” I say, and Evie pauses. “Help me keep it.”

  “Okay,” she says, and my chest loosens a little. “Only if you eat something, too.”

  “Deal.”

  This is how we get through the rest of the year: together. Evie is quiet, and so am I, but we don’t really need words. Knowing that she understands my bad days, like I understand hers, means I can be quiet and she’ll hear me anyway. She gives me space even when she’s in the truck with me, leaving campus for lunch because, in unspoken agreement, we can’t go back to the cafeteria and the table we once shared as a quartet.

  Somehow, tragedy brings us together, even when it feels like it ripped the rest of our lives apart.

  In late February, I get a text with the picture of the ocean, white caps and large swells that tell me Lincoln went north instead of south. There are no words, but I don’t need them. I show Evie, and we skip second period and go for a run, both of us craving the mindlessness that exercise brings.

  In March, Evie accepts an offer from UNR in Nevada to play volleyball. I stand at the back of the lobby to watch her sign her letter and take her pictures, and then I hold her in the corner of the parking lot while she cries. Because this… it’s another sign that life is moving on, and we are struggling to move with it.

  By the time graduation comes, both of us are ready for a new chapter. We sit alphabetically, which means we’re only one row apart. I’m in front of her, at the far left end of my row near the center aisle, while Evie is on the far right end of her row. I only have to turn my head slightly to see her, which I do, when the principal has us take a moment of silence for Colt.

  We hold eye-contact, ignoring the people around us who are staring, ignoring the sniffles in the crowd, and the white balloons that are released for him. I think of Lincoln, and I wonder if she would have sat here if things had been different—if it would have been her eyes I was staring into if Colt was still here.

  And then I think of Colt, and I wonder if I had come to Albany sooner—if we had been given the chance to know each other sooner—if it would have made a difference. If that time together would have shown him I was here; that I was his family he could count on.

  This is the hardest thing about living with suicide—the wondering and what ifs that never go away. My anger is fading, and my sadness comes in waves that are less and less, but my guilt and wonder of whether I could have done something else, something more, never disappears.

  At the end of our moment, Evie’s eyes are shining and full, and we hold contact a second longer before it’s time for diplomas and handshakes. When my row stands and filters through to the outside so we can cross the stage, I look to the football stands for my grandparents, picking them out in the sea of people easily. When I glance to Maggie’s right, I see a familiar face, and I freeze.

  B.T. Slaughter stands in his three-piece suit, ignoring the stares and looks of people around him, eyes trained on me, one arm stretched behind his mother… protecting her?

  He didn’t come to the memorial for Colt, and I didn’t go home for the holidays, but he’s called a few times. We don’t ever say much, but the tone of our silence…it’s different. Like losing someone the way I lost Colt, and the way he lost his brother, has given us an empathy for one another that wasn’t there before.

  I nod, and he does the same.

  “Ford Joseph William Slaughter, Washington State University.”

  Like Evie, I needed somewhere else. The thought of leaving Beau and Maggie is hard, but when I almost deferred, Maggie sat me down and told me it was time.

  “You can’t stay and take care of us, Ford. And you can’t stay for a ghost.”

  “You’ve lost all of your boys,” I told her. “My dad, Colt’s dad…Colt. You don’t deserve to be here alone, Maggie.”

  Her eyes shined with tears for the first time since the funeral. “I’m not alone, Ford. And wherever my boys are, I always have them. Just like wherever you go, I’ll always have you. It’s not the place, Ford.”

  We both cried then, because she was right. Colt wasn’t coming back—and staying for him wasn’t going to change my pain, or my grandparents’.

  I walk across the stage, shaking hands with the principal and smiling for the cameras before making a swift exit down. By the time I get to my seat, Evie is crossing the stage.

  I clap, watching her the entire time, smiling when she smiles because this is the moment we both needed: the reminder that life goes on, and we’re allowed to move on, too.

  Even when it hurts.

  Even when it feels selfish, and different, and not anything like we thought it would. We’re allowed to tuck those memories, good and bad, aside, and find a new reason to move on and live.

  When the last diploma is handed out, and the last speech is made, the principal congratulates us as graduates, and cheers erupt. Caps are thrown and hugs commence. I smile at the people around me, but I walk to Evie while she walks to me.

  “Congrats, Rich Boy.”

  I smile. “You, too, Evie girl.”

  My phone beeps, and I fish it out of my pocket. There’s a picture of fireworks over a different stadium, a sea of graduates with caps strewn around them. There are no words, but I stare at it for a long time, running my thumb across the image.

  “Lincoln?” Evie asks. I nod. “Do you ever text her back?”

  “Sometimes. But… she never responds, like she’s not quite ready. So I leave it be, grateful she’s even thinking of me.”

  Evie nods, looking out over the field and the place that holds more memories for her than me. “I’m not as sad as I was.”

  There’s guilt lacing her words, so I sling my arm over her shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Evie.”

  She nods. And then her parents come over and I say goodbye before going to see my own family. Evie says my name and looks at me one last time. This… it’s the end. We’ve both done what we needed to move on. Our friendship won’t be the same, because neither of us needs it to be. “Goodbye, Ford.”

  “Bye, Evie. Be happy.”

  “You, too.”

  I nod, taking out my phone before I reach my family, responding to the beautiful picture.

  Me: Tell me something.

  I wait, greeting my family and sharing dinner at the kitchen table. I talk to my dad about my future, and my choice of WSU instead of the other colleges he offered to call in a favo
r at. He doesn’t explode when I tell him I’m undecided for a major, or when I tell him I’m going to spend the summer at the farm. He does nothing except listen, and then when he stands to leave, driving to Eugene to take his private jet back to Seattle, he shakes my hand and tells me he’s proud of me.

  Those words are still rolling around when my phone finally buzzes.

  The text is a picture of a dress, light blue with a full skirt of tulle and a bodice that sparkles. Her face is cut off, but I zoom in and trace the lines of her arms, the small curve of her waist, down to the small peak of her knees before the picture cuts off again.

  Lincoln: We missed the big reveal.

  I’m still staring when she sends another. This time, it’s a picture of her, face and all, wearing my long-sleeved shirt—the same one I put over her head the first night we kissed. The one she told me she was keeping.

  My heart squeezes, and my eyes sting as I memorize every feature of her face, enhancing the image so I can see every detail, no matter how small: the blue of her eyes, the tip of her nose, the bow of her lips.

  Me: Even more beautiful than the one in the dress.

  Lincoln: Miss you, Ford. Congratulations.

  Me: I’m still here. Whenever you’re ready, I’m still here, Lincoln. Always.

  She still hasn’t responded in the morning when I wake up to work the fields with Beau. But I know she’s there, and I think of her while I fix tractors, cut fields, and sweep barns, grateful no matter what happened that Lincoln Brewer showed me something real.

  Me: Every city, so many hipsters.

  Ford: We can’t all be cowboys.

  Me: I just sold thirty dollars’ worth of food to a man with a beanie, bro-tank, and skinny jeans on.

  Ford: For the record, I’ve never, ever donned skinny jeans and a beanie—separately or together.

  Ford: I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now.

  Me: ???

  Ford: How many pairs of sparkle butt jeans do you own? Because I never saw any, and I was kind of disappointed.