My Heart and Other Black Holes

by Jasmine Warga

  And so I don’t want us to be ugly in the same way anymore. I don’t want to be a gray sky. I want us to find hope. Together. I look away from him to hide the fact that my eyes are welling up. After a few moments of silence, I stand up and dust myself off. “We should probably get going.”

  “Aysel,” he says, and there’s an urgency to his voice. “We should talk about this.”

  “I know, but I don’t know what to say.”

  He squeezes my hand and all I can do is squeeze back because I’m too scared of letting go. Of losing him.

  SUNDAY, MARCH 31

  7 days left

  We’ve been driving for about an hour when I pull off the highway to stop at a tiny diner that was advertised on a billboard near the exit. Roman’s been sleeping the whole ride and he slowly wakes up as I park the car.

  He rubs his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “I thought it’d be good if you ate something before I dropped you off at home.”

  He gives me his half-moon smile and my heart feels like it’s being strangled. I can’t look at that smile anymore. I glance out the windshield. Rain pours down from the sky, and off in the distance, I hear thunder rumble.

  “I like your thinking. You’re right, my mom would totally flip if you brought me home in this condition,” he says as he steps out of the car. “You’d lose your Saint Aysel status.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose that if I let you jump to your death from Crestville Pointe. I bite down on my bottom lip. Roman doesn’t react to the rain. It falls on our hair, our faces, our clothes.

  We walk slowly into the diner and get seated at a booth in the back. He looks at the menu and I find myself staring at him. He catches me and I drop my eyes, reading the omelet choices over and over again. I pretend to be really interested in the difference between the southwestern and the Florentine choices.

  When I’m sure he’s not looking at me, I sneak another glance. His T-shirt is damp with rainwater, his hair is soaked, and beads of water pool on his forehead. The rain—the water—makes him look younger, more alive. It’s made his cheeks redder, his skin brighter. I try to picture it on a grander scale, how he’ll look after diving from Crestville Pointe, how he’ll look after the water has drowned him. His lips turning from a pale pink to a cold blue, his skin changing from dewy to impossibly pale. I wonder if we feel those transformations, if we can sense our kinetic energy fizzling away into nothingness. I wonder if we can hear it, if it sounds like the symphony or if it sounds like screaming. I don’t know the answers to any of my questions. And I don’t want to know them anymore; I don’t want Roman to know them, either.

  I go back to silently staring at my menu. I can’t think about any of that right now. Our waitress comes over to the table and takes our order—two eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a side of jalapeño peppers for him and the Florentine omelet for me. She’s probably around my mom’s age, but her hands are much more wrinkled and her face has a lot more meat. Her hair has clearly been dyed blond and the roots are dark and greasy.

  “Good choices,” she says with a smile as she scribbles our order. She looks out over her notepad at us, her smile widening. “Y’all are a cute couple, you know that? I bet you get that all the time. Anyway, I’ll be back soon with your food.”

  Before we can correct her, she walks away. I pick at the booth seat’s cushion, which is splitting down the middle and oozing fabric stuffing.

  “You can smile, Aysel,” Roman says. “She thinks we’re a cute couple.”

  “Right. A cute couple.” I look directly at him and he drops his eyes to the table.

  Our waitress returns quicker than I expect, which always makes me nervous about the food. Then again, we’re eating breakfast in the middle-of-nowhere Kentucky at a run-down diner, so I guess the quality of the food is pretty much already established.

  I don’t have an appetite, so I push my omelet around on my plate, my fork making little scratches on the dull white surface. Roman, on the other hand, shovels his bacon into his mouth, chewing loudly. It’s funny how once you like someone, even the unattractive things they do somehow become endearing.

  I hate it. Also, I’m not sure how he can have an appetite at a time like this. Did he completely forget about our fight by the campsite? Did he forget that April 7 is only a week away?

  “Can I ask you something?” Roman says in between chews. He’s moved on to the eggs. He’s covered them with the jalapeño peppers. He pops the peppers into his mouth, sucking down the seeds.

  “Sure.” I take a gulp of the tap water the waitress brought us.

  “When are you going to tell me exactly what your dad did to get himself locked up? All you’ve said is he’s in prison. . . .” He trails off.

  I pause and study Roman’s face for a second. His deep-set hazel eyes have brightened since eating and he looks genuinely curious. I tilt my head down so I can stare at the metallic tabletop instead of his face. I’m torn between using his curiosity to my advantage and actually having to tell him the truth. As terrified as I am, I like to imagine he’ll understand. The boy that drew that picture I found seems like the type of boy who would understand.

  “So does this mean you’re not going to tell me?”

  I don’t look at him. I can’t. I close my eyes for a second and hum a familiar song under my breath. As I hear the music starting to build in my head, the part where the notes gain momentum and begin to sound like they’re reaching for something, I get an idea. I lift my chin and meet his eyes. “I’ll tell you exactly what my dad did if I can ask you something, too. Fair deal?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Okay. Here’s the question: If you weren’t going to die in seven days, what would you want to do with your life?”

  He sets his fork down and glares at me. His eyes go from bright to stormy in all of three seconds. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A curious one. But I guess all questions are curious.”

  His lips wrinkle like he’s fighting a smile. “Why are you talking like the Mad Hatter?”

  “You know me, always making bad jokes.”

  He picks up his fork again and takes another bite of his eggs. “That wasn’t exactly a joke.”

  “So do we have a deal or not?”

  He gives me a mock salute. “The terms are acceptable to me.”

  I press my elbows down on the table and lean toward him. “So what’s your answer?”

  He points his fork at his chest. “I have to go first? How is that fair?”

  “Of all people, you’re really going to talk about fair?”

  He shakes his head; his signature smile has worked its way across his face again. I look away.

  “Fine, fine. I’ll go first. It’s stupid, though,” he says.

  “My question?”

  “No. My answer.”

  “Let’s hear it.” I hold my breath. I want to hear so many things, but I don’t know exactly what I want to hear. Maybe he’ll tell me something dumb like he’s always imagined owning a sporting goods store so he’d have a lifetime supply of basketballs, or maybe he’ll tell me something heartwarming like he’s always wanted to be a pediatrician so he could help sick children.

  But in the end, it doesn’t matter what Roman wants to do. I’m beginning to learn that this is the exhilarating and puzzling and, frankly, the frustrating thing about love. Things that matter to the other person start to seem intriguing, even if they are actually quite trite when you really think about them.

  I once read in my physics book that the universe begs to be observed, that energy travels and transfers when people pay attention. Maybe that’s what love really boils down to—having someone who cares enough to pay attention so that you’re encouraged to travel and transfer, to make your potential energy spark into kinetic energy. Maybe all anyone ever needs is for someone to notice them, to observe them.

  And I notice Roman. So honestly, all I want is for him to have an answer to my question. I
just need to know something about him that will make me believe that there’s even a sliver of a chance that his particles have a longing to go in a certain direction and only need a nudge.

  “I’d want to go to college,” he says.

  I can’t help it—my heart leaps with a surge of hope. That’s a start. I make a gesture for him to continue.

  “And I’d want to play basketball there.”

  I nod. “Even though you don’t play anymore?”

  He gives me a sly smile. “Well, this all takes place in a hypothetical universe, right? I can be whoever I want to be.”

  The surge of hope I felt a moment ago is gone. My insides collapse and I sink into the booth’s torn cushion. It doesn’t have to be hypothetical. I force myself not to give away my disappointment and say, “Fair enough. Go on.”

  “What else is there?”

  “I don’t know. What would you want to study?”

  His face flushes and he shifts in the booth. “Ah, that’s the stupid part.”

  I tap my fingers against the table. “Then it’s the good part.”

  “You would say that.” I give him a look and he holds his hands up above his head. “Fine, fine. I’d want to study marine biology. I know it’s dumb, but I’d love to explore the ocean.”

  I grin and I’m sure I look like an idiot, but I don’t care. “Like Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Like Captain Nemo.”

  His smile returns. “Exactly. I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of an underwater adventure. But it’s stupid since I’ve never even been to the ocean.” He stops talking and his eyes go hazy, distant. “And I guess I’ll never go.”

  I bite my tongue. Maybe not, FrozenRobot. Maybe not. I briefly imagine us on a road trip to the coast. Maybe we’d head out to somewhere in North Carolina—that’s not too far from here. I see him walking along the beach in his UK hoodie, the waves lapping at his ankles. He’d inspect the water and I’d stay back, sitting in the sand, reading a book on the philosophy of physics or something. We could be happy. And it doesn’t have to be in an alternate or hypothetical universe.

  I need to figure out how to show him that. Maybe I should buy him a book on marine biology. But that seems too heavy-handed. He’d flip out. Maybe I could propose a last-minute road trip to the beach.

  I wonder if anyone on Smooth Passages would have any advice for me, but that thought makes me bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. I know everyone on that website would totally go nuts if they knew I was changing my mind. And worse, trying to convince my partner to change his mind. That’s precisely what’s not supposed to happen.

  And this is exactly why Roman didn’t want a flake. But he ended up with a flake. A grade-A flake. Though, it’s his fault. He’s the one who turned me into one.

  I just need to turn him into a flake, too. Maybe flakiness is contagious.

  While I’ve been spaced out, he’s gone back to devouring his food. When I come back to reality and glance at him, he’s staring right back at me. “Oh, hey. You’re back. Did you come up with some pressing physics problem you had to work out or something?”

  I shrug at him. Now seems like the wrong time to pitch my ocean road trip plan. “Something like that.”

  “Well, it’s your turn.”

  “Huh?”

  “To tell me about your dad,” he says.

  I bring my hand to my face and chew on the skin around my thumb’s fingernail. “It’s kind of a long story and I don’t really know all the details . . .”

  Roman’s face hardens. “Don’t play games with me. I answered your question. Now you have to answer my question. Straight up.” He lowers his voice so he’s practically whispering. “Suicide Partners keep their word to one another.”

  And I know he’s right, but I wish keeping my word didn’t mean drowning my heart. Literally.

  SUNDAY, MARCH 31

  7 days left

  I convince Roman to let me wait to tell him the story of why my dad was locked up until we get to the playground. I didn’t really feel like airing my family’s dirty history under the fluorescent lights of the shabby diner. Then again, I was probably just trying to buy time. It seems like all I’m trying to do now is buy time.

  He’s on the phone with his mom when I pull into the playground’s parking lot. She’s called him approximately fifty-seven times since our trip began.

  “Everything’s good.” He pauses, nodding like he’s in agreement with whatever his mom is saying. “Yeah, it was a fun trip.” She must say something funny because he smirks. “Aysel’s great. But hey, Mom, I was calling because I’m going to be a little later than I thought.” He starts nodding again. “Aysel and I thought we’d swing by the playground and play a pickup game.” He laughs. “Yes, I’ll take it easy on her. I promise. See you soon.”

  He hangs up and turns to me. “You’re really doing your job, by the way.”

  I blink at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “My mom thinks I’m completely normal again. Before, she would’ve never let me come home later than I was supposed to.” When he smiles, it’s different from his half-moon one. It’s a calculated one. It makes my stomach flip in a bad way. “And did I tell you she hasn’t even come check on me in the middle of the night for the past week? Thanks to you, I don’t think she’s that worried about me anymore.”

  I open the car door and step outside. The knot in my chest grows and I shuffle my gray Converses in the muddy dirt of the playground. It’s stopped raining, but the air is still damp and cold. I wrap my arms around myself and walk over to the picnic table I sat on the last time I was here. I climb on top of it and press my palms against the wet wood and lean back, staring up at the sky. Roman hops up on the table and sits beside me. I look over at him and he’s shading his eyes with his hand.

  “You always do that,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Shade your eyes with your hand. I’ve noticed you always do that. Even if it isn’t sunny.”

  His half-moon smile returns. “You’re so observant. In another universe, you’d make a really great scientist.”

  “Maybe in this universe, too,” I whisper.

  His posture stiffens. Before I can say anything, he’s jumped off the picnic table and is standing with his arms crossed, glaring at me. “Take me home.” His voice is flat. It’d almost be better if he was angry. At least then I’d know he felt something.

  “Come on, Roman,” I say, trying to downplay it. I mentally slap myself for saying something so stupid. I should know better than to try to surprise him like that. I need a more subtle approach. He’s going to have to come to the conclusion himself—I can’t push him there.

  I attempt to backpedal. “I was just saying that to say that. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  He raises his eyebrows, pulling his lips into a straight line.

  “I mean, I was trying to say that if things were different, I could be a great scientist.” I pause for emphasis. “In this world.”

  “Yeah. If things were different. But what things are you talking about?” He doesn’t uncross his arms. The sun has poked out from beneath the clouds, and the sunlight is making his eyes look especially golden. They almost look like they’re on fire.

  “My dad,” I blurt without thinking. After three years of trying to run from the shadow of my dad, now I’m dangling his dark history like some kind of bizarre bait. It’s pathetic, really. I’ve spent so much time trying to conceal the truth from Roman out of fear of his reaction, but now, I can’t worry about that; all I know is I need him to stay here. Stay with me. And I’ll do anything, say anything, that will make him stay just a moment longer.

  “Your dad.” Roman shakes his head, staring down at the ground. “I don’t get you, Aysel. Your dad’s the reason you want to die. Yet you’re desperate to see him one last time, despite the fact that you supposedly hate him. And you won’t even tell me what he did. Do you really not trust me at all?”

  I clench my te
eth and resist the urge to tell him that I don’t want to die anymore. That everything has changed. But I don’t think this is exactly the moment to make that big proclamation, not when he’s so angry with me. I pat the table beside me, urging him to sit back down. “I promise I’ll stop messing around. I’ll tell you what really happened with my dad. What I know, anyway.”

  Roman pinches his lips together and I can tell he’s contemplating what he should do. In the end, his curiosity wins out. He jumps up and takes a seat next to me. This gives me a perverse sense of hope. After all, being curious by definition means you want to see what comes next. It’s a feeling of some kind. I can maybe work with that.

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye. His head is tipped down and he’s staring at his hands. “Roman?”

  “What?”

  “Do you promise not to judge me if I tell you the truth about my dad?”

  He touches my wrist gently, wrapping his fingers around it. “Why would I judge you?”

  I look away. My throat feels strained, loose, like a tire swing hanging from a frayed rope. It’s like any moment it’s going to collapse and crash, sink down into my gut, and leave me voiceless.

  He touches my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “Timothy Jackson.” Those are the only two words I manage to push out.

  Roman drops his hand, tucking it behind his back. He spins so he can directly face me. I force myself to look into his wide eyes. It’s in those eyes I found perspective and light again—they pushed their way into my black hole. I let out a choking heavy breath, a gasp for air. I’m so scared of watching those eyes turn from summer to winter, from warm to frozen.

  He runs his hand along the small of my back. “Aysel, it’s okay. I know.”

  Another choking breath. “No, you don’t. You have no idea.”

  His fingers trail along the base of my spine. “Yes, I do. I know about your dad.”

  I jerk away from him, moving to the very edge of the picnic table. I pull my knees to my chest and rock back and forth. I try to hum Mozart’s requiem, but I can’t hear anything except my own beating heart. It won’t slow down.