Together, Apart

by Erin A. Craig

  So after we watched Griffin scratch his ear manical y with his left leg, and after I stared momentarily at Daxton’s tanned legs, which were shapely but not overly muscular, like he ran cross-country but not track, I softly said some words that were probably going to end in my humiliation, but I honestly couldn’t keep them in anymore.

  “Wel , I think you’re a real boy. Very real.”

  I waited for the world to explode, because I was so cheesy or whatever.

  Cheesy and awkward as fuck. But it didn’t explode. We both kept walking, and I wanted to glance over but I thought if I did, and he was looking horrified, I might actual y just die.

  The quiet went a minute, and final y I realized I had to look over at him.

  His eyes were focused on me, like shining. As if they were smiling. The mask didn’t matter. I gulped.

  “You are also a real boy, Kaz with a z,” Daxton said. “Among other good things.”

  “Queer boys bringin’ the realness,” I said, because I’m stupid.

  He laughed. “You listen, Kaz. And also, when you say stuff, it’s good stuff. Like if I had to choose one person to be in quarantine, hands down it would be you, Kaz.”

  Chil s, al over my body, even as the hot Phoenix sun blazed down on my back and shoulders.

  “I would, also,” I said. “Like to be with you. In quarantine.”

  And it was so awkwardly formal that we both laughed, and Squirrel picked this as the perfect time to try to mount Griffin again, and there was something so symbolic about it that we both left it unspoken.

  —

  The next morning, I awoke earlier than I even had to, and I showered, which I normal y didn’t do in the morning because it’s not like anyone wil get within sniffing distance anyway. And I paced the kitchen and then, when I couldn’t wait another second, I leashed up Griffin and went and sat on the concrete of my driveway.

  It was just getting warm, and it heated up my legs nicely, and I thought about the things I was going to say today. To Daxton. Who liked the things I said. Who was trustworthy. I thought about tel ing Daxton about Nimo. It was hard to talk about Nimo, because of how it ended.

  Basical y, we went out for two months. And the whole time, they were like, ‘What are you so afraid of?’ because they were super open with me and told me al sorts of things. I was afraid, I guess. Because when you tel people stuff, it’s like you uncross the arms you’ve had folded over your chest, and that’s scary. But then, one day, we were having such a good time at this food truck festival at Salt River Fields, eating way more sugar than two people ever should, and I guess eating fry bread loosens some people up, because I just…

  uncrossed. I told Nimo everything: about my dad leaving, about how lonely it was at home sometimes, about cutting myself. They seemed to listen and they said al these supportive things, and I unclenched my life, which I almost never do. I was beginning to think I was maybe in love with them.

  But the problem with unfolding your arms is you leave yourself wide open.

  The next day at school, Nimo was distant. Before school. Between classes. I final y cornered them in the cafeteria, and they were like, “I thought we were casual, but it’s getting kinda intense. I need some space.” And just like that, it was over. My friends Gus and Cyndi started hanging with Nimo, and that meant I had no one. And I spent a lot of time alone, thinking about how I would probably not be that open with anyone again. It hurts too much.

  I sat there thinking a lot about Nimo, and also how it would be to actual y tel Daxton, who would understand, because he seemed to get me. And Griffin got tired and lay down on his side on the concrete, which was now beginning to heat up.

  That was when I realized: No Daxton.

  I looked at my phone. It was 5:25 a.m. Which is too early to be freaked out about someone not showing up, but we usual y met at five, and this had never happened before.

  I texted him. Where are you?

  No response. My gut started to feel a little queasy.

  Five minutes later, I texted again: …?

  Nothing came back. My gut twisted, and I slowly got up and brought Griffin, who was confused about what happened to his walk, inside. I went back to bed. And I stayed there.

  My brain spent the day fuming. How can a person be that close to you, say al those nice things, and then just disappear? That was crueler, in fact, than never having been there in the first place. Why did Daxton have to pretend I mattered, just to make it clear a few weeks later that I didn’t?

  At three p.m. that afternoon, I decided to text him again. I wrote four different versions:

  You bet er be dead. Nothing else is a good enough excuse I read it and reread it. Many, many times. My finger hovered over the send button. But then I pictured his smiling eyes, and I erased it.

  Nice. Standing me up. Lose my number

  I erased it.

  I don’t have friends who treat me this way

  I erased it.

  I final y settled on one. It was hard, because I wasn’t feeling it. But I sent this:

  You okay, Daxton?

  I saw the dots right away.

  Hey! So sorry. Emergency with my dad. He’s ok. His blood sugar went through the roof. At hospital. Scary here! Was gonna text but kinda crazy This feeling flooded through my chest. Like the opposite of the feeling I had when Nimo disappeared on me. Something like grace. Like, maybe the world wasn’t so bad, after al . Like maybe Daxton wasn’t such a Normal, or I was one, too. Whatever. We were the same, and that was what mattered.

  That’s ok! Sorry your dad is sick! Miss you!

  I miss you too. We should hang out some night I texted, !!! Me? Why in the world would you want to I erased it.

  Yeah ok. When this is al over for sure. For now, social y distant walks.

  yay

  Nah. I mean yeah. But tonight. 10pm? Come outside. Wear a mask. It’l be ok, I promise. Just need to see you

  This shiver went through my entire body, and I smiled like I hadn’t in a long time.

  Ok

  —

  That night, at ten, I leashed up Griffin. My mom was asleep, passed out after a long, terrible day at Banner Health. I left her a note in case she woke up, but I knew she wouldn’t.

  The hot night air made the hairs on my arms tingle as I crept out our front door. It wasn’t exactly like I was going out to go clubbing, or anything il icit, real y. But I felt shaky and undeniably alive anyway, because I knew he’d be there.

  And he was.

  Sitting on the artificial-grass lawn across the street, just far enough away from the streetlight that he wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention if they peeked out the window or drove by. But nobody was doing that. Not at ten p.m., not in this neighborhood, and not at this time, when the world was on an extended time-out. Squirrel sat, obedient and perfect, by his side.

  I sat down on our concrete driveway, right across from him, my heart surging like a criminal or a thief, and also like someone who was—maybe?—

  on the way to being in love.

  How would I even know?

  Griffin perched next to me, not quite as obedient and perfect, but good enough. He leaned into me.

  I gave a little wave, and Daxton waved back. I could see his black mask just barely, his face even less. His body was just a hint of a shape, long and thin and lovely.

  He very softly, very deliberately put his hand on his knee.

  I put my hand on my knee, too.

  He reached his hand out toward me, as if we could hold hands, if our arms were both fifty feet long. My whole body shook with joy.

  I stuck my hand out too, and I caressed his through the air.

  And in that way, we held each other.

  Quarantine sucked. Especial y when we were packed into urban apartments like a package of Oreos, and not even the interesting kind of Oreos, but the strange flavor that no one liked. There was no space, no quiet.

  Al day, my parents worked in the living room. Al day, my little sister
, Lil y, cohosted her summer school virtual classroom, that little teacher’s pet.

  She learned how to mute everyone in the first session and had gone dictator with power ever since.

  “I decide who talks now,” she said in this weird, deranged voice, pressing a finger against the keyboard on my old laptop. She took up the entire dining table with her craft supplies. I mean, when had arts become so cutthroat? I could not with her.

  Lil y was probably negotiating Clorox wipes and toilet paper on the elementary school black market in exchange for electronics. If she were the mastermind behind an entire underground network, no one would be surprised, and my parents would probably reward her with the rarely seen fresh donut.

  I rol ed my eyes, grabbed a piece of sourdough (because baking as a family was our thing now), and went to the bedroom I shared with Lil y. It

  was big enough for two twin beds, two nightstands, one dresser, and two desks. Every surface was covered with snacks. There were various bags of chips and cookie containers on the floor. Half-eaten bags of al four flavors of Teddy Grahams in empty popcorn bowls. Just looking at the soda bottles in the corner made my stomach hurt. Yet I stil stuffed my face.

  I plopped onto my bed, which I hadn’t made in who knows how long, and felt something hard slide beneath my hand as I eased back against the pil ows.

  “What the…” I snatched the control er headset. “So that’s where you went. Been looking for you since last week.” Now I could final y get back to playing video games with the girls and talk about…bread. Marly and Janice were also baking a lot these days. Marly had gotten into sewing super cute handmade masks, and Janice had added TikTok videos to her repertoire, which seemed more productive than whatever I was doing.

  I was too bored to play. And I had a terrible stabby headache from al the screen time and noise. I just wanted to nap. Lil y’s voice carried through the hal way as she told someone named Matthew to raise his virtual hand if he wanted to talk or she’d mute him indefinitely. Then there was shuffling feet and movement and a closing door. Ma had walked into her room to her desk, which was directly behind my bed. Her muffled voice permeated the wal and went straight into my throbbing head. And Dad was on a lunch break by the sound of clanking pots and pans.

  Ugh. I just wanted peace and quiet, no noise, no screens, no talking.

  There was always something happening from seven in the morning to ten at night. Meetings, classes, TV, cooking, cleaning, texting, talking, and even religious virtual gatherings.

  I was losing. My. Mind. If it were possible to crawl out of my skin and escape into the clouds, I so would. Luckily there was a place I could escape to. My one refuge in this miserably confined, loud-as-crap world.

  The balcony.

  Ma was too worried about bioterrorism (aka some infected a-hole purposely coughing on us) to let us go on walks without her and Dad. But the balcony was safe.

  Crawling out the window and onto the balcony, I sat outside on a folding chair four stories up. The balcony was smal , partial y fil ed with plants I’d

  desperately tried to grow.

  “Just live,” I told them. But they didn’t seem very interested in cooperating in the muggy, summer heat. Poor roses wilted with sad, decrepit petals, and mint dried up into crispy strings.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. The tal buildings kept the sunlight from directly searing my face and cast shade instead. A light breeze shifted through the air and caressed my skin. Thank goodness for shorts and thin shirts.

  Beautiful, blissful quiet.

  Brum. Brum. BRRRRRRUM.

  What was that twangy, guttural pitch? Vibrations of something hit the air and pierced my precious silence. My stabby headache was getting agitated AF.

  The sound got louder and louder until I pried open an eye and searched the balconies for the source of this…this racket. And then I found him.

  Across the wide al ey, some dude in a gray T-shirt and blue board shorts sat on his balcony the next building over, one floor below, and two balconies over. His head bent low as he played a guitar. A mass of thick black hair that needed a haircut fel over his face.

  I gritted my teeth and hoped he would stop soon. But he didn’t. I glanced at my window, but there were a hundred more annoying sounds inside.

  “Hey!” I shouted, cringing at the loudness. Stabby headache was going to kil me.

  He didn’t hear. Dude was playing that thing like nothing else, like no one else was around. When in reality, several hundred people lived in these two buildings and I couldn’t possibly be the only one wanting quiet time.

  Jumping to my feet, I shouted again, my voice scratching my throat. He paused and scanned the building until he found me glaring at him, my hands on my hips, and standing against the railing.

  He waved.

  I didn’t wave back. “Can you stop? I’m trying to get some quiet,” I yel ed down to him, cringing from the pain in my head.

  He shrugged and mouthed, Sorry. Then he went back to playing his guitar. It sounded even louder. The audacity! Did he think he just owned the

  air?

  I needed something. I turned one way and then the other, looking for something to throw. I was heated. My skin prickled and a fire whooshed down the back of my neck. I couldn’t throw one of my sickly plants. My mom had bought those pots, and they might shatter onto someone below. In a moment of temperamental spontaneity, I tugged off my sneaker and chucked it at him with the aim and force of a seasoned softbal pitcher.

  As soon as the shoe left my fingers, I yelped. Gah! Oh, no! Why did I do that! Was this assault? Did I hurt him? Had I lost my favorite shoe?

  I ducked just as my sneaker hit the brick side of his building. He careful y stood to find me with my hands on my face and my fingers slightly opening to peer through.

  He pressed his lips together and frowned. He shook his head like he was about to cal my mom and tel her what I’d done. My mom would ground me, for sure. Wel , like ground me after quarantine was lifted because right now it didn’t matter. My entire life was one long, weird grounding session.

  He bent down, swept up the shoe, and tossed it in the air a few times as if he were debating throwing it back at me.

  Ew. He picked up my sneaker without sanitizing it?

  In the end, he saluted me with my own shoe and mouthed, Thanks.

  Um. I kinda needed my shoe back, though. I wriggled one socked foot in horror. That wasn’t just any sneaker. It was one half to a glorious pair of white Converse made special by my friends. Ya know, the ones whom I may never ever see again in an actual school.

  He returned to playing that hol ow sound, to irritating me. I waved my arms wildly in the air to get his attention, but he just smirked and bobbed his head and got real y into his music. I yel ed at him again but ended up straining my voice and coughing.

  “Beta?” Dad opened my bedroom door and walked to the window.

  “What are you doing? Who are you yel ing at?”

  “Some person who’s making too much noise,” I said weakly, my throat hurting from al the yel ing.

  He tilted his head, listened, and smiled. “Nice music. Sort of relaxing, no? Come inside and eat lunch. We have sourdough sandwiches.”

  I groaned. If I ate one more slice of bread, I was going to turn into a loaf.

  I grunted at Guitar Boy and crawled inside.

  Lunch was as peaceful as things could get these days, mainly because our mouths were busy chewing. During meals, we always kept the TV off and electronics were left on charging stations. Before quarantine, we talked about our feelings and our day while we ate, but we were so up in each other’s business now that there was no need to. Privacy? What’s that?

  “Zoom meetings leave a buzz in my head,” Ma told Dad.

  “It’s the earbuds,” he said. “Necessary and inevitable.”

  She had a glazed look and mumbled, “I might need a drink tonight.”

  “Can I sleep in the living room again?” Lil y asked as she munched
on carrots.

  “Sure, beta,” Ma said.

  What a relief. Lil y sleeping in the living room beneath a makeshift tent with her stuffed animals and her friends on FaceTime gave me a room to myself. It was the best.

  When we finished lunch, I cleaned the kitchen. Then I showered. Al the while, plotting ways to get my shoe back. When I emerged from the bathroom, I spotted the dry-erase board against the wal . Hmmm. What if…

  “Are you using the dry-erase board?” I asked Lil y.

  “You may use,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the board, an eraser, and a black dry-erase marker and went onto the balcony.

  Guitar Boy had left. I spotted my sneaker behind his chair. For now, I enjoyed the solace.

  —

  With my head final y void of buzz, thoughts, worries, and anxieties, the headache eased away. An hour of quiet had been magnificent. Until Guitar Boy came back out.

  I glared at him, silently daring him to play with what I’d hoped were squinted eyes of doom. He waved, sat down, faced me, and strummed.

  First thing first. I held up my sign.

  I NEED MY SHOE BACK

  He kept playing but squinted to read. Then shrugged.

  LIKE NOW

  He held a hand up to his ear in the shape of a phone.

  I JUST WANT MY SHOE!!!

  He pul ed out his phone with a grin. A very cute, albeit impish, one.

  Then he held it up to me and waited.

  Gah!

  NOT GIVING YOU MY #!!

  He shrugged like no biggie, placed the shoe in front of him, and…

  serenaded it. His music was moving, little raindrops on my soul, his fingers adept and so different from the noise he had bombarded me with earlier. I was at a loss for dry-erase words. And apparently, I was not alone.

  Several people came out onto their balconies and listened, applauding when he stopped. I found myself leaning on my elbows against the railing, unwil ingly mesmerized by the resonating, majestic notes from songs I didn’t recognize.

  Guitar Boy played for a while longer, then sat around with my shoe, al the while ignoring my many adamant signs.