I’m not giving my face a chance to betray me, so I hug him before he can open his eyes. “You deserve this, Theo. I’ll help out any way I can.” I hope that’s not an empty offer for both our sakes.
I’m scared, though. The possibility of Theo’s moving across the country sort of feels like it could be the beginning of the end. I was already nervous about what was going to happen to us when I enter my senior year as he begins college. Now there’s a chance he’ll be two years ahead of me. It doesn’t feel promising. I can’t beat these paranoid feelings out of my head.
I back away, and he’s beaming. His face lights up in the same way when a trailer comes on for a new movie he’s really excited about. He has this preview in his head, and he can’t wait to see if it’s everything he’s daydreaming about.
I smile for him. But it’s a lie. I’m not happy.
TODAY
Thursday, November 24th, 2016
Now would be a good time to retreat to our zombie-apocalypse bunker, because the end of the world is here: I’m on my way to your house to pick up the person who stole you from me.
I don’t hate Jackson, Theo. But I don’t have to be his friend. The only reason I was even friendly when I met him was because I couldn’t be an asshole. I couldn’t ever look like I was against him or wanted to sabotage your relationship. When we had our eventual reunion, you would be able to see how my love for you trumped my own happiness. But now—as vulnerable or pathetic as this sounds—Jackson is someone I’m turning to. I’m not strong enough to suffer alone.
It’s snowing a little and freezing, and the cold air bites at my exposed neck, ears, and my hands when I pull out my phone to text Jackson: I’m two songs away.
I delete the text and in its place send, I’m like six minutes away.
Jackson wouldn’t have understood the first text; I’d only send that to you. I’m not confusing him for you, but I’m walking the usual route to reach your block. In the time it’s taking me to fight against the wind, to pass the supermarket with bikes chained to parking meters, the car rental place, the bagel spot that is stingy with their jelly, and the pet shop with the lights currently off, I’ve heard “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” by Bob Dylan twice. You knew how to measure my distance in songs. Jackson doesn’t.
This block is legit memory lane for me, and the sudden force of it is almost too much. The spot in the street by the post office where you almost got hit by the car, leading to your broken promise of never dying; your neighbor’s stoop where we sat and cried after breaking up, wiping our tears with sleeves and each other’s hands; the front step leading into your lobby that you always forgot about, stubbing your toe at least twice; the sidewalk where we played Frisbee, waiting for the mailman to bring your letter of acceptance; the many times we got locked out, but most especially that week after we discovered sex and couldn’t get into your empty apartment; how after you moved to California I would sometimes find my lovesick self standing in front of the intercom, wishing I could press 2B and summon you down here into my arms.
I’m not going upstairs. I’d never make it out of there. I can’t even get myself to go into the lobby.
I text Jackson: I’m downstairs. And cold.
Within a couple of minutes, Jackson comes rushing toward the front door, pulling a coat on top of a lighter jacket. Maybe that jacket is one he uses for those supernatural rainy days in California, days where he pulls over on the highway for life-changing boys like you.
That wasn’t called for. Condom-over-mouth: I know the drill, Theo.
“Hey,” I say, throwing a what’s-up nod. Jackson is a foot away, already shivering, and I almost lean in for a half-hug situation but pull back.
“Hey.” Jackson zippers his coat and tugs a hat down over his head, some hair sticking out from the sides. “Sorry, I couldn’t find my other glove upstairs.” He slides one glove on and sticks his bare hand inside his coat pocket.
I would’ve drop-kicked you if you returned to New York with this can’t-soldier-through-the-cold attitude.
“Where are we off to?” he asks.
“Not sure,” I say. “Follow me.”
For a while I take in nothing but cars honking, the slosh of melting snow, the occasional passersby on their phones. I glance to my right, and Jackson has fallen behind, side by side with my shadow cast from a building’s beaming sensor lights. He spins, walking backward to dodge the wind. I switch from my straightforward left to his backward left. But then he flips around and I swap back to my original spot while he holds his scarf in front of his face. I’m sure I dizzied you with that dance, Theo, but Jackson has no idea what the hell is happening. We turn a corner where we’re protected a little better from the heavier winds.
“How was dinner?” I ask him. I figure hearing it from him won’t be even a tenth as painful as hearing it from Ellen or Russell or, worse, Denise.
“Not great,” Jackson says. “They didn’t want to sit at the table. We set up base in the living room and ordered some Chinese food. Denise put on the Disney channel, but I don’t think she was watching. I offered to bake some cornbread or brownies, but no one was really interested.”
“Denise didn’t want to help bake?”
“No,” he says.
It’s even worse than I thought.
Jackson stops in front of a shuttered deli, jump-starts again, getting a little ahead of me as if he has any clue where we should go. I speed-walk and catch up, which, given the same length of our long legs, is a bit of a race, but I win; it’s nice winning against him.