“I shouldn’t have been there tonight,” he says. “I don’t belong.”
No, he doesn’t. He’s that blue W-shaped piece of the Celestial Sky puzzle you and I fought over, the one I kept trying to fit into the wrong spot despite your insistence. In the puzzle that is your house, Jackson doesn’t have a space carved out for him.
“I feel really guilty that Theo spent his last Thanksgiving with me.”
He should feel guilty. If you had known that was going to be your last Thanksgiving, I know you would’ve come home, even if it meant carting Jackson with you like luggage full of shiny new video games—ones you’d play for a while before your interest eventually faded because you missed the classics.
You and I have always been good about letting things go, especially things that are out of our control. I could probably throw some memories his way to prove this, but I’m hoarding them.
I remind myself that just because someone is forgiving, it doesn’t make asking for forgiveness easy. Remember that, Theo.
“Nothing you can do about it now,” I say after a minute.
I brace myself against another assault of cold air, the snow in my face. I hide my hands in my sleeves, folding my arms across my chest to keep my coat close. I stop walking when Jackson falls out of vision. He tucks his gloved fist in his pocket and holds his bare hand open in front of him. It seems backward at first, but I remember doing this as a kid. This must be Jackson’s first real snowfall, and he smiles when he catches some. He closes his hand, crushing the snowflakes; wipes it on his jeans afterward; and steps toward me.
“Can I tell you a Theo story?” Jackson asks. He’s speaking with the urgency of someone who’s been locked up inside his home all day, dying for human interaction, an urgency I understand.
Part of me wants to say yes, the other part is screaming, Hell no.
“I don’t want this to be weird, Griffin,” Jackson says. “We should be able to talk about Theo. If that’s impossible, we can part ways tonight and never see each other again. I’m sure that’s what everyone is betting will happen anyway.” He sounds sort of sad when he says it. He’s also one hundred percent right. “But I think we can be better than that.”
It’s true. I know it is. It’s why I’m out here in the freezing cold on Thanksgiving night. You would want us to keep your memory alive. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell that this person—the person who asked you to stop being friends with me—would suggest a relationship of our own. I don’t know if I can stand hearing about your happiness with him, but maybe it’ll help me understand you better. Maybe it’ll help me add pieces to the puzzle of your life. Time for a test run.
“What’s your Theo story?”
Jackson crouches, picking up snow and forging a snowball—maybe his first, I don’t know, since there’s been snow on the ground since before your funeral—and he throws it at the wall. “Theo freaked out after I told him I’d never touched snow before. It’s kind of a lie because there’s a photo of me as a kid making a snow angel by the Brooklyn Bridge, but I don’t actually remember any of that. Theo was hoping it would snow when we came for his birthday, just so he could see me . . .” He stops himself.
“So he could witness your first snow,” I say.
I get it. It’s like when you finally introduced me to the original Star Wars trilogy one weekend. Watching Jedi battles was fun, and imagining myself wielding a dual lightsaber was badass, too, but my favorite moment by far was the smile on your face after pressing play on your laptop. You turned to me like I was supposed to have already formed a glowing opinion, when all I’d seen were big yellow words info-dumping me.
Here’s where it gets tricky. Jackson’s story hurts, but only because I’ve experienced that same happiness before.
“Follow me,” I say. I know where we’re going now. I lead him toward Lincoln Center. I have my own story to share.
When I had you here, walking this walk with me, we held hands like no one would ever think there was anything off about it. We straggled to enjoy as much time away from parental supervision as possible, even when our socks were wet and our toes were cold. With Jackson, I hurry. Soon we’re at the entrance, walking across the wide, brightly lit steps. The elegant plaza and columns and grand banners promoting the latest ballet always reminded me of a setting I’d find in a fantasy novel—I told you that the first time we came here as a couple. I gravitate toward the Revson Fountain. I’d always called it the “big fountain” before you came along with your specifics. I know the flowing jets of water and lights are off because it’s winter, but there’s still a wrongness to it all, like the fountain has died and been abandoned.
“I’m going to go ahead and guess you and Theo came here and made wishes,” Jackson says.
For that brief moment I forgot Jackson was here. I’m about to break down and cry in front of him. I shiver, not from cold, and step away. He’s not someone I want a hug from.
“Yeah, we made wishes. And the whole thing is kind of bullshit.” I flip off the fountain. “Look, there are so many coins in here. People actually thought their spare change could buy them stuff, like actual riches or something else. We’re all suckers.”
Jackson stares at the water. “I always thought it was more religion than fantasy,” he says. “Ignore everyone throwing in money for more money. Everyone else is praying. Throwing a coin into a fountain is a little less disappointing than praying in some church. You go straight to the Big Man’s house, you expect results.”