The pressure is building, but no one says anything.
I’m pummeling myself to the ground, and I’m drowning without trying to surface, all at once.
I reach for the doorknob. I walk into a space of stale air and grief.
There’s a big cutout of your face at the entrance. Your parents chose that awkward photo from your junior-year class pictures, but not the one we agreed was best, the one that was going to be your author photo on your memoir: where your smile was a little on the shy side, and your blue eyes held a hint of mischief. Maybe it wasn’t the impression they wanted others to have of you. It’s completely lost on me why your parents went ahead and chose it for your funeral. But I won’t say anything. Who knows where Russell’s and Ellen’s heads are these days.
I approach your cutout with my parents shadowing me, offering condolences to God-knows-who. My eyes lock with yours, flat as they may be. I almost talk myself out of it, but I touch the picture, my fingerprints marking your glossy cheek. My fingers trail down to the bronzed card in the bottom center of the frame. I trace each letter:
theodore daniel mcintyre
february 10, 1998—november 13, 2016
“Griffin.”
I really don’t want to face Wade right now. I haven’t been speaking to him as much over the past couple of months, not since everything that went down between you two recently. He tried reaching out several times over the past week, of course, but I never answered the phone or the door. But I turn. Wade is wearing one of the ties you got him a couple of Christmases ago, and he’s picking at a scab on his elbow. He’s either avoiding my eyes or his contacts are throwing his attention elsewhere. I’m sure he’s feeling guilty for not talking to you when he had the chance.
“Sorry for your loss, Griffin,” Wade says.
Your former best friend gets that you’re my loss. That’s history right there. “You too,” I manage.
I scan the crowd. I’m not surprised the rain didn’t affect the huge turnout. I wonder how many of these people have laughed since you died. I’m sure they’ve smiled at something stupid, like old funny photos in their phones or episodes of some comedy they maybe watched to get your death off their minds. But I want to know if they have busted out laughing so hard their rib cage hurt. I haven’t. I’m not mad at any of them if they have. It sucks because I know I’ll be alone in my grief for a while. I just want to know when it’ll be possible to laugh again. And when it’ll be okay.
Wade’s gaze finally fixes on me. “You going to talk to Jackson?”
Even after all this time, his name still strikes a nerve with me. “It’s not a priority,” I say. I should shut up or walk away.
“I know it’s different, but he’s probably the only other person here who gets what you’re going through.”
“What they had isn’t the same,” I say in spite of myself, fighting back tears and screams. I look away again so Wade won’t try to comfort me. I see your grandfather holding himself up with his cane, your aunt Clara handing out packages of tissues she probably bought in bulk like everything else, your cousin knitting what looks like a scarf from here, but no sign of your parents. I get it together and ask Wade where they are.
“Russell went out for a smoke,” he says. “Been a while. He might be on his fourth by now. And Ellen is already sitting in the front with Denise. With Theo.”
She’s with your body, not you.
“I’ll go find Russell.”
“Before you go—”
I head for the door. My parents see me move and come for me as if I’m trying to get out of here for good. I stop when my mom asks me where I’m going, asks if I want to go with her to offer my condolences to Ellen. I don’t have it in me this second, though. I try to play dumb and focus on my surroundings instead. I find your uncle Ned in the crowd, reading from the Bible, and catch Aunt Clara busting out her own tissues as she cries with a neighbor I maybe recognize.
But my eyes return to the door in no time.
Your boyfriend is blocking the entrance. He’s staring directly at me.
HISTORY
Thursday, June 12th, 2014
Our first date, and we discover it’s raining when we get off the train.
“Good news or bad news?” Theo asks.
“Always get the bad news out of the way first. This is New York, remember? Where were you raised?”
“I don’t have an umbrella,” Theo says.
“And the good news?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Your good news sucks.”
If we had time to waste, we’d wait out the storm here at the station. But it’s Pop Culture Trivia Night at Bonus Diner, this new diner-slash-arcade, near Union Square, and it begins at six. We haul ass, hating every exposed corner we’re forced to wait on before it’s our turn to cross the street, and I’m really happy the school year is almost over because there’s no way the textbooks in our backpacks are going to be much use to us after this storm.
Damn. The place is roaring with chatter, but there are tables still free. I feel betrayed by how cold it is in here. Indoor places should always be the opposite of the weather outside. No one has ever entered a restaurant on a scorching summer day and gotten pissed at the air-conditioning.
But I’m not letting anything ruin my first date with Theo. I fight through my shivers and register our two-man team. We’re seated at table sixteen—good number. I run to the bathroom quickly to try and dry myself with paper towels. I return, tagging Theo out to go and do the same. I survey the room and only then do I feel warmer. We’re younger than anyone else here, but I immediately decide all my opponents here are pretty much the coolest people in the universe.