“And get plenty of rest, and drink lots of water.”
Claire hefted herself out and stalked into the shop and ordered four fish and chips combos, and when they were ready, we sat in the van and ate, and then we headed farther north to where the microbreweries had tasting rooms and tiny bars.
We drove around for hours and hours—so long that we had to stop for gas. Claire offered to drop us off at home, but we all wanted to stay together. Claire finally drove home as it got dark. When she took the boys upstairs, she found Dad sprawled across their king-size bed, snoring softly.
“For real?” She slammed the door. Then she opened it again. “Billy! Wake up!” But he didn’t or he pretended not to, so she slammed the door again. She stomped downstairs, leaving the twins standing in the hallway, each of them holding a picture book, a dazed look on their faces.
“It’ll be okay.” I ushered them into their room. We sat on the lower bunk, quiet until Corbin offered up his book, and then Owen put his on top, and then they had something to argue about.
I read the stories and tucked them in before I went downstairs.
“I don’t know what to do.” Claire was on the phone. “Remember before the boys were born? Remember how bad it was?”
I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to know.
I wanted to talk to Ruthie.
Not my mom, because I didn’t want her to know that it was getting worse.
Not Claire, because she was so deeply into it that she was nearly drowning.
Not Nancy, because I never really did want to talk to her.
Not Dan, either, because he always turned everything into a joke. He made light of all the hard things and expected me to do the same. Sometimes that was okay. But not now.
I wanted Ruthie, no matter what had happened between us. I used to be able to tell her anything. She knew all my other secrets, and even now that we weren’t speaking, I knew she’d never tell. I’d always trusted her before. I wanted Ruthie, who was so scientific about things. She could always apply a formula, and if one didn’t exist, she’d invent one. She’d listen to me cry, but she’d never cry along with me. She’d listen, but she wouldn’t sympathize.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I wrote to her anyway, even though I wasn’t sure that I did trust her anymore. I told her about Mrs. Patel, and about my dad. I even told her about Salix, because if I didn’t, it would make things worse.
I don’t even think it’s legal for me to go into a bar, I finished. Let alone twenty-six of them. Can you believe it?
My finger hovered over the delete button. I’d written it, and now I did not have to send it. That was what Nancy said. Write the letter. Win the catharsis. Erase the letter; burn the letter; delete the letter; rip it up; shred it. But don’t send it.
I hadn’t received an email or text from Ruthie since she’d invited me over that afternoon, after Jessica had already moved back to California. It was a couple of weeks later, and I had a good reason to email her, so I did. She emailed back almost right away, as if she’d been waiting.
I still had the email. And the identical text. I opened both.
Come over and help me make a bunch of hexaflexagons?
And I have something I want to show you.
I’m home. Come in.
r.
But that was a lie. Or if she did have something to show me, everything happened before she had a chance. Or, thinking back on it, maybe she did show me.
I’d tried writing her a couple of times since then, but what was I supposed to say? She should be the one getting in touch with me. Right? Or was I supposed to ask her all the questions and hope that she’d give me some answers?
I was mad.
I was embarrassed.
I was ashamed, and confused.
I was hurt.
And she should be all those things too. Plus she should be sorry.
Why should I be the one to reach out now, after all this time?
I should let her come to me.
She was the one who needed to apologize.
But I sent it anyway. And once I had, there was no way to take it back. For better or for worse.
For better: I missed Ruthie, and I wanted her to be my best friend again.
For worse: she’d delete it before even reading it and never talk to me again. Everything would stay weird. I started another email.
I miss you.
Send.
And then one more.
I don’t even know if you’ll get any of these. Or if you’ll read them.
And then it was almost funny.
I’ll stop now.
Send.
And lastly, a joke. Because she told terrible jokes.
Q. Why did the mushroom get invited to all the parties?
A. Because he was such a fungi!
Send.
Maybe she would delete them all.
But maybe she would read them. And maybe she’d remember what it was like before Jessica.
On Friday morning, my phone buzzed. I groped for it, knocking my sketchbook and pencils onto the floor.
Just on the ferry now, coming back to Van. See you this afternoon!
Salix?
Salix!
But I had sent that text. I’d canceled our date. And then Salix hadn’t texted back.
But there was my text, still open. Not sent. I hadn’t sent it. My stomach flipped. I hadn’t messed it up after all! Salix hadn’t ignored me. I had just beaten myself at my own impulsiveness, for once.
I deleted the one from before and then, with shaking hands, texted her back. 2pm, right?
Salix texted back immediately. The trick will be getting an outside table.
Inside would be okay too, I texted.
No. Salix’s reply came quickly. It’s a beautiful day. Leave it to me. I’ll get an outside table. Don’t worry. See you then.
I sat there, stunned. There was still a date, and it was that afternoon. My first date. Only, no. Not really. But sort of. Did Jessica count? We held hands at school. She sat on my lap during lunch. We kissed a lot. But we never went out out. I went to her house on the weekends and we watched movies and baked cookies. She was so bold at first, up to and including that amazing—and also awful—first kiss. Just before she moved back to California, she passed me a note in class. Want to sleep over and do stuff? With xoxoxox and a happy face. I was sick with nerves while her parents served supper. I was sick with nerves when we watched a movie, holding hands and pulling away whenever her mom came downstairs. I was sick with nerves when we went to bed, locking her bedroom door and stripping until we were naked. Absolutely naked. When I slid into bed beside her, my nerves went away. But hers didn’t. She lay rigid beside me, and so we hardly touched. All her talk, and I don’t think she knew what to do with a girl. And I never claimed that I did either.
When I told my dad and Claire that I was gay, Dad laughed. I can see why, he said. And then he winked. I like girls too. I cringed. And then Claire: I knew it! She hugged me. You know, I had a girlfriend for about three months back in college.