I open the window and you look up at me, penitent. I step back and you hoist yourself over the short ledge and slip into the room.
“I shouldn’t have walked away from you,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.” We sit on the bed and you take my hands.
“Have you … thought more about it?” you ask.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“And…”
“Gav, I’m not quitting my job. It sucks that you don’t trust me—”
“How am I supposed to trust you when you break the rules we agreed on? We said we wouldn’t touch a member of the opposite sex and then you go off and kiss Kyle—”
“For a scene in class!”
I can’t believe you’re bringing that up again.
“And let Matt fucking hold you—”
I press my hand over your mouth. “Gavin, my parents!”
You close your eyes and I let my hand drop.
“I don’t want to fight,” I whisper.
You glare at me. “Then stop working there.”
I keep my eyes on yours. “No.”
It feels so good to say that word to you. You look like you’re going to say something else, then just shake your head.
“All right, Carter. You win.”
I lean forward and kiss you, magnanimous in my victory. “Besides, what would you have done without all the free cookies?”
“That’s a good point,” you say grudgingly. You kick off your shoes and crawl into bed with me. “Tell me why you were crying.”
And just like that, we’re not fighting and back in love. You hold me tight against you as I tell you about my mom. I wonder if she’s curled up against The Giant or if she’s all alone on her side of the bed, her eyes wide open.
“I feel so bad for her,” I whisper.
She doesn’t have someone who will make the clouds go away and the sun come out. She doesn’t have you. I hold you tighter, kiss you all over your face.
“What was that for?” I can hear the smile in your voice.
“Just because,” I say.
You press your lips against my forehead and soon your breathing is soft and even.
I lie awake for a long time, listening to the beat of your heart.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ever since I refused to quit my job, you and I fight every single time we talk—being with you is like walking a tightrope all day, every day. I’m always tensed for the fall. If I don’t respond to a call or text from you right away, you freak out. I changed the passcode on my phone because I was afraid you’d see Nat’s and Lys’s emails. They’re engaged in a full-on campaign to get me to break up with you. It was also kind of a test, to see if you’re actually as unreasonably jealous as they say you are. One night when we’re out at a restaurant, I go to the bathroom and purposely leave my phone on the table. When I get back you’re seething. What are you trying to hide from me? you say. It was a test, I answer. You failed. I refuse to give you the passcode and we end our date early and don’t talk for three days.
End this shit, Nat and Lys say.
I can’t. I just … can’t. People who make each other this unhappy should break up. Duh. But right when I think I’m going to do it, something good will happen. Something that reminds me why you’re my soul mate, like convincing the person who runs the mall’s audio to let you sing a song for me, live, during one of my shifts at the Honey Pot.
“Attention, everyone in the mall. This song is dedicated to my favorite cookie baker.”
Matt and I look at each other. He mouths, “What the fuck?”
“I think…” The first chords of “Anthem” play and I know for sure it’s you. “That’s Gavin.”
“Let me be your anthem, baby, let me be your song,” you sing.
A customer in line gestures to the speakers above us. “You know that guy?”
I blush crimson and nod. “That’s my boyfriend.”
“He has a beautiful voice,” she says.
I smile, proud. “He does.”
*
IT’S THE MIDDLE of February—only four months until graduation—and now that rehearsals for the spring play are in full swing, we don’t have as much time together. I find myself feeling relieved that I don’t get to see you and I know that’s a bad sign. But I still can’t give you up. I made the biggest sacrifice of my life for you when I didn’t turn in that NYU application. That can’t be for nothing.
At school we’re doing Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night—one of my favorites. Miss B’s mother is sick and she’s asking me to fill in for her a lot, since I’m the assistant director. I love every second of it: casting, running rehearsals, working individually with the actors, meeting with the crew and designers. And I realize something important about myself that I didn’t know before, or at least maybe it wasn’t true before: part of why I love directing is that it’s just mine. And I like having something that has nothing to do with you. It makes me feel like … like me again.
A few weeks into rehearsals, I’m on my way to Ashland, Oregon, a special trip for drama kids that only happens once every four years. Since all my paychecks go toward paying rent, I’ve had to borrow the money for the trip from my gram. I don’t want you to pay me back, she said. It’ll be our little secret. Just one more reason why Gram is my favorite relative. For a whole weekend we’ll be immersing ourselves in Shakespeare, seeing several shows, taking workshops, and—best of all—being in a town expressly designed for theater (ahem, I mean theatre) nerds.
You are furious that I’m going on the trip. It starts the day after Valentine’s Day, which, instead of being a mushy love day, has turned into the year anniversary of when you tried to kill yourself. You took me out to dinner, but you were distracted and not entirely sober. I (stupidly) made the comment that my trip was perfect timing because it would be good for us to have a little space. Now you’re convinced I’m going to break up with you when I get back. You begged me not to go, said you’d take me after graduation. We’re more important than this trip, you said. I have to play a show. I need you there. But I’m sticking to my guns.