“I don’t know what kind of girls I like, Griffin, because I think my type is just good people, period.” His voice softens. “I’m sorry we never had a real conversation about this, but trust me that this isn’t something all that serious in my head. It’s not keeping me up at night because I’m happy with you, and I’m not counting on someone better coming along.” Theo grabs my hands. There’s no lightness to his voice, only conviction. “Please don’t feel threatened.”
He kisses my cheek.
I believe him, in this moment, but it’s what can happen in the future that chokes me a little. I’m not going to say anything, though. Being paranoid can’t possibly take me anywhere good.
I kiss his cheek.
“Was that supposed to be a fight?” Wade asks. He doesn’t even bother to look up from his phone, but I appreciate his being here to lighten the mood. “Not enough blood.”
We walk in silence for a bit.
“Griff?” Theo says finally.
“Yeah?”
“Two important things going forward.”
“What’s up?”
“One: We only order condoms online from here on out. Two: We’re definitely never using those condoms your father bought us.”
TODAY
Thursday, November 24th, 2016
I thought nothing could beat the weirdness of last year’s Thanksgiving. You were supposed to fly back to New York to bounce between our families’ dinners. It was our tradition. Instead, you stayed out in California and joined Jackson’s family for the night. Your parents were bummed, Denise was bummed, Wade was bummed, I was bummed; we were all really freaking bummed because it was the first time we were going to see you since August. But we didn’t give you shit for it because you said you really needed to concentrate on homework—specifically your animation, the one about the warrior fishermen catching dragon eggs in a volcano, which you ultimately abandoned anyway.
My entire Thanksgiving was spent at my aunt’s apartment, wondering if you were liking Jackson’s family, why you were becoming so obsessed with Jackson himself. It wasn’t a comfortable headspace. Suffocating, actually, but you were alive and still the endgame. I’d go back in time for those problems.
My aunt’s apartment is hell-hot like usual. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rosie.”
I’ll never forget the first time you met Rosie, confusing her for a slimmer version of my mother, who was heavier at the time, congratulating her on all her lost weight, which everyone found funny, even Mom. Rosie may be half a decade older than my mom, but she’s been consistently going to the gym, and I think I can even feel some abs coming in as we hug.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Griffin,” she says, squeezing me. She tries to look me in the eye but I completely detach, so she greets my parents, giving my mom a kiss. Their sisterhood has always made me want a sibling. Grieving would probably feel a little less lonely if I could turn to someone my own age, maybe a little older and wiser and scarred from battles I’m fighting for the first time. Maybe I wouldn’t have done the things I’ve done.
The kitchen smells like cornbread and gravy (for the mashed potatoes you obsessed over); there’s turkey, stuffing, mac’n’cheese I won’t ever touch, yellow rice, and then I’m hit with the sweetness of the cranberry sauce. I throw off my jacket, but the kitchen is still baking me alive because I’m in your hoodie, so I make my way out into the living room. My little cousins charge me, trying to climb my legs. I don’t have smiles for them. I can barely even get their names straight because I see them so rarely. They live upstate and their names all begin with R, an insane tradition that is eventually going to lead to kids named Rasputin or Raiden from Mortal Kombat. I soldier through the hugs and sympathies from my older cousins, but my grandma is the one who really wears me out.
“Griffin, come sit,” she requests, patting the air because there’s nowhere beside her I can actually sit. I crouch, letting her take my hand with both of hers.
She turns ninety this December. I lost you at eighteen. She lived a life as a military mechanic, a manager at a pharmacy, a great-grandmother, a wife to a man I never met and later to a man I never liked. You lived a life as a genius, an honors student with a promising future, a first love to me, and then a boyfriend to Jackson. She lived a lot in her life, but you got cut off before we could set things right.
“How is your eye doing?” Grandma asks. She’s probably remembering that time my classmate Jolene accidentally elbowed me in the eye—in sixth grade. There’s dementia for you. My cousins sometimes crack jokes because nothing’s funnier to them than someone’s mind abandoning them and taking on a life of its own.
“My eye is good, Grandma,” I say. “Much better. How are you doing? How’s Primo?” Her brown-bellied, yellow canary got sick a little while ago.
“Have you prayed today?”
“I prayed this morning,” I lie. Lying about prayer would’ve felt a lot more sinful if I ever believed in God, but well, those thoughts are better suited for someone with reasons to believe in the miracle of resurrection.