“Cheers.”
We clink glasses and swallow our first sips of champagne. It’s dry, crisp, and sour—exactly as the bottle advertised. We don’t close my door. In the event my parents do realize we’ve gone missing, I don’t want them thinking we’re having sex, especially if there’s any chance it’ll lead to another awkward talk with my dad. But it’s about to be midnight, and we’ll want to be alone for a few reasons.
I place my champagne down on my dresser and turn the TV on so we don’t miss the countdown. Four minutes until 2015.
“We’re going to kick next year’s ass, right?”
“Maybe we don’t kick next year’s ass, bully,” Theo says, throwing on his best serious face. “Maybe we invite it into our homes and take it out to dinner?” He cracks. “Nah, we’re kicking next year’s ass.” Theo places his glass down, too. He comes into my arms, holding me tight. He rests his chin on my shoulder for a few moments before snuggling his forehead against my neck, flesh on flesh.
The countdown is beginning, and the freezing crowd in Times Square is a chorus carrying us into January. My chest is tightening.
“Four,” I say.
“Three,” Theo says.
“Two.”
“One.”
“Happy New Year.” I shake my head in disbelief, marveling at the guy in front of me. It’s New Year’s, and I get to hold someone, and I get to be held. I get to kiss someone, and I get to be kissed. We kiss while “Auld Lang Syne” plays in the background, and I keep it together for as long as possible, but then I break and I’m crying.
“Griff, what’s up?”
“This song gets me sometimes.” I close my eyes. I’m a little embarrassed to be crying in front of him. “I love you, Theo.”
“I love me, too.”
“Be serious for two seconds. I’m crying.”
“Okay. One, two . . .”
“I take it back.”
“I love you more, Griffin,” Theo says, pulling me closer to him. “I’m blown away by how happy you make me. Thank you for being there for me when I’m stupid enough to think I’d rather be alone.”
When Theo gets into Santa Monica College—and he will because he’s Theo—it’ll be tough, but I apparently blow him away with how happy I make him. I won’t drop that ball.
I can’t predict what will happen this year, but I’m okay with more thunderstorms.
TODAY
Sunday, November 27th, 2016
I’m going to call him, okay?
I owe Jackson that, and I owe you that.
I sit on a bike railing, my feet swinging. It’s cold and getting dark, but it’s the only place where I’m certain of privacy since my parents are constantly in my space. I wait for the time to change, and once it’s 8:34, I hit call on Jackson’s nameless number. I might create a contact profile for him after this. He picks up after the fourth ring, dangerously close to the fifth.
“Griffin,” Jackson says. There’s water spraying in the background.
“Bad time?”
“I answer and make calls in the shower all the time,” Jackson says.
“Any phone casualties?”
“A couple,” Jackson admits, and I wonder if he’s as surprised by the lightness in his voice as I am. Maybe he’s even relieved to talk about something that won’t get him crying. “Did you get my text yesterday? I’m not sure if it went through or not but I—”
“I got it,” I interrupt. “I actually thought we should talk before you bounce. Unless you’re showering because you have somewhere else to be . . .”
“I don’t,” Jackson says. “I’m only showering because I have nothing else to do. Denise and her parents already went to bed.” It’s weird to hear Jackson refer to Russell and Ellen as Denise’s parents, not yours. “Did you want to come over? I’m sure Russell and Ellen won’t mind.”
“Dry up and get dressed,” I say. “There’s an entrance to Central Park on West Seventy-Second. It’s not that far from Theo’s, but if you get lost, use the map on your phone.”
“What time?”
I almost tell him I’ll be there in six songs. “I should be there in twenty minutes. See you then.”
I hang up, wondering if I’ve actually given him enough time to finish off his shower, properly dry himself so he doesn’t return to California with a killer cold, get dressed, track down his second glove, and find me at the park. If he’s late, he’s late. I’ve spent a lot of the past year waiting—mostly for you. Here’s hoping Jackson actually shows up.