“But Theo lived in New York,” I say. I sit up. I can’t believe my parents have made Jackson so uncomfortable he’s ready to go. “Sending me to a different school isn’t going to change that.”
“But I don’t live here,” Jackson says quietly. “Theo isn’t here for me the way he is for you.” He wobbles from the center of the deflating air mattress to the edge and sits with his elbows on his knees. “I already texted my dad, and he’s looking into getting me a ticket this weekend. It might be hard because of the snow and cancellations, but we’ll see.”
So that’s it, then. Once he’s gone, I know I’m going to end up back in that black hole of worthlessness. I can already feel his support being sucked away. I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling.
Jackson fills the silence with a list of everything he’s been missing back home anyway, always in pairs because, like you, he’s grown hyperconscious of my needs. He misses his mom (a lot) and dad (a little); his dog and the runs they go on; his bedroom, your dorm room; his school halls and classrooms (not enough to resume classes, though); his car and driving in general; the sun and sleeveless shirts; iced coffee and popsicles; digging his toes into the grass at the park and into the sand at the beach.
“I would miss all that stuff, too,” I say, even though a lot of it is alien to me, closer to an alternate universe you’d create than my reality. I don’t know what it’s like to have the freedom of a parent-free space like a dorm room where you could’ve come over without us feeling like there was a spotlight on what we were doing. I don’t know anything about getting behind the wheel of my own car—or any car—and deciding my own path, wasting as much gas as I want because it’s gas I bought with my own money. I don’t even know what it’s like to have a dog. But I can’t fault Jackson for missing the things I do get, like my toes in the grass; drinking iced tea; the heat I feel on my arms and the back of my neck when I’m in a tank top; and even something as annoying as shielding my eyes from the sun, because I’ll take brightness and sweat over darkness and chills anytime.
Jackson takes a deep breath. “It’s almost been one month . . .”
I know.
“This is for the best. It may sound stupid, but I want to be back home on that day,” Jackson says.
I envy him so much. He gets to go back to his land of sunshine, where in spite of the pain, good memories of you will greet him. I’m doomed to freezing weather that will keep me trapped in my room, alone with impulsive thoughts I don’t want to act on. I almost joke how it’ll be nice to have my room back to myself, how I hated competing for shower time with him anyway, but they’re lies. Jackson is not my enemy. He’s filled cold silences with warm stories, even if those stories sometimes hit too close and burned me.
Jackson gets up and approaches my bed. “Can I sit?”
I’ve been really good about not letting him on my bed; he’s never asked, I’ve never invited. He’s always chilled on the bedside chair or the air mattress. But I’m vulnerable, so without moving an inch from my current position, I turn my eyes away from the ceiling to his and say yes.
He sits down at the edge of my bed, not pushing his luck by getting too comfortable.
“Thanks for letting me stay here, Griffin. Seriously. I still feel broken—that’s not your fault, that sounds bad—but I don’t feel like a million different pieces anymore. I’m never expecting to feel whole again. I don’t think you are either. I hate the idea of leaving you here alone.” He shuts up, and his silence isn’t the same silence I’m okay with, the one where he and I don’t have to say anything and are just cool with someone being around. “Are you going to be okay?”
That’s when it comes to me. Out of nowhere, like those genius epiphanies you had all the time, I’m possessed with brilliance. “I’ll go with you. You can show me what Theo’s life was like out there. We could keep each other company on the thirteenth.” Saying these words out loud, I feel like I’m flying right out of that black hole.
“Would your parents let you go?”
“I can work it out with them. Are you cool with me going with you?”
“Absolutely.” Jackson smiles. “Let me text my dad.”
He pulls out his phone, but I throw my arms around his neck, and his arms wrap around my waist. I should pull away, but I don’t.
Friday, December 9th, 2016
“I’ve missed family hang-outs since the divorce,” Jackson tells my parents over dinner—his “farewell dinner,” as my dad put it. We’re buttering them up now in the hopes they’ll let me go with him on Monday. “This is back before my parents took shots at each other, obviously, but for the most part it was cool catching them up about my day. I think I’ve missed home-cooked meals even more, though. The steak tacos really lived up to their glory, Mr. Jennings.”
“Glad to hear,” my dad says, wiping his mouth clean of salsa. “But seriously, call me Gregor.”