“You fucking coward,” I whisper, and I don’t know how it doesn’t come out as a shout. “You let Theo . . .” I’m getting louder, speaking through my teeth as tears blind me. “You let Theo die.” I jump up from the bed, squeezing my eyes and fists shut. “I would’ve risked my life for him!”
“You can’t know that, Griffin. Not until you’re facing a moment like that.”
“I would’ve never stood by and watched Theo die!”
Jackson jumps up and he holds my arms. I don’t know if he’s trying to stop me from shaking or keep me from walking out, but I break out of his grip and punch him in the face, which surprises both of us, and then I punch him in the face again, which only surprises him. Nothing could surprise me right now. I feel as if I’m watching myself from a distance.
Jackson’s nose is bleeding. He looks up at me, shaking his head. “You’re the one who sent him into the ocean in the first place! He was listening to one of your voice mails and needed alone time. Don’t blame this all on me.”
I’m so dizzy I almost confuse the blood on my hands as my own. The last message I ever left Theo was telling him we had to talk about that taboo thing we promised we’d never talk about . . .
Jackson may not have saved Theo, but I’m the one who killed him.
I run out of Jackson’s house in my socks. I don’t know if I should go back or forward, left or right. I go left because that’s my default. My options suck because I’m not in my city, where I can run home and wait in my bed. Moments later I throw up on the clean sidewalk, and no surprise again: I don’t feel any better.
When I find my way back to Jackson’s, he stays out in the living room while I pack—well, shove all my clothes back into my backpack and collect my things. I get a text telling me my cab is outside. I’m in a daze when I say goodbye to Ms. Lane, shaking her hand, and thank her with a smile no one could ever believe is legit. I put on my backpack and head to the door, where Jackson is standing.
“Griffin. Do you want me to drive you? I can—”
I pictured this moment on my walk back here, where I would speed past him as if he’s no one, but I stop at the door. I don’t know if I want to punch him two more times or hug him goodbye and apologize for being such a horrible human being. But I can’t let him off the hook. So all I do is look him in the eye and hope he never forgets the face of someone he helped break beyond repair. Someone he tried fixing out of guilt.
I keep moving and get into the cab. I don’t turn back to look at Jackson. I lower the windows and take in the smells one final time because I will never return. Thinking about home is what helps me through the slow crawl of the airport—the faces I can turn to once I’m back, the only faces I can trust.
The plane takes off on schedule. The heights and helplessness don’t bother me this time around. There are some strong winds, and when the plane sways unexpectedly, it feels like my heart drops to my stomach. But I don’t freak out or wish Jackson or anyone is here beside me. I just stare out the window, wondering what it would be like to have this view if the plane actually crashed.
Friday, December 16th, 2016
I’m going to therapy this morning because a promise is a promise. And unlike some others, I want to honor mine. I leave my gryphon pins inside the drawer with the rest of Theo’s belongings and change into one of my own sweaters instead of his hoodie. My dad is accompanying me to my first session, to be there for me. I suspect he also wants to make sure there’s zero chance I’ll hop on a plane and never come back.
“Shotgun, Griff?” Dad asks as we get into the car.
“I’m good,” I lie. He should know better than to ask me to sit on his right on the very morning we’re going to see someone about my compulsions. He’s still angry with me, not that I blame him.
I stretch out in the backseat and cover my face with my peacoat. Theo used to get concerned whenever I slept with the comforter over my head, like I was going to suffocate by the time he woke up next to me. I didn’t get to wake up next to Theo too often—not romantically, at least, since we had plenty of sleepovers—but the times we did get to catch each other’s eyes opening were great. But I won’t dwell on them. He moved on.
I have to do the same.
Twenty minutes or so later, the car stops. I hear my dad’s seatbelt click and retreat back into its metallic reel. My jacket slides off of me. “Wake up, we’re here . . .” He looks me dead in the eye, and I turn around, hiding my face against the backrest. “Griffin, it’s okay to cry.”