He placed a palm on my knee, which somehow made me think of the perfection of a pat of golden butter melting into a warm muffin. Maybe I was hungrier than I’d admit?
He said, “Just because you look right for each other doesn’t mean you are. Life’s too short to stay with someone for the sake of appearances. Don’t do that. I feel like you’d be better off apart.”
I bristled. “And you are inserting yourself into my business why exactly?”
“Because this has been on my mind for a while and I couldn’t not say it to you. Honestly, it all goes back to Macey. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.”
I felt a pang of jealousy, quickly followed by self-loathing. What kind of person does that?
Braden explained, “She let Weston walk all over her. They were so unhappy together. She and I went way back. We were friends ever since our peewee soccer team, but I didn’t say anything to her because Weston’s my boy. Bro Code. Now I wish I had. Wish I’d interfered. Wish I’d told her, you deserve more. I’d rather have both of them furious with me, but both of them here, you know? Macey’s...”
He stopped and took an uneven breath. He didn’t seem like he could say the word suicide. “Macey’s passing hit me pretty hard.”
I couldn’t look him in the eye, instead fixing my gaze downward to where his giant paw rested on my knee. The weight of his hand on my leg felt like the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth; without it I might just fly off into the stratosphere.
“It hit us all hard,” I replied, more to myself than him. Macey was so full of life, so quick to make everyone feel comfortable, so eager to please. We hung out a lot in chorus in junior high. While we didn’t have any classes together at NSHS, we remained friendly. She’d crack me up, the way she’d run around in her overall-shorts, paired with her endless supply of ridiculously patterned socks, perpetually showing off her Irish Dance moves.
Despite his size, something about our conversation made Braden seem smaller, almost fragile somehow. “Something about her being with Weston, like, diminished her spark. They weren’t better together. They were wrong as a couple. I know now she was struggling with depression and her choices weren’t Weston’s fault, but still. They were bad together and I didn’t intervene. If I’d said or done something, maybe we’d have a different outcome. That’s why I’m here, right now, telling you I’m seeing the same kind of thing with you and Liam. You guys need to go your separate ways. Please. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
For some reason, I couldn’t acknowledge any kernel of truth in his observation. I could tell he wanted me to open up, but instead I shut down, retorting with, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Then I put on my headphones and ignored him until he finally took his hand off my knee and quietly left my room.
I’ve hated myself for how I handled our conversation, to the point that it’s impacting my studies and my state of mind and my workout. That wasn’t fair.
Liam and I will be okay.
Mostly.
Eventually.
We can even be perfect if we just work a little harder at it.
I shake my head, pushing away thoughts of Braden, particularly the part where his hand on my knee felt so profoundly right, like a second skin, like coming home.
Head back in the game, Mallory, I say to myself. Keep moving forward.
I flex my legs and get ready to run the stairs again.
Wait, what number was I on?
You know what?
Screw it.
I’ll just start over.
One. Two. Three.
Mallory
7:45 AM
sorry 4 last night, been thinking abt what u said, u may be right
Liam
7:46 AM
what r u talking abt?
Mallory
7:46 AM
shit-meant 4 braden
Liam
7:47 AM
right, bc why ever bother to apologize to me?
13
KENT
“You’re shitting me.”
Stephen stops in the street, too overcome with incredulity to take another step. I’m totally there with him, save for I’m still actually moving.
“I shit you not, Stephen,” Simone replies.
I’m clutching my head in disbelief, elbows jutting out on either side, shocked. How can this be?
I say, “Simone please, explain a scenario in which that’s even a vague possibility.”
“You act like we’re somehow opposed or trying to avoid it,” Simone says. “We’re not. Far from it. In fact, living close to Chicago was a huge selling point of the whole book project.”
“Boggled.” I point to myself. “Do you see this handsome face? This is the face of a man who is boggled.”
Sometimes it’s easy to forget I’m a man, even though I’m eighteen. Because I look so much younger, I make it a point to remind myself and those around me. I’m old enough to vote, to die in some far-flung war, or to pick up a pack of Camels at the gas station, yet waitresses often still hand me the kiddie menu. I let that one slide, though.
(You heard me, Denny’s, Imma enjoy your chicken fingers and grilled cheeses at the discounted price, TYVM.)
People probably peg me for twelve when they don’t know me. Hell, I don’t even need to shave yet. (Still do, though, in case it helps.) I claim to be cool that this baby-face gets me cheaper tickets at the movies and keeps my Physics Olympics competitors from realizing I’m a serious contender until it’s too late, but that’s not entirely true. Guess it’s kind of like baggage that I’ve learned to navigate. No, I don’t love looking like a preteen, but I don’t let it define me.
My mom says the men in our family are late bloomers. She swears they all fill out by the time college rolls around and that my Uncle Dave grew eleven inches when he was a senior in high school. My Nana Swenson had to buy him new pants every month that year because they kept turning into floods on him. Hope this happens for me. I’m not about going through life in a booster seat, you know?
“So no Field Museum? No Michigan Ave?” Stephen demands.
“We’ve been down to Devon Avenue, does that count?” Simone asks. “We had to go to Patel Brothers to pick up specific Indian ingredients to make rava kasari for Janmashtami.”
“Those are what now?” I ask.
“Well, one’s a type of pistachio dessert and the other’s the holiday that celebrates Krishna, the eighth avatar of Vishnu.”
“You guys are Hindu?” I ask.
“Sort of. For mum and me, it’s like Hinduism is less about religion and more about cultural traditions. That’s why we also decorate a tree and load up on figgy pudding at Christmas.”
“Best of all worlds, right?” I say.
Stephen’s not even listening to us. He’s still too wound up about her visiting downtown proper. “Pfft, West Rogers Park is barely within Chicago limits. Doesn’t count. What about the Sears Tower? You have to have been there by now, right?”
By simple association, Stephen reads younger, too. I’d put him at about fourteen when he’s with me...which is pretty much always.
“Is that the Willis Tower?” she queries.