As we watched, he said, “We’re seeing shrapnel from a supernova that exploded a billion years ago. This is that dying star’s last hurrah, burning up in our atmosphere after traveling so many light years. Doesn’t it make you feel small and insignificant, like nothing you do ultimately matters? Do you ever question why we’re even here if we’re so unimportant in the scheme of things?”
“Well, no, because it’s all a matter of perspective,” I replied. “Who’s to say what’s small or insignificant? I mean, who’s the arbiter of that? Are we two tiny beings in an infinite universe? Sure, yeah. But when you look at what’s finite in our lives—our families, teams, friends, activities, that’s where we take on meaning. That’s where we’re significant. A grain of sand on a beach is nothing, an anonymous, infinitesimal portion of billions of grains that are all the same. They’re interchangeable. Take away one grain and no one would ever notice. Place the same grain of sand in someone’s eye? Then it’s a big deal. Until it’s out, that grain becomes that person’s entire focus, it’s all they can consider until it’s gone. Context is everything. Our meaning comes from our context.”
“I heart your huge brain, Mallory,” he said.
“Shut up,” I replied, and we both laughed and watched the sky for a few minutes.
“Seriously, Mal? I wish I could see it your way,” he replied, his voice as wistful as I’d ever heard. “I don’t share your confidence about my place in the universe. I’ve got to wonder what I have to offer. I need to figure out how to come across as the single, all-important grain and not just one of the trillions across the Sahara, you know?”
I rolled over onto my side, propped up on my elbow, concerned by the tenor of what he said. “Hey, what’s going on with you? Everything cool?” I asked, placing a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken along with my own.
He looked up at me for a long time, not saying anything in response, our faces closer than they’d ever been before. As I hovered over him, a hank of my hair slid out of my ponytail and spilled down, tangling in his thick eyelashes. For a couple of seconds, the whole universe was him and me. My defenses disappeared.
Suddenly, being with Braden seemed the only logical choice and I knew he felt it, too.
Maybe witnessing me soften proved too overwhelming, because the next thing he’d said was, “Shit, I got a grain of Mallory in my eye! Get it out!” and he brushed away my hair and then grabbed me, lifting me up and tossing me in the water. I started splashing him and we were so loud, we woke up my mother who sent Theo out after us. Then he jumped in, too.
We never had another chance to continue the conversation that night, to recapture that moment. Just like that, exactly like the meteors above us, we’d burned brilliantly and profoundly, lighting up the heavens for a couple of glorious seconds before ultimately flaming out.
In retrospect, I realize his whole good-humor, larger-than-life thing was a mask, a role he played, the way he hid his true self and his true intentions to the world.
He was nothing but smiles for everyone until he decided he was done smiling.
See? My job here gives me perspective. There I was feeling bad about the Liam situation and then I remembered Braden, remembered what could have been if I’d been brave. If I’d been able to relinquish control. I should have let Liam go long before I did. We’d have both been happier. Instead, I kept stringing him along out of self-interest.
Thinking of Braden causes a physical ache. I don’t feel whole, like there’s a part of me missing. Braden’s a phantom limb. The pain of missing him overwhelms me. I carry my despair with me, like my movement is hindered, like I’m hauling around a fifty-pound pack on my back that I can never put down.
Thoughts of Braden consume my dreams. And even when those dreams morph into nightmares, I’m still so glad to be in his presence that I don’t care if we’re somewhere scary, as long as we’re together.
There’s a moment when my alarm goes off and I’m in the gray area between asleep and awake and I don’t yet remember that Braden’s gone. As I come to my senses, I recall the loss and everything comes rushing back and I feel like I’m pinned to the bed, so weighted down with grief that I can’t move.
I’m not the only one who’s struggling.
Theo’s having just as much trouble, so I’m making the effort to be there for him. Lately, he and I have taken to sitting on the sectional in the media room for hours, looking at pictures of Braden on the iPad. We have a million stories between us. In remembering him fondly, we feel like a tiny part of him remains alive.
Theo still clings to the belief that Braden was killed by accident, despite Owen bearing witness. He argues that because there was no note, his death was unintentional.
Considering how quiet Braden kept his problems, would he have committed his final thoughts to the page? That’s why I’m so desperate to get into his email.
Also, what if the impulse to end everything had truly been spur of the moment, completely unplanned? The train was running late that day due to a switching problem down the line. Normally, he’d have already been across the tracks and on campus by the time the Metra was due at the North Shore stop. What if the late train was too attractive a nuisance to ignore, a permanent solution to a fleeting thought?
But I don’t say any of this to Theo; he’s not ready to hear it.
Sometimes I wonder which of us is more heartsick. I figured one day the three of us would all be grown-ups together, with the nonsense and hierarchies of high school behind us, and then Braden and I might finally happen. We’d be older then, and Theo would be less likely to resent our getting together. I mean, maybe. Regardless of what might or might not eventually happen with him and me, I assumed Braden would be someone who was in my life permanently.
How could I know that permanence was so ephemeral, that forever could end at seventeen?
My fingers itch to pick up my phone, to look at his email log-in, but I have only a single chance left. One more password and that’s it. I don’t want to sever the possible connection between us, to eliminate the ability to ever find an answer as to why.
If I think about all that, I’ll lose it, so I’ll concentrate on being ready for my appointment instead.
As I wait, I reposition myself so I’m sitting like a lady in this stupid beanbag chair, but that’s near impossible. Super glad I didn’t opt for a skirt today. No matter how I plant, whoever sits across from me would have had a straight shot all the way to Panty City. Mr. Gorton should change the manual to include my suggestion that counselors wear leggings. I volunteered to do it for him, but he said the binder was fine like it was.