Matt looks at me. “He has a collection of Tolkien action figures.”
“I heard.” And the thing about Matt is that sometimes it’s hard for me to tell whether or not he’s mocking, but today it might be hard for him too. Because I think he probably really does want to see, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He forgets—there was a reason he was friends with Jeremy. And there was a reason that Jeremy was friends with him.
“I’ll bring them up,” Jeremy says.
Watching them, I nearly forget why we’re here. My cue. Matt gives me a meaningful look this time, and I get it.
“Great.” I clap my hands. “I can see you two have a lot to catch up on and, hey, don’t let me stand in the way. I’m just going to be upstairs. Ms. Bryan said I could help myself to a few pictures of Will’s in case I want to make something memorable for…for after.” I gulp down the lie and try to digest it. I hike my thumbs over my shoulders, pointing upstairs. Jeremy stares at me all grouper-mouthed. I don’t think he expected to be abandoned this quickly. “So…” I finish ungracefully. “I’ll be back.”
One hour, Matt mouths.
“In an hour,” I add.
Both boys look palpably relieved. I check the time on my watch. One hour, I repeat to myself and clomp up the stairs.
After a short walk down the hallway, I find that Ms. Bryan still hasn’t touched Will’s room. The only difference is that I’m now catching whiffs of that un-lived-in smell. Like an attic. Light flooding in from the window catches specks of floating dust. The space feels emptied of Will.
I force myself to pause at the center of the room and take a deep breath. I’m here for a reason. Penny’s dash of prose, the ChatterJaw thread, the fact that my boyfriend and my best friend might have been talking to each other—really talking to each other—behind my back. Thinking about it, even in the abstract, is like pressing on a bruise. I keep circling back to the possibilities each time thinking, Yep, it still hurts.
While I’m here, I decide to spend at least some of my time poking around.
The closet feels like a logical beginning. I throw open the doors and am hit with the pungent scent of sweaty sneakers. On the floor, tennis shoes and flip-flops are piled in a heap. Rumpled shirts are thrown over hangers and scrunched into cubbies. I kneel and push the mound of shoes to the side, uncovering a kid’s baseball glove, a detached surfboard leash, and a beat-up cardboard box.
I pull the box into my lap and flip open the lid. There are stacks of papers, each covered in drawings. I hold one up to study. Like the others, it’s been done in colored pencil. It’s a picture of a pelican perched on a channel marker, a fish hanging halfway out of its beak. Everything seems to still, even the thoughts swirling in my head. I didn’t know that Will drew so much. I’d seen doodles in his notebooks, but nothing like this. And yet he’d mentioned it in the thread. He’d mentioned it, but never to me. I don’t understand why the people I love keep parts of themselves buried, like it’s a treasure they don’t want to give me the map to.
I set down the pelican and choose another. This one’s of Penny’s Jeep. The sketch is detailed and I can tell by the eraser marks that he took pains to get the wheels and roll bar just right. Tears fill my eyes because I still can’t believe the Jeep is gone. The Jeep and everyone who rode inside it.
On the back of the Jeep is another drawing. I recognize it instantly as one of Penny and me. I’m whispering something in her ear. Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling.
I press the picture against myself. It’s comforting to be holding what feels like a piece of both Will and Penny. But none of the rest are helpful: there are cartoons, pictures of waves, scribbled attempts at various animals.
I fold up the picture of me and Penny and pocket it. Then I shove the box back into the closet and turn to the rest of the room. Where next?
I slip a few photographs out of their frames, because I told Ms. Bryan I would. I will make copies. I will make something with them. I will.
But they’re not why I came. I hate how I feel in this moment, which is completely crazy—like one of those jealous girls who’s constantly snooping through her boyfriend’s phone.
I could still turn back. I could choose not to know. I could decide to trust him. I could leave it forever and maybe someday a long time from now I’d actually convince myself that I’d forgotten. I chew on one of my fingernails.
I pause and listen for any signs of trouble downstairs. There are none. And meanwhile, my conscience is at war. I’ve always respected Will’s privacy, but of course I’ve had no reason not to.
But this is important. Without this, I’ll never have the full picture. And I will live an eternity without knowing what it was that I truly decided and who it was decided for. The computer cord snakes from an electrical outlet to a cabinet built into the desk where I find Will’s laptop.
I take a seat on the rolling chair parked nearby and slide the computer onto my lap. The machine emits a quiet hum as I open it up and hit the on button. The generic geo-patterned background fills the screen and up pops the little box asking me to log in. I know this one because I used his computer for homework sometimes when we were hanging out. I type in the name of his favorite baseball player and add his birthdate at the end. My eyes are wide and darting around as I launch the web browser. I’ve come this far.
When the e-mail page loads, I again type in the same password. An error message appears on the bottom of the screen. I type it again. Another error. This time I check to see if I’d hit caps lock or something else I wasn’t supposed to. Nope. I’m typing the password with such care that I know I’ve done it correctly.
The password, though, has changed. When did Will change his password? He’s had the same one for as long as I can remember. I know, because one time when he was flying to New York for his mom’s family reunion he asked me to check him into the gate early because he’d forgotten to and his phone was acting up. And then there was that time he needed to know if he’d remembered to e-mail a biology assignment. Little things like that. Always the same password. We trusted each other. One hundred percent.
Except here I am staring at an error message. I set the laptop down on the chair and begin to pace the room. He could have been hacked. But no, I would have known that. The password could have expired. Mine never expires. He could have forgotten it and had to change it.
None of these reasons feel right. I stare at the computer like it’s something radioactive. If there was any question about whether I was going to snoop through Will’s personal files, it’s gone. All semblance of rationality has fled the building. Will wanted to keep something from me. It was no accident.
There aren’t even tears when I think the next part. I’m beyond that. It’s open heart surgery with no hope of recovery.
Because it was Penny.