“She’s probably saving that for next time.”
The weather had finally turned cooler, though it still didn’t feel like Christmas. I grew up in Florida, where it’s a miracle if it gets cold enough to need a hoodie, but Christmas just doesn’t feel right without snow and hot chocolate and a roaring fire. I suppose television and movies have brainwashed me. Or maybe we’re just born with some beliefs in our bones. “How come you never told me about your dad?”
Diego stopped in the middle of the road. I stood beside him, unsure what to do next. The houses on my street were decorated with bright holiday lights, displaying their glowing Santas and candy canes, but it still felt like Diego and I were alone in the world.
He started walking back toward my house, and when the silence was almost too much to bear, Diego said, “You know that painting you like?” I nodded, remembering the bird clawing at the boy’s heart, and the last word frozen on his dead lips. “I painted that the night before I reported to juvie. The judge had accepted my plea agreement, and I was living with my uncle because I couldn’t go back to my parents’ house. It was going to be my last night of freedom for a long time—I should have gone out with my friends or spent time with Viviana—but I spent the whole night painting. That was the worst day of my life, and that painting was me on the worst day of my life.” Diego knuckled tears from the corner of his eyes.
“Maybe that’s not how I see myself now—some days, I don’t know—but it’s how everyone else sees me—my family, my friends, my sister. Everyone who knows the truth.” Diego stopped walking and turned to me. “I never wanted you to see me that way.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I almost killed my dad!” Diego shouted. He clenched his fists and bit his lip. He trembled and shook, and I didn’t know how to help him. “When it comes to the people I care about, everything gets messed up in my head. I don’t know who I am, but I know who I don’t want to be.”
We stood in front of my duplex. Light peeked through the curtains of my living room window, and I thought I saw my mom’s shadow. I couldn’t look at Diego without imagining his dead-eyed stare as he attacked his father, without wondering if he’d enjoyed the sound of cracking bones or smiled when he saw the blood on his hands. “Did you smash the windows of Marcus’s car?”
“If you have to ask, then my answer won’t matter.” Diego’s voice was flat, and he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. He sat on the hood of his car, fidgeting with his keys.
“Tell me you didn’t do it, and I’ll believe you.”
“No, you won’t.” Diego stood up, kissed my cheek, and got in his car. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”
? ? ?
I called Audrey as soon as Diego’s car disappeared down the street. She was waiting outside of my house fifteen minutes later. We drove to IHOP and got a corner booth and some pancakes, which didn’t make me feel any better. Audrey talked about inconsequential things while I tried to sort out what had happened with Diego. It felt like a breakup even though we were never a couple. His leaving hurt like the punch of finality that only comes from a broken heart. I recognized the pain because I’d felt it the day I found out Jesse was dead.
“I miss him,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud; I’d only been thinking it.
“You’ll work it out with Diego.”
“Not Diego. Jesse.”
“Oh.” Audrey chewed a bite of soggy pancake, but I imagined it tasted like gravel to her, the way everything had tasted like gravel to me since Jesse’s death. “I miss him too.”
“He should be sitting beside me, holding my hand under the table, kicking my foot with his foot, turning everything into a dirty joke.” I dragged my fork through the syrup on my plate, creating trenches that quickly filled in again. “If Jesse were here, everything would be different.”
“Yeah,” Audrey said, “it would be. But Jesse’s not here. I am and you are. Jesse’s dead, Henry.”
“Why? Why did Jesse kill himself?”
Audrey shook her head, raised her napkin to her face like she was going to cry. I waited for her to give me the answer I’d been waiting months and months for. “I don’t know. I wish I knew, but I don’t. I wish I could point to one specific reason that caused Jesse to give up, but I can’t. Sometimes, people just quit wanting to live, and there’s no good reason for it. It’s so fucking selfish and cruel to the people left behind, but we can’t change that. We can only live with it.”
The rational voice in my head knew Audrey was right, but the other voice—the one that loved Jesse and hated him and felt terrible for not trusting Diego—refused to accept what she was saying. “I know Jesse, Audrey. He would have left something behind.”
“He didn’t.”
“I tried to ask his parents at the funeral, but they wouldn’t speak to me.”
“I’m sure the police searched Jesse’s belongings for a suicide note.”