Are you okay? No, I am not okay.
I am back on Ryan’s page. There are no photos of Taylor in his timeline, but there are plenty of photos of us. Nothing remotely romantic to the outside eye. But I am seeing them with my inside eye, the one that knows that after the shirtless shot on the beach we went into the woods and kissed against a tree. The project we did on Krakatoa needed to be done in one night because we spent two weeks causing our own explosions instead of working on it. The snapshot of the two of us with our friends Lisa and Aimee after we watched Frozen—I know it looks like I’m leaning into him so I can be in the shot, but really I was leaning on him so I could put my arm around his waist, so I could hold him and feel my head angle into his. My inside eye sees the tenderness. My inside eye has been seeing these things all along.
My crying is so stupid. How does it actually help?
I should have told Katie more. Or maybe I should have thought about how this was a big night for her before I pulled her into the black hole my life has become. Only she didn’t treat her big night like it was a big night. I don’t know. My inside eye can’t see beyond me and Ryan.
Which is also so stupid.
Are you okay?
Why is my phone back in my hand?
Why am I typing NO in capital letters?
Why am I hitting send?
This voice in my head says, Get your shit together, boy. But I’m confused. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s not Ryan. It’s not me. It’s like this military version of me. This serious guy with a deep voice. Why is he in my head? Does my mind honestly think I’ll stop falling apart if it sounds like a drill sergeant?
I check my phone. Ryan hasn’t replied.
It’s been seven seconds.
I think about texting Katie and apologizing for taking up her time. Or thanking her for coming over. Or begging her to come back.
My mother’s voice is somewhere in the air. It’s calling me to dinner.
This is all my fault. For going into the city. For speaking up. For not leaving it alone. For forcing him.
I knew I would lose him if I said something.
I said something.
I lost him.
How can I blame him for that?
That knocking noise isn’t in my head. It’s my father at the door.
“You coming, kiddo?”
Ryan loved that my dad called me this. He would say, “If my dad called me kiddo, maybe I could tell him the truth.”
He didn’t mean about us. He meant about him. Which was tied to us.
I realize I haven’t answered. My dad is waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
“You don’t know if you’re coming to dinner? Since your mother made it, I think a better answer would be ‘yes.’”
That would have also been the better answer to Are you okay?
I check my phone.
“Mark.” My father is getting impatient.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I have no idea if I’m talking out loud or just saying it in my head.
What are you doing, Mark?
Okay, that one was definitely in my head.
You’re acting like he’s dumped you.
He hasn’t dumped you.
In order to break up, you have to be together first.
“But we were together,” I say. Out loud.
Luckily, my dad has already left the room.
I know I have to eat, and I know that my parents want me at dinner, and all of these obligations propel me to the kitchen, where my parents are already eating salad.
Ryan always thought it was funny that my parents started every meal with a salad. His parents weren’t into vegetables.
I have no idea why I am thinking of them in past tense.
He is not dead.
He hasn’t gone anywhere.
He even texted me to ask if I was okay.
(I check again. The phone will not leave my hand.)
“I hope Katie knows she could have stayed for dinner,” my mother is saying. “I didn’t get to talk to her much—but I like her.”
“She had an opening to go to,” I mumble defensively. I sound like she’s accused me of chasing Katie away.
“Whose opening?” my father asks.
“Her own. At AntlerThorn.”
My mother puts down her fork, even though there’s still some lettuce speared on its tines. “What?”
“Her artwork is on display at this gallery. Tonight’s the opening.”
“Why aren’t you there with her?”
Because I’m a shitty friend, Mom. And, incidentally, not worth dating.
“I don’t know,” I say.
She’s standing up. Why is my mother standing up?
“Let’s go,” she tells me.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
My mother is looking up the address on her phone.
“I know where it is,” I say.
And like that, it’s settled.
*
As if he’s some big gay bloodhound, Brad sniffs me out before I get through the door.