History Is All You Left Me(11)

Jackson Wright is here, and there’s no not talking about him anymore.

There’s no denying Jackson and I resemble each other; even Wade joked about it. His hair is a little darker and longer than mine, but still light brown at first look. We’re lanky, with bad posture, and we both looked back into your blue eyes with our hazels. You mentioned becoming fixated with the horseshoe-shaped birthmark on his collarbone, much like whenever you traced the “deflated pyramid” on my inner thigh. The big difference between us right now is I’m here at your funeral in your old hoodie and jeans, and he’s wearing a suit that’s a size too big for him. The suit makes sense, though I’m not sure what an eighteen-year-old in California would do with one.

Here’s your history with Jackson as you told it to me: You met him last year on October 29th while walking along the highway. You were on your way to tutor that high-school junior, while Jackson was driving from his mother’s house to spend the weekend with his father. The rain surprised you, which doesn’t surprise me since you always refused to check the weather app; you prided yourself on adapting to any outside conditions.

Lucky for you, Jackson came to the rescue.

He’d seen you before during this same drive and thought you looked friendly. He was curious about how you existed in California without a car or bike or “some flying carpet.” You thought the flying carpet bit was funny. I thought it was uninspired. It’s possible I’m programmed to be a dick to anyone interested in you. But really, let’s not rule out Jackson’s joke sucked because—

I’m letting it go. I’m moving on.

Jackson pulled over and offered you a ride. He was a stranger, but from everything you told me about the impossibly perfect weather in California, it sounds like rain is the first wave of the zombie-pirate apocalypse, so I guess you can’t be faulted. Just sucks you were looking for a new partner to aid you in what was supposed to be our alternate universe.

In the car, you and Jackson bonded over films and role-playing games. And the rest is unfortunately history.

First: The phone call on November 7th detailing this new guy in your life. I had hoped your time with Jackson would just be a quick thing, but it stretched to a point where I couldn’t deny our own endgame was threatened. I wanted to know exactly what he looked like, what his story was, what your dates were like, what it was about him that mesmerized you.

Jackson is blocking the door. Your dad is trying to reenter the chapel. He has definitely been smoking hard core, and the smell nauseates me instantly, reminding me of all the times he drove us around in his car that stunk of stale cigarettes and air freshener before he finally quit. (Until now.) Your dad doesn’t acknowledge Jackson beyond a hand on the shoulder, and while this is sick to admit, it makes me feel good. Jackson flew here, but he isn’t getting much from the man who taught you how to tie your shoes and ride a bike.

My dad approaches yours. My mom remains close to me. Wade reappears by my side. I don’t know if Wade is nervous over how this is about to go down between Jackson and me or if he’s showing me support, but I don’t need him right now. I need to do this alone. But right when I’m about to go over to Jackson, your dad and mine step toward me.

“Hey, Russell,” I say, twisting my ring finger. It’s an antistress trick you taught me, used by people who are afraid of flying—not that I’m ever getting on a plane.

I last spoke with your dad on the phone the day you died, and again the day after, but this is the first time I’m seeing him. He’s wearing his reading glasses instead of the horn-rimmed frames he should be, and when he opens his mouth to speak, I notice his teeth have yellowed. He shuts himself up. There’s no point asking him how he’s doing. I hug him, battling through the invisible cigarette cloud.

“You still think you have it in you to share some words?” Russell murmurs.

I step back and nod. I can’t believe I live in a universe where I’m delivering a eulogy for you.

He pats me on the shoulder, like he did Jackson, and walks away to check on Ellen in the service room.

Jackson is making his way toward me, eyes lowered and hands pocketed. My parents and Wade are staring at me. I quietly ask them to give us a minute. I’m not sure if Jackson even wants to talk to me, but it’s happening. My mom tells me she’ll hold a seat for me. They all leave, and Wade looks over his shoulder as if he’s expecting something explosive. There will be no fights at your funeral, I promise.

Suddenly, I’m standing face-to-face with your boyfriend. His left eye is stained red, and he smells like cigarette smoke, too.

“Hey, Griffin,” Jackson says.

He says my name like we’re friends.

Funny, as I refused to meet him when you brought him here in February for your birthday. No way in hell was I going to go to one of our places with him. And we didn’t exactly check in with each other after you died, not that anyone thought we would. I thought of him, sure, but not so much about how he was doing as I’ve been wondering what the hell your final moments were like.

He was there with you.

Is it weird to envy him for that, for witnessing something I would never want to see with my own eyes? I have all this history with you, Theo, but he has pieces of your puzzle that would destroy me if I ever had to put them together, and yet I still want them.

“Hey, Jackson,” I say. We don’t offer each other condolences. Maybe he’s waiting for me to do so; he’s going to be waiting for a while. “What’s wrong with your eye?”