History Is All You Left Me(29)

But you threw some blows Jackson’s way, too.

In the early months of your relationship, you turned to me whenever you two were fighting. Jackson didn’t like how close we were, how you never let him cut me out of your life. Since I couldn’t say anything bad about Jackson, I was forced to tell you to give it time, that everything would iron itself out. And every time you called me back, I hoped it was to tell me how you and Jackson broke up, how it wasn’t ultimately about the fights but because of how much you still love and miss me. But without fail, the calls always went the route of, “We worked it out, just like you said. Thanks for hearing me out, Griff.”

I sit down on my bed. I have no idea what to say now.

Jackson stands, zipping up his jacket. “I’m going to go.” He walks toward my bedroom door. “I’m sorry I bothered you with all this.” He stops and shoots me this disappointed look, not too different from the one I’d find on your face when I was camping out in my silent zone. “I’m sorry I tried, Griffin. I really thought you would get it.”

Whether I like it or not, I have to speak up. Jackson also has history with you. I’m sure you both had inside jokes, favorite spots, pictures that will sting me but might be worth seeing to see your face again, stories that may introduce me to who you were out in California. There’s a side of you I never saw. Jackson not only knew that side, he loved you for it.

“Don’t go,” I say. “You’re right. We love the same guy, and it’s weird, and he would want us to talk anyway, even about the stuff I don’t want to hear or the things I’d rather keep to myself.” I get up from my bed and go to my closet. I pull out the air mattress, the one my parents bought for the rare occasions they allowed you to sleep over after we started dating—not that we used it. “You should stay. It’s gross outside. Maybe we can have a do-over tomorrow morning.”

He hesitates. “You sure?”

I unroll the air mattress on the opposite side of my room, away from my bed. “Yeah, it’s cool.” I pull my phone charger out of the outlet, throwing it onto my bed, and plug in the air pump. It’s noisy and might wake up my parents, but there’s no way around that. It’s a quarter to one, and I’m ready to pass out after I get to listen to your voice mail.

“Thanks, Griffin,” he says quietly.

“No problem. I can get you something to wear.” Out of habit I reach for your drawer and pull it open. I freeze for a second, taking in your four T-shirts, two pairs of pajamas, gym shorts—even though you hate the gym—socks, a Monopoly onesie you brought over as a joke, and a hoodie. I’m never dressing Jackson in your clothes. I close your drawer and open one of mine, tossing out a long-sleeved shirt I’ve outgrown and pajamas onto the air mattress. “Do you want some water?”

“If you don’t mind, thanks.”

I leave my room, pee, brush my teeth, tiptoe around the kitchen while getting two glasses of water, and return to find Jackson in my clothes. I hand him his glass. I’m still thrown off by his presence—this guy I’ve wanted nothing to do with—by how he is actually spending the night in a room where I did everything with you from sleeping to sex, playing video games to putting together puzzles, fighting and trading weird kisses, bad karaoke and slow dancing to no music—this place of being ourselves and being each other’s, and so much in between and everything else.

I grab him a comforter from the closet, a pillow from my bed. It’s all stuff only I used, not what you used; those stay with me. I’m left with three pillows, so I toss him a second without explaining why.

“I’m passing out,” I say, switching off the light. Jackson is hit with a slant of moonlight. “Bathroom is to the left of my room if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Jackson whispers, like I’m already sleeping. “Good night.”

I roll into bed, still in my jeans and your hoodie, and turn my back on him. I hug your pillow to my chest and rest my face where you used to rest yours. My phone is dying, but I connect my headphones and press play on your voice mail, over and over.

In the middle of the fourth listening, Jackson calls out to me.

“Griffin? Sorry, Griffin, you awake?”

“Yeah?” I stare at the wall.

“Thanks for giving me a shot. I see now why Theo never shut up about you.”

I don’t respond. But I put the phone down. I press my face deeper into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, and I do my damn best to fall asleep, but my ear tugging and need to cry keep me awake. You kept me alive when we were apart. I promise I’ll always do the same for you.

Jackson’s crying wakes me up. He’s trying to suppress it, but it keeps slipping out. He sounds a lot like me the past few days, how I’d give in to the grief but make sure I wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better. I can’t turn around because if the bed creaks, he’ll know I’m awake. I don’t know how to comfort this outsider.

Jackson, like me, loves you. Also like me, he is stuck in this universe without you. I know what you’d say: there are limitless alternate universes. Is there one where you’ve decided to watch over Jackson from the afterlife? No, that’s wrong. Even Jackson said you were always talking about me. I refuse to believe I’m living in a universe where you’re not even with me in death. I refuse to believe that you’re hurting for him right now as he cries, tilting your telescope a little bit to the left to find me wide awake, not doing anything to comfort him. You must think I’m the worst human ever, and I swear I’m not. I’ve made some mistakes, sure, and if you’ve already caught on, I’m sorry, but I can’t reverse time and undo them. You’ll have to forgive me.