History Is All You Left Me(32)
In a lot of ways, Jackson is a clone of me. Our hazel eyes are strained from sleeplessness and crying, framed with pale black bags darker than the ones I got last summer from when we spent an entire week playing Xbox games online until morning. His bagel has barely been touched, and I bet he’s also been eating just enough lately to shut up his growling stomach. He’s also unable to operate through schoolwork and everything else life demands; he loves you and you loved him.
“Griffin? Griffin?” Mom grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Sorry.” I slide my hand out from under hers. “Got lost in my head again.” I hide my hand under the table so Jackson doesn’t see me scratching my palm.
“No need to apologize.” My mom stands and picks up her laptop. “I’m going to go wake up your father.”
I don’t know when he made his way over to the bedroom, but hopefully my mom catches him up on why Jackson is here.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask him. Playing dumb is another form of lying, I know.
Jackson shrugs and avoids my eyes. “You know.”
I don’t know if he means you know how it is or you know damn well I didn’t sleep very well, but I’m not investigating further.
“Have you spoken to Russell or Ellen?”
“I called Ellen an hour ago. It sounds like they’re all relaxing this morning.” Jackson picks up his bagel and looks like he’s about to spin it like a quarter before looking up at me with flushed cheeks; maybe this is something he does at home or did with you. “Thanks again for letting me stay last night. I thought about heading back out this morning to give you your space, but your mom was awake when I came out here to call Ellen.”
“Did she recognize you from the funeral?” And the playing dumb continues, because my mom is admittedly pretty familiar with photos of Jackson. I showed her the online album you made of you two. I wanted her to tell me I’m not crazy for seeing a resemblance between him and me.
“She did, yeah,” Jackson says, and cringes a little. “There’s no denying she was really surprised to see me.”
I imagine she was as shocked as all the funeral attendees who witnessed two boys at your funeral, their awkward competitiveness, each delivering a eulogy about the love of his life. Until this morning my mom had never seen another boy coming out of my bedroom who wasn’t you. “My bad. I should’ve left her a note on the whiteboard so she knew you were here.”
“She played it cool,” Jackson says. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “I got to ask you something. Please answer honestly. I wouldn’t ask something if I didn’t think I could handle it. All right?”
He’s going to ask something crazy intimate about you, Theo; I can feel it. Maybe he’s bold enough to ask about our first time or why I broke up with you.
“Do you hate me?” Jackson blurts out. “I know we don’t know each other. But I get it if you hate or hated me. I guess I want to know where we stand without Theo.”
This breakfast is even weirder than the first breakfast you forgot me—the one a few weeks after we broke up, where you didn’t send me a picture of what you were eating with some pretentious caption. Your pictures always had a 90 percent chance of making me smile and feel okay about actually getting out of bed. But Jackson Wright in my living room, asking me if I hate him? That is definitely stranger.
I’m about to try and answer him, when my parents walk out of their room together.
“Gregor, this is Jackson,” Mom says.
Jackson stands and holds out his hand. Every second Dad doesn’t shake it, I feel guiltier and guiltier for being the source of his resistance, with all my hating and crying. He finally gives in, probably remembering he’s an adult who must put that ahead of being a father when another kid is involved—especially a kid who must already be uncomfortable as hell in our house.
“Morning,” Dad says. He quickly moves to the couch. “How long are you in town for?”
“I’m flying back on Monday,” Jackson says, standing. “I should actually make my way back over to Theo’s house now.” He tries to take his plate to the kitchen sink, but my mom intercepts him, the way she always intercepted you. He turns to both my parents. “Thank you for breakfast and for being cool with me staying over.”
He walks back to my room and I follow him, leaning against the threshold.
“You good?” I ask.
Jackson sits on the air mattress, his head hanging low as he flips his phone around in his palms like one of those finger-sized skateboards. “Are you good?”
“Of course not.”
“Same here.”
Jackson puts his phone down, folds his comforter, picks his clothes up from the floor, and heads to the bathroom without a word.
I twist open the air mattress’s nozzle, staring while it deflates, the piercing whistle quieting down as the bed folds into itself. I throw everything in the closet, including the pillow he slept on. I’m drained. I would be game for a nap. I owe him another shot, though. I know it.
Jackson returns from the bathroom and hands me the clothes he slept in. “Thanks again for letting me crash, Griffin. I’m going to hail a cab.”
“Save your money,” I say, pretty unaware what his cash situation is, though I’m going to go ahead and guess average. “I can walk you there.” I grab my peacoat to throw over your hoodie.