History Is All You Left Me(37)

I want to tell you what it’s like being surrounded by these light-blue walls again. Our framed puzzles are still there: the astronaut waiting for the train, my favorite; the map of Brazil, which was brutal but fun to piece together; an open suitcase containing another suitcase piled high with Russian nesting dolls; and Pompeii, our very first. If I had to take a shot at describing what it’s like, I would call it my resurrection.

But this wonder, this second life, is short-lived. All the air is squeezed out of me when I see photos of you and Jackson on the windowsill beside your bed. Right where our photos used to be. Your arm is wrapped around Jackson’s shoulder in one, and your smile is really wide; it’s an image I’m familiar with, of course, which is why it feels so out of place. I turn away from the window before the other photos stab me, before I flip out on Jackson, demanding to know if he made you take our pictures down. But I only find more foreign objects. Next to the graphic novels I gave you is a boxed set of four mass-market thrillers. I don’t know if it’s a gift from Jackson or completely unrelated. The dream catcher on the floor is new too, and I don’t know if it’s from some special event with Jackson, like the Batman figure I got designed with your face, which is still perched on top of your bookcase.

I don’t want to ask Jackson anything. I was wrong before. I don’t want to be clued in to your life without me. I can’t do this. I run out, almost tripping over myself. Jackson is calling for me, but I can’t be with him right now, so I charge out of your apartment and down the stairs.

Thank God I never took off my jacket because it’s freezing out here. I stop running at the corner, shaking. I look to the sky, squinting at the sun between the clouds, before closing my eyes to see your face in my memory more clearly.

But the you I’m remembering isn’t the same you I found upstairs in your room.

You were finally able to speak back to me, Theo, and I don’t like everything you had to say.

I’m beat down by the time I walk through the front door. One of the lessons I’ve learned over and over since our breakup and your death is how the pain becomes physical. My body aches. I’m so drained, you would think it was like the time we rode our bikes around Central Park for three laps—the number still bothers me—and we powered up that steep hill. My stomach tightened, my legs burned, my arms were sore, and my throat was dry. I’m just as ready for a nap now as I was then.

I go straight for my room, ignoring my mom as she closes her laptop and calls for me. She shouts for my dad to let him know I’m home, but alone time means only you and me. Not Mom, not Dad. I walk into my room, close my door, and throw myself on my bed, too drained even to cry. I hope you don’t think this means I’m grieving you any less. Blame it on my body. I’m burrowing into our pillows when my door opens. True to my idiot nature, I forgot something key in the game of warding off unwanted people: the lock. I wish I could vanish into one of my alternate universes right now.

“Did Jackson get back okay?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, Jackson is back at Theo’s, where he’s grieving his loss,” I say, turning around and sitting up. “You were ready to call Theo Jackson’s loss again, weren’t you?”

She nods, like I actually needed her to confirm what was what. “You both loved him, Griffin. I’m not pretending his pain isn’t there, too.”

“Nope, that’s Dad’s job,” I say.

“What did your father do?” Mom asks.

Dad stays quiet, probably debating whether or not he’s going to arm up and go to battle with me.

“He made Jackson really uncomfortable . . . like, even I wasn’t that cold to him,” I say. I can only imagine being outside my state, outside my time zone, in the home of someone who tried to make an enemy out of me, feeling unwelcome and helpless.

“Cut it out, Griffin,” Dad snaps. His tone reminds me of when I would get into trouble as a kid over little things, like trying to sneak into their bedroom to scare my mom while she was working, or yelling fake words over and over for attention. “You can’t be pissed at your mother for being too nice to that guy and pissed at me for being too cold to him.”

“So you admit you were cold to him?” I snap back.

“I won’t deny it; I wasn’t very welcoming. But that’s because I know my son. I don’t believe you’re actually upset at your mother or me. We won’t fight you if you don’t fight us. What does Wade call us? Team Griffin?”

“The Griffin Squad,” I correct.

“The Griffin Squad,” Dad repeats. “We know seeing Jackson can’t be easy, but you soldiered through it anyway. I hope it’s helped you out in some way. If not, he’s gone and you never have to see him again. But we’re here for you and want to know what you need from us.”

“I do need something,” I say.

“What?” Mom asks.

“Space. Please give me some space. I’m really tired.” I can’t cry. I can’t fight.

Dad begins protesting, but Mom shuts him up, thankfully. They’re out in no time, and I find enough energy to close the door behind them, locking it this time. I get back in bed and crawl under my covers, expecting to fall asleep instantly. Of course I don’t. Considering the week and year and month and life I’ve been having, I’m stupid to think I’d even be lucky with the small things.