History Is All You Left Me(40)

Sunday, November 27th, 2016

I’m going to call him, okay?

I owe Jackson that, and I owe you that.

I sit on a bike railing, my feet swinging. It’s cold and getting dark, but it’s the only place where I’m certain of privacy since my parents are constantly in my space. I wait for the time to change, and once it’s 8:34, I hit call on Jackson’s nameless number. I might create a contact profile for him after this. He picks up after the fourth ring, dangerously close to the fifth.

“Griffin,” Jackson says. There’s water spraying in the background.

“Bad time?”

“I answer and make calls in the shower all the time,” Jackson says.

“Any phone casualties?”

“A couple,” Jackson admits, and I wonder if he’s as surprised by the lightness in his voice as I am. Maybe he’s even relieved to talk about something that won’t get him crying. “Did you get my text yesterday? I’m not sure if it went through or not but I—”

“I got it,” I interrupt. “I actually thought we should talk before you bounce. Unless you’re showering because you have somewhere else to be . . .”

“I don’t,” Jackson says. “I’m only showering because I have nothing else to do. Denise and her parents already went to bed.” It’s weird to hear Jackson refer to Russell and Ellen as Denise’s parents, not yours. “Did you want to come over? I’m sure Russell and Ellen won’t mind.”

“Dry up and get dressed,” I say. “There’s an entrance to Central Park on West Seventy-Second. It’s not that far from Theo’s, but if you get lost, use the map on your phone.”

“What time?”

I almost tell him I’ll be there in six songs. “I should be there in twenty minutes. See you then.”

I hang up, wondering if I’ve actually given him enough time to finish off his shower, properly dry himself so he doesn’t return to California with a killer cold, get dressed, track down his second glove, and find me at the park. If he’s late, he’s late. I’ve spent a lot of the past year waiting—mostly for you. Here’s hoping Jackson actually shows up.

I was good on time getting to the park. Jackson, on the other hand, is not. I’m staying warm holding the two coconut hot chocolates from the café, each with four pumps of caramel syrup. You always claimed this was your genius concoction, like you were some mad scientist. These coconut hot chocolates were must-haves during fall and winter, like the Spider-Man Popsicles were during spring and summer.

I keep an eye out for Jackson, left to right, right to left. I sip from my cup and finally spot him jogging across the street toward me. His jacket isn’t zipped up, and his hands are buried in his pockets.

“I got lost, sorry,” Jackson says.

“It’s okay. I should’ve picked you up.” I hand him his drink. “Here, it’s a drink Theo invented. It’s nothing too weird, just coconut hot chocolate with caramel. Have you had it?” Please no, please no.

Jackson shakes his head. He cradles the cup, warming his hands, and stares at it.

“Theo also talked about making his own Theo smoothie, but he never got around to it.”

I expect him to comment. He nods and doesn’t say anything; I don’t know if he’s unimpressed or lost in his head. He looks around. “I’ve been here before, back in February.”

I should’ve guessed. In the second month of the year, he was here with you. In the second-to-last month of the year, he’s here with me. I will never wrap my head around how a single moment can keep throwing our lives around. I feel like a rock being skipped through the ocean—pain, relief, pain again, relief again, eventually destined to sink.

“Did Theo do his troll impression when you guys went through the tunnels here?” I ask.

“Not here in New York, but he did back home. We have these tunnels that start at the side, go beneath the street, and take you up to the beach,” Jackson says.

If I remember right, the troll impressions started because of your mother. She’d pick you and Wade up from elementary school—before I was in the picture—and when it was nice out, she’d walk you both through the park and tell you stories about the trolls that live on the bridges and in the tunnels in the park, threatening to eat children that ran away from home. I’m really surprised you weren’t more of a fantasy-genre fan, considering your mom’s imagination.

“I can take you down the path Theo would’ve taken you,” I say. “But I won’t do the voices. I suck at the voices.”

“I’d like that,” Jackson says. “I know Theo really wanted me to ‘meet’ the New York trolls, but we had to meet up with my friends one night and we never got around to it.”

I don’t like that he bummed you out, that he disappointed you. I don’t like that you saw such a future with him that you were okay with that disappointment, that there would be more time for you two. I don’t like that he trusted this future with you, either. I don’t like how threatened he still makes me feel. I don’t like how unfair I am to him. I don’t like that I’m likely bumming you out with my jealousy. I don’t like that I’m disappointing you with my nonsense.

I shake all of this off. There’s no point getting upset with you for sharing your childhood with Jackson.