History Is All You Left Me(44)

“Thanks,” Jackson says quietly.

I’m tempted to ask him if he’s okay, but you know me when I’m passing out; I sleep-talk, half listening, half inside a dream, and I make zero sense. This is not the best time to have a serious conversation, as I suspect he may want to have. I don’t even have the energy to put on my headphones and play your voice mail, but the sound of the TV brings me some comfort, some familiarity. I haven’t touched it since you died because people shouldn’t be watching TV when the person they love is dead. But now as I drift off, it reminds me of marathons we enjoyed, movies we hated, TV shows we watched weekly, documentaries that kept us awake, action films that bored us, and the meaningless background noise it provided so we could make out and do other stuff uninterrupted.

It really sucks you’re not sleeping beside me. Mostly because it would’ve been nice to know if I am actually falling asleep with a smile on my face, or if I’m loopy and imagining it.

It feels odd that Jackson is now part of us, right? Odd in the number, yeah, but I mean odd-odd; strange, unexpected. It’s everything you would’ve liked when you were still here to kick it with us. You can see, Jackson and me are growing up because of you. I hope this doesn’t sound like your death has fixed our lives; I hated when Jackson said that, I hate myself for even hinting at it. Anyway, the three of us are skipping dinner with my parents tonight because I still want some space to cool down after my dad’s takedown. I hate feeling like a naughty kid.

Besides, now that I’m a little more myself, I want Jackson and me to have some one-on-one time (you excluded, well, included, of course). Specifically, I want to know what was with him when I fell asleep—best nap all week—that made him a little more distant. We sit on the air mattress with our bowls of pasta and he’s scrolling through the movie queue.

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Whatever you want.”

Jackson puts on the second Terminator movie, but after twenty minutes of fidgeting and looking around the room, it’s pretty clear we’re not paying attention.

“You still watching this?” I ask.

“Not really,” Jackson says.

“Because it’s garbage?”

“I have Theo on the mind,” Jackson says.

“I was going to ask. Did I say something earlier?”

“You mentioned my birthday. Theo and I had plans back home. We were going to take surfing lessons and check out this exhibit and end up at the beach. It’s weird how I won’t be home for my birthday, and I won’t be with him, and . . . I must sound like a broken record.”

I shake my head. “I’m sure together we sound like a concert of broken records. If you’re still around, maybe you can meet up with your friends. They should be back in the city by then, right? Maybe your birthday can be the hang-out you need. If that doesn’t work out, I’m here for randomness.”

He sighs. “Thanks, Griffin. I haven’t even thought about Anika and Veronika, honestly. I’ll reach out over the next day or so. I’ll definitely need a distraction that day.”

I get it. Even when you were alive, events you missed felt wrong when they finally rolled around. I had to turn to people who didn’t matter as much to me, which sucked. Having a plan isn’t always a guarantee.

It’s been two weeks since you died, and one week since Jackson and I delivered our eulogies. Like I said, odd.





HISTORY


Wednesday, March 25th, 2015

I don’t think my quirks are actually quirks.

It’s not quirky to be ready for my birthday in May because I’ll finally stop being fifteen for the next three hundred and sixty-six days (leap year!). It’s not quirky to blame anything bad that happens in March because it’s the third month of the year. It’s not quirky to risk how much I’m eating if it means an odd amount of meals that day. It’s not quirky to list examples in my head and get frustrated when I can’t come up with enough options to make it even.

It’s not just the numbers thing, obviously. I’m a magnet to everyone’s left side and I don’t know why. It can all be disruptive, but as long as everyone is in the right place and every number is balanced, I’m really good. Seven doesn’t bother me as much, but maybe that’s because I was born on the seventeenth. Maybe it’s just because seven is a kick-ass number. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it really is.

Maybe my quirks actually are quirks.

Maybe I’m taking it out on myself because these little quirks Theo finds cute aren’t enough to get him to stay.

Back in January, Theo was accepted for early admission to Santa Monica College.

We’re sitting on his living-room floor, me to Theo’s left, obviously, while he opens up the latest delivery from his future home. Russell records this unboxing on his phone to later add to the “Big Theo Moments” folder he has on his computer. Theo pulls out an SMC fitted cap, an SMC T-shirt, and an SMC hoodie.

I can’t possibly feel panicky because Theo’s pulled out three items, right? That doesn’t make sense. I know why I’m losing my breath: it’s because every time I think Theo might reconsider and stay here in New York for another year, something like this pops up—an email or a letter or a padded envelope or, now, a swag box. I know he’s already got one foot out the door.