History Is All You Left Me(55)
“I would miss all that stuff, too,” I say, even though a lot of it is alien to me, closer to an alternate universe you’d create than my reality. I don’t know what it’s like to have the freedom of a parent-free space like a dorm room where you could’ve come over without us feeling like there was a spotlight on what we were doing. I don’t know anything about getting behind the wheel of my own car—or any car—and deciding my own path, wasting as much gas as I want because it’s gas I bought with my own money. I don’t even know what it’s like to have a dog. But I can’t fault Jackson for missing the things I do get, like my toes in the grass; drinking iced tea; the heat I feel on my arms and the back of my neck when I’m in a tank top; and even something as annoying as shielding my eyes from the sun, because I’ll take brightness and sweat over darkness and chills anytime.
Jackson takes a deep breath. “It’s almost been one month . . .”
I know.
“This is for the best. It may sound stupid, but I want to be back home on that day,” Jackson says.
I envy him so much. He gets to go back to his land of sunshine, where in spite of the pain, good memories of you will greet him. I’m doomed to freezing weather that will keep me trapped in my room, alone with impulsive thoughts I don’t want to act on. I almost joke how it’ll be nice to have my room back to myself, how I hated competing for shower time with him anyway, but they’re lies. Jackson is not my enemy. He’s filled cold silences with warm stories, even if those stories sometimes hit too close and burned me.
Jackson gets up and approaches my bed. “Can I sit?”
I’ve been really good about not letting him on my bed; he’s never asked, I’ve never invited. He’s always chilled on the bedside chair or the air mattress. But I’m vulnerable, so without moving an inch from my current position, I turn my eyes away from the ceiling to his and say yes.
He sits down at the edge of my bed, not pushing his luck by getting too comfortable.
“Thanks for letting me stay here, Griffin. Seriously. I still feel broken—that’s not your fault, that sounds bad—but I don’t feel like a million different pieces anymore. I’m never expecting to feel whole again. I don’t think you are either. I hate the idea of leaving you here alone.” He shuts up, and his silence isn’t the same silence I’m okay with, the one where he and I don’t have to say anything and are just cool with someone being around. “Are you going to be okay?”
That’s when it comes to me. Out of nowhere, like those genius epiphanies you had all the time, I’m possessed with brilliance. “I’ll go with you. You can show me what Theo’s life was like out there. We could keep each other company on the thirteenth.” Saying these words out loud, I feel like I’m flying right out of that black hole.
“Would your parents let you go?”
“I can work it out with them. Are you cool with me going with you?”
“Absolutely.” Jackson smiles. “Let me text my dad.”
He pulls out his phone, but I throw my arms around his neck, and his arms wrap around my waist. I should pull away, but I don’t.
Friday, December 9th, 2016
“I’ve missed family hang-outs since the divorce,” Jackson tells my parents over dinner—his “farewell dinner,” as my dad put it. We’re buttering them up now in the hopes they’ll let me go with him on Monday. “This is back before my parents took shots at each other, obviously, but for the most part it was cool catching them up about my day. I think I’ve missed home-cooked meals even more, though. The steak tacos really lived up to their glory, Mr. Jennings.”
“Glad to hear,” my dad says, wiping his mouth clean of salsa. “But seriously, call me Gregor.”
“You got it, Gregor.”
“Thank you again for understanding, Jackson,” Mom says. “It’s been wonderful having you around the house. It truly isn’t personal. We just want Griffin back on track, and the same for you as well.”
Jackson nods. “I can’t thank you all enough for letting me camp out here. It’s time for me to figure out my next moves at home, too.”
I’m scratching my palms. “I want to go with him for a couple of days. It’s almost one month since Theo died, and I want to be in California with Jackson for it. It’s not like I’m going back to school right now and—”
“Your time off isn’t a vacation,” Mom interrupts.
“I wouldn’t call grieving Theo a vacation.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, but I’m sorry. But your recess from classes has been suggested so you can relax somewhere familiar. You’ve never been to California,” Mom says.
I know a lot about California from everything you’ve told me, from everything Jackson has told me. I know from my own research, when I was considering going to college out there to be reunited with you. I know from common sense.
“Have you outgrown your fear of flying?” Dad asks. “If you had a panic attack in your library, we can’t trust you to be okay up in the air for several hours.”
I’m about to suggest I take a sleeping pill, when more excuses come my way. They can’t afford a plane ticket on such short notice, especially given the money they’re saving for my therapy sessions. They don’t care that Jackson’s dad has already booked us both tickets. Neither of them can take off work right now to accompany me, like I’m some kid on a field trip in need of a chaperone instead of a seventeen-year-old who would be staying with Jackson’s mom.