History Is All You Left Me(65)
Jackson instructs me on where to place my hands, and I call him out for being a bad role model when he was driving—his left arm was out the window. He teaches me everything there is to know about the mirrors and turning and signs and even etiquette, as if I’ll be tailgating someone momentarily.
I get started. It’s exhilarating, even at fifteen miles per hour. It feels a lot like the arcade games we would race in, except it would be really bad for both Jackson and me if I drive us off a bridge right now, because we probably won’t respawn. Jackson encourages me to move a little bit faster, which, of course, nerves my foot into stepping on the pedal a little too hard, so I hit the brakes and Jackson’s head flings forward. I’m surprised it’s still attached to his shoulders and not flipping through the windshield. In this church lot, I will go ahead and say God bless the person who invented seatbelts.
Jackson doesn’t kick me out of the driver’s seat. He laughs it off and coaches me to keep going and not to freak out.
It takes a few minutes, but I start to get the hang of it. I’m driving in circles like a pro. It’s freeing to be in the driver’s seat, to decide if I’ll go left or right, forward or reverse. It’s freeing to be in control.
???
Jackson didn’t force me to drive us on the highway—a good thing; otherwise we probably wouldn’t have arrived at your college in one piece. The student housing building seemed bigger and nicer in the pictures on the school’s website and the photos you texted me, but in person it’s a little drab. Maybe that’s another reason you liked staying over at Jackson’s so much, with his friendly dog and even friendlier mother.
It’s weird seeing students in hoodies in warm weather like this. There must be some California phenomena where residents mistake sixty-degree temperatures as cold. You’ve done this yourself. Back in December or January, I can’t really remember, we were on the phone and you mentioned needing to run back to your dorm room to grab your hoodie because it was a little chilly. Meanwhile, I was dealing with a winter that felt very subzero. I was wearing sweaters underneath my coat but forgot my gloves, so holding the phone was brutal on my fingers. It was a good-enough excuse to get off the phone. You sounded too happily Californian and unfamiliar. I’m okay with admitting that now.
Jackson parks and immediately a couple of girls come charging toward him, offering him their condolences and telling him how much they miss you. A lump lodges itself in my throat; I should have expected this. He keeps turning to me, and I don’t know if he’s trying to introduce me to these girls or if he wants me to come up with an excuse to rescue him from this, but more students join the crowd and keep us apart.
I recover quickly. This is both a show of how loved you were and of how deeply connected you and Jackson were. Jackson looks like he’s about to cry now, though. I’m catching snippets of memories, all clamoring to be heard at once:
“So funny, like, I spat out my margarita laughing the first night we hung out.”
“He was so cool about letting me cheat off his homework if I loaned him video games. He was mad chill.”
“I thought I was the king at chess until I went up against him.”
“I went over to see if he could fix my TV remote and I had the greatest four-hour chat with him.”
They miss you. They might have even been your friends.
I grab Jackson’s shoulder and pull him away, mumbling that I have to steal him away for something. Jackson is shaking, and I wrap my arm around his shoulders. Everyone quiets. They watch us walk toward the building, and they must be confused as hell, possibly mistaking my friendship for intimacy—but the only thing I care about is making sure Jackson doesn’t collapse, especially not before we go into your room to pack up your belongings. At least we’ve figured out a way to turn my running away into something constructive. Even my parents approve. We have to decide what’s okay for Jackson to keep and what should be sent back to your family.
Jackson leads me through the halls. The endless doors are identical, except for some with the occasional flyer or decoration, but Jackson never loses his way. There are still times where I get confused getting home if I go a different route or get too lost in my head or whatever song I’m listening to. But Jackson could probably find his way to your room blindfolded. I know it’s West 10 from all the mail I sent you—but if I’d somehow forgotten and was here without Jackson, it would’ve been easy to figure out by what’s outside: bouquets of flowers, candles, and mourning notes taped to the door.
The lump returns. I can’t read what people say about you; it hurts too much. Jackson and I aren’t the only ones hurting. I don’t know when you gave Jackson a key to your room, but he unlocks it and lets us in, and we’re careful to step over the flowers.
“Here we are.” Jackson’s voice is shaky. “It feels like a ghost town.”
I only know this room through photos you and Jackson posted on social media at the beginning of this semester because you were celebrating being roommate-free for sophomore year. On your desk is your laptop, your iPhone dock-slash-charging station, the pirate bobblehead and coloring books I sent you in my first and last care package, and a Star Wars mug with pens inside. The single bed is unmade. It’s so small, and whenever Jackson slept over, you two must’ve been forced to really push up against each other so no one fell off the edge. I have no idea when you and Jackson had sex for the first time, but the first time you casually mentioned it to me was a couple of months after you were already dating him, a little joke as if you were testing the waters to see if I would laugh. I did, but I knew you could tell it hurt me, because you never brought it up again. Either that or you and Jackson stopped having sex, which, let’s be real . . . I know you.