Beautiful Graves(53)

And then I find it. The first page. It has a yellow Post-it Note attached to it. There is only one word on it, written in a red Sharpie.

PLEASE.

The word feels like a sword has been dipped in my chest. I want to pick up the phone and fight with him, but I don’t have his number. I want to find his social media accounts and message him, but he doesn’t have any—I checked. I want to . . . I want to go to his building, to his apartment, and give him a piece of my mind, but he is in Dover right now, at his parents’.

A part of me wants to help Joe, but a bigger part of me is scared of what it would mean.

I flip over the Post-it Note and notice that Joe scribbled his phone number on the back of it. Once again, he anticipated my reaction. I type him a message.

Ever: What would it look like? Us helping each other.

His response is immediate.

Joe: I don’t know yet.

Ever: It’s going to hurt.

Joe: We’re no strangers to pain.

I’m lying on the cold floor, staring up at the screen. This feels wrong. Like cheating. But also right. Like maybe Joe is the one I’ve been cheating on. I’m just so confused.

Ever: It’s not fair. I thought I’d never meet you again. I couldn’t have known you’re so close by.

A few seconds pass before he answers.

Joe: Why are you here, Ever? In my state. In my territory.

Ever: I don’t know.

Joe: What do you know?

Ever: That I don’t want you to be with Presley.

He types, then deletes. Types, then deletes. My heart is in my throat.

Joe: I don’t want to be with Presley, either.

Ever: We should delete this conversation.

Joe: You can do whatever you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.

I notice he doesn’t tell me he doesn’t want me to be with Dom.

Ever: How can you say that, when you were the one who told me not to tell Dom?

Joe: This is not hiding. It’s omitting. I’ll own up to it if he finds out.

Joe: Look, I love my brother. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have you. He can have your outside. I can have your inside.

Ever: Do you think that’d be enough for him?

Joe: I think he doesn’t get you, so it’s not going to matter to him, no.

Ever: And you do?

Joe: You know I do.

I close my eyes, taking a breath. I do. I do, I do, I do.

Ever: And what would I be left with? If he takes my body and you take my . . . everything else?

Joe: Simple. You’ll get both of us.

Joe: It’s all you want in the first place, isn’t it? Both brothers.

He’s hit too close to home, and he knows it. Dom is the smart choice. The safe choice. He is also, at present, my only choice. Joe . . . he is not even up for offer. Even if he were, it would be too messy, too painful . . .

Ever: Dom gets all. You get hang-outs. Last offer.

I cave. Because I can. Because, at least on paper, it is innocent. Because I radiate, and I never radiate, and I want to radiate whenever Joe and I talk. I want to exist in color. I want to listen to old Smiths records on Joe’s floor while I draw, while he writes. I want the city’s filth, then to come back to the suburbs for the night. Even though I know this arrangement won’t have a happy ending.

Joe: Lucky Dom.

Ever: This is strictly work.

Joe: In that case, I’ll set up a workroom for us.

Ever: I’ll make playlists.

Joe: No Blur.

Ever: I’m no heathen.

Joe:

My heart hiccups, because Joe is not an emoji person. I can tell without even texting him much.

Ever: Oh, and we’re telling Dom.

There’s a beat before he answers this time.

Joe: Your funeral.

Ever: God. I’m already regretting this.

Joe: Regrets make good stories.





SEVENTEEN


On the drive to Dover, Dom is fidgety and out of focus. When I ask him about it, he tells me that he’s been pulling double shifts to make up for the long weekend he took off, but that he’s still keeping up with all his other commitments.

“When was the last time you slept?” I demand. “Like, really slept. Not just catnaps.”

Now that I’m taking a better look at him, he looks shattered. Like he hasn’t slept the better half of this century.

Dom frowns, giving it some thought. “Two days ago. And on the flight back too. From San Juan.”

“Sleep is not Pilates. Doing it three times a week is not sufficient,” I chide him.

“I’ll get better about it,” he soothes, rubbing at my back. It’s all empty words. I know he won’t. Dom is incapable of slowing down. He wants to make sure he takes big, juicy bites of the world. Every day is a greasy burger. He doesn’t have salad days in between.

“No, you won’t.” I shake my head. “You need to clear your schedule a little. CrossFit. Book club. The movies. Something’s gotta go.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it feels like. To look your mortality in the eye every day. I do. It’s hard for me to pass on things.”

This time, I don’t take the bait. “First of all, you don’t own exclusivity rights on death, mister. I’m going to expire one day too. Second, you still have a lot of time to do them.”