Birthday(36)

I can tell he’s been miserable lately, and maybe that’s part of why I’ve pulled away, and why we’ve both been bailing on each other, and it’s been hard to watch our friendship shift into uncharted territory. I think back to all the times I avoided him, or put space between us because of the kiss, and I feel like an asshole for letting my own muddled worries pull me away when he’s clearly needed me more than ever.

I rummage through drawers of beads and ribbons until I finally find a pair of scissors that look big and sharp enough to do the trick. I wonder what he’s not telling me, and I start to think maybe a better friend would have figured out what’s wrong by now and feel a surge of sour guilt. I’m still mulling everything over when I open the sliding glass door, step onto the back porch, and almost drop my scissors. Morgan’s sitting on the rail, shirtless, his eyes hidden in shadow and the strands of his own hair. I suck air through my teeth.

When’s the last time I saw him without a shirt? He’s so skinny, almost down to the bone, all the muscle from middle school wasted away to nothing. I can count his ribs. I want to toss my scissors aside and hug him again, but then Morgan sees me and pulls his hair back out of his face. Without the hood and his bulky sweatshirt, I realize it’s down to his waist. And it’s beautiful. Thick like a tangle of branches on a September night, and dark brown, close to black under the porch light.

In a flash I see a hundred memories. His hair blowing in his face, or him dangling from a tree branch and pulling it behind his ear, or him laughing and whipping it carelessly to one side, or … so many other times. I’d never realized it until now. That long hair makes my heart stop.

Standing over Morgan, I don’t just want to hug him. I want to kiss him so badly it burns my chest.

“I haven’t cut it since Mom died,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice catching in my throat.

He scratches his neck and holds up a gray can. “Think your dad’ll notice if one of his beers goes missing from the garage fridge?”

I shake my head and he cracks the can, taking a long sip that exposes his slender neck, nearly finishing it in one go. Then he pulls a white plastic chair under the porch light and settles in. His pale skin glows with beaded sweat.

“How short do you want it?”

“All of it,” he says. “I want us to match.”

I nod silently and begin. I don’t want to do this, but I have to.

I have to do it for Morgan.

The scissors flash silver under the light and the night hums with the sounds of summer fading into fall, cicadas and crickets and the occasional car passing by. My street is dark and it feels like we’re the only two people in the world right now. We don’t talk. I do my best to keep some distance between us, but I still have to brush his cheeks, chin, and neck, still have to brace my hand on his shoulder to get the scissors in the best position.

His skin is smooth and surprisingly cool. Wherever our skin connects I feel my own jittery, nervous energy over tonight, and Susan, and my own hair, and everything that’s happened between me and Morgan. A spark of electricity passes from me and into him, flooding out of my crowded heart and into his. I wonder what Morgan’s heart is like compared to mine. Empty isn’t the right word, though it’s the first that comes to mind. Minimalist. Maybe it’s more like yin and yang, like his heart is a dark, cool room after a hot, exhausting day.

I leave my fingers on his cheek a little longer than I mean to, only to notice that now his skin is warm. I look down to find him blushing, his breathing a little heavier. I pull my hand away quickly.

It takes a while and it’s nowhere near even, but when I’m finally done Morgan stands up to see his reflection in the sliding glass door. It’s not buzzed like mine, more like something you’d see in a movie where a character like Joan of Arc chops all her hair away to join the Crusades, but it’s as close to the scalp as I could get. He doesn’t smile, but he runs his fingers over his head, squares his shoulders, and nods, satisfied.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve hurt him, or that I’ve destroyed something beautiful. He turns to me and it feels like someone new stands before me. A stranger.

“You like it?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s a tightness around his eyes I don’t totally trust. “I think Dad has a trimmer I can use, but it’s a good start.” He kills the last of the beer, throws the can on the ground, and stomps it flat. “Thanks.”

We brush all the hair off him and I sweep the porch. The moths silently circle the light above our heads.

After a while Morgan says, “I’m going to get home.”

“Right, okay,” I reply. I can’t help but feel there’s a mountain of unsaid words between us.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

“You too, man.”

I watch Morgan grab his bike and fade off into the darkness, his shorn hair occasionally catching in the shine of a streetlight. I rub at my own shaved head. As Morgan finally disappears, I find myself kissing my forefinger and middle finger and touching them to the screen door.

“Love you,” I whisper. I’m vaguely aware as I mount the stairs that I didn’t end the statement with “dude” or “man.” When I finally reach my bed it feels large, and cold, and empty. The streetlights leave zigzags across my blanket and I’m reminded of the silver flash of scissors and the tumble of Morgan’s hair, glimmering as it fell onto the porch.