Birthday(48)

“I know,” he says. “I should have pushed harder or looked closer or—”

“There was nothing you could have done or said,” I say. I squeeze his hand as hard as I can, which isn’t very hard. “Eric, I put myself through hell to avoid it. You couldn’t have made me tell you. But I will. Soon. I promise.”

“Okay,” he says. He squeezes me back and smiles weakly. “If you say so.” His eyes slide shut and he leans forward, pressing my fingers to his forehead. “I was so afraid. So afraid. What would I do without you?”

“Cultivate a hobby?” I say. The sniffling gets louder and I realize his shoulders are shaking. “No. Hey. Don’t…”

He looks up, his tear-streaked face startlingly resolute. Part of me thinks I should pull my hand back at some point, but the rest of me thinks it’s fine to let him decide how long he wants to hold it. Our eyes linger. I realize his thumb is tracing the lines in my palm and decide not to say anything. Eventually his eyes dart to the door, ensuring it’s closed maybe, and then back to mine. “Listen.”

“Hmm?”

“I…”

Say it, I think. Please say it.

“You’re not allowed to die,” he says. “Okay?”

I squeeze his hand one last time before slipping mine free and resting it in my lap.

“Okay,” I promise him. “Okay.”





seventeen





ERIC



My fingers hurt as I push down on the guitar strings, but it’s a good kind of pain. That’s maybe the only helpful thing football has taught me, that some kinds of pain equal progress.

Of course, I should be at football practice, but fat chance there. Maybe my best friend almost dying and my family disintegrating forced me to reassess my priorities. It’s still early enough in the school year that homework’s light, and I figured I deserved an afternoon to myself. The sun pours into my window, and it’s a perfect September day, not as hot as it could be but still bright and worthy of short sleeves. The house is quiet, and I have it all to myself.

The last year has been strange. No Peyton, barely a word from Isaac, and my parents constantly at each other’s throats. Then, finally, Mom moved out a month ago. As she left, Mom pulled me into a hug that made me realize how small she was. My chest muffled her voice, but she said we could talk about me coming to stay with her after the holidays, that for now the fall semester was too close and she didn’t want to interfere with school. I didn’t realize she’d been crying until she was gone and I saw the dark spots on my shirt.

Then I found the divorce paperwork in Dad’s office downstairs.

Hard to pin down exactly why that made football seem irrelevant, but it did.

I kick my feet up on the bed and pull my guitar farther up onto my lap. I lay two fingers across the second fret for picking practice, twanging every other string down then up, over and over, faster and faster until I mess up. Then I start over. Of course, I want to quit and watch YouTube or text Morgan or listen to my new playlist, but even more than that, I want to be good at playing guitar, and the gap between talent and skill is discipline.

I haven’t spoken to Morgan in a few days, and after everything that happened last year, that’s become more okay—normal. I know Morgan needs his space, and he knows I’m there for him. Before, when we would go long stretches without talking, that weird pressure would build up at the back of my neck. But I don’t get that weird ache anymore. We’re already seventeen. Already seniors. And we’ve only got so much time left before high school ends. I think about all the movie nights, concerts, and nights stargazing we’ll never get back. Football practice, and all the time it’s eaten up in my life, just feels petty in comparison.

More and more I’ve been doing what I want to do instead of what I should do. I skip lunch, bike instead of drive, and use all the money I save on gas for guitar lessons. The calorie deficit’s cost me muscle and being seen on a bike instead of in my car has lost me clout, but my new music instructor, a retired session guitarist from Nashville who teaches out of a strip mall, says I’m good and getting better.

I haven’t told Morgan I’m playing again, though. I’m worried it’ll remind him of his mom, since she’s the one who first bought me a guitar and sheet music. He’s been in such a better place this year that I don’t want to pull him back into that darkness.

My phone buzzes. I rest my guitar on my shoulder, check it, and see Susan’s name on the screen. I feel like an asshole for not wanting to respond. She hasn’t done anything wrong, and I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong, but month by month things feel more out of tune between us.

Happy birthday, Susan’s text reads. Excited for tonight?

Yeah, I type. Hey, I’m busy at practice, can I talk to you later?

There’s a pause before she types back, k, which feels a little weird, but I push off the thought as I hear the garage door open and heavy footsteps downstairs. It can only be one person. I turn back to the window and keep playing.

My bedroom door opens and Dad walks in. I refuse to turn around.

I’d hoped he would chill now that Mom’s gone, but now I see Mom was a lightning rod. She protected us as much as she could.

Not for the first time I imagine Peyton in his new life in Miami, sharing a loft with his girlfriend above the restaurant where he works, most of his rough edges sanded off after two years of freedom, and feel a little jealous.