Opposite of Always(78)

I stand on the gas and the car lurches forward.

I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing. Is there a chance that none of this is real? Maybe I’m in a coma and this is all a byproduct of narcotics and my own screwed-up subconscious. Or maybe my entire life is an elaborately staged production, some medium-budget reality television show, and everyone I know is a paid actor, like that Truman Show flick. What if Mom and Dad aren’t even my real parents? What if Jillian and Franny were hired to be my best friends? And Kate. What if she’s . . . what if we’re not really in lo— Then a bomb explodes.

Rather, that’s what I think at first, what the impact is like. The nose of the car crinkles shut, folding in on itself like a construction-paper fan, metal bending, tearing. I feel heat and fire. Smell smoke. Someone, something screams. But from where? And then I realize it’s me. I’m screaming. And I can’t stop. I can’t. But it doesn’t matter, the screaming, because I start thinking of it less as a sign of weakness, of fear. It’s my battle cry. Because I’m going to make it to Kate even if I have to crawl on all fours, or hobble on one leg. I don’t care.

Maybe, in the end, none of this turns out to be real.

But it’s real to me.

“Kid, kid, are you okay?” a lady is yelling into my window. “Oh my God, oh my God, I didn’t see you. I swear, I looked both ways and everything but you just came out of nowhere . . .”

I try and push my door open but it doesn’t budge. “Get back,” I tell the lady. I kick out the remaining broken glass and climb out the driver’s side window. But my legs give out and I collapse to the ground.

Her hand touches my shoulder. “You need to stay still. I’ve already called 9-1-1.”

But I stand up anyway. My legs are wobbly but I’m okay. I’ll be okay.

“Oh my God, what are you doing? You shouldn’t move. You might make things worse. Maybe you have a concussion. Maybe some broken bones, or—”

I move past her and start down the road.

“My girlfriend,” I tell her. “I have to get to her. She’s dying.”

I hear sirens a few streets away and I pick up the pace, which still isn’t fast, considering my lungs are on fire and I think my right kneecap’s broken. It never occurred to me that you could break a knee. I’ve never heard someone say yeah, I’ll be okay, just a broken knee.

“Oh, God, was there someone else in the car? Your girlfriend? The ambulance is coming. The paramedics will . . .”

Only I don’t hear another word she says.

All I can think is, I tried. I tried so hard to do everything right. But I failed.

A bright light flares behind my pupils. My brain spins in my skull. My teeth play musical chairs in my gums. And it’s as though my heart’s plugged into an exposed electrical socket in the middle of a typhoon.

In other words, it happens.

Again, it happens.





Four You & Me





I Can’t Even


The only thing worse than losing someone you love is losing them again.

People say I’d do anything to see them again, to hear their voice just once more, but what they don’t consider is losing them all over again. That it doesn’t get easier. If anything, it’s harder. So much harder.

“Excuse me, man, but you’re sort of damming up the steps,” Kate says.

“Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” And I do. I get the hell out of her way, out of her path, out of her stratosphere.

Because even after all that we’ve been through together, even though I’m so very happy to see her alive once more, I can’t do it again.

I’m sorry. I just can’t.

Don’t hate me, but I’m going to say something ridiculously, exceptionally hole in the head stupid. As in, I’m going to invoke cliché to explain my running away from Kate.

Three strikes and you’re out.

You see, it’s just occurred to me (well, it occurred to me before but I promptly shoved the thought into the dankest, most cobwebbed corner of my brain) that maybe I’m not supposed to save Kate. That maybe we aren’t even supposed to meet. Suppose the way I save her is that I leave her alone altogether.

I had my three swings, and I missed—badly, wildly.

Now I’m out.

And I do the one thing I should’ve done in the first place. I storm the kitchen, slicing through the crowd, pausing long enough to tell the group huddled around the TV to stay tuned because State is about to make a huge comeback, no way, man, they say dismissively, but I don’t argue. I weave through the dancers and drinkers until I’m right behind her.

She turns around, like she knows what happens next. Like she’s been waiting for me.

“Jack,” Jillian says, “what are you doing?”

“What I should’ve ages ago.”

I pull her close and peer into her eyes and I press my lips against hers and I wait for her to push me away. But she doesn’t move, except to open her mouth, her warm tongue slips between my lips, her fingers cradling my head, and this isn’t how I imagined things, but it’ll be okay.

Everything’s okay.





How to Betray Everything You’ve Known


The only thing I’m surprised about is that Franny hasn’t beaten my ass . . . yet.