Page 59 of After His Eulogy
“I want you to know I know what I am giving up to do that. I’m giving up the thing I’d been telling myself was a backup.I could leave again to protect him— I’ve been carrying that one in my back pocket for three months. It has been the thing I have reached for every time I got scared. I almost reached for it on Friday, when Mendez asked if there was anyone, and I said no. I almost reached for it that night. I have been close to reaching for it again all week. I am putting it down. I am putting it down tonight. I am telling you I am putting it down so that you can hold me to it. So that the next time I get scared and I reach for it, you can say no, you put that down, that is not yours anymore.”
He is quiet for a long time. His hand on my chest moves once, the small absent sweep, and stops.
“Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“Look at me.”
“It’s dark.”
“Reed.”
I turn my head. I cannot see him. I can feel him. He has turned toward me. His face is close.
“I am holding you to it.”
“Okay.”
“You said it. I heard you. I’m holding you to it. The next time you reach for it I’m going to say no. The next time you walk into my kitchen with the speech ready I’m going to say no. You’ve given me permission to. I’m taking the permission.”
I don’t answer. I let him have it.
“And Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“I am putting mine down too.”
“What.”
“My version. The one where I tell myself I would understand if you left. The one where I tell myself I would survive it. I’ve been carrying that one for three months too —I would be okay if it happened again. I’m putting it down. I am not going to be okay if it happens again. I’m telling you tonight so you know. So you don’t get to comfort yourself with the idea that I would be. I wouldn’t. Leaving is off the table on my side too. If you go, I’m not okay. If I go, you’re not okay. We’re taking it off the table together.”
“Okay.”
We lie there. His hand is on my chest. My hand finds his on top of mine and I hold it there. The room is dark and the radiator hisses and somewhere a car goes by and somewhere a person is making a phone call and we are in his bed in his apartment with the leaving in a drawer somewhere we cannot reach.
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“Pick a different word.”
“I…“
“I know. You don’t have one.”
“No.”
“It’s okay.”
“It is okay.”
He shifts. He moves closer. His forehead finds my temple. His breath is on my cheek.
