Page 69 of Find My Way Down to You

Even after Henri’s visit, I don’t let myself get too anxious over the thought of Cary showing up. When he shows up.Ifhe shows up.

I let my brain zone out. It’s safer that way.

Next to me, my phone lights up. I start to ignore it. Probably just Mom or Dad in the group chat. But my eyes catch on the notification: a direct message to one of my rarely used social media accounts.

Curious, I tap it open.

It’s from @HaruSam. Instantly, I recognize the goofy grin and denim jacket in his profile photo. He’s an old classmate.

TODAY 8:11PM

Hey August. It’s Sam. sorry to slide into your dms like this.

I saw you the other night at an SBS party.

I wanted to talk to you but…I felt bad for not speaking since high school.

sorry about that too.

anyway found this old pic of you and london. I miss him. hope youre ok.

My hand trembles. Beneath Sam’s messages is a photo. I don’t know why I click to make it bigger. Why I want to see every detail.

Why I want to see…us.

We’re sitting together on a ratty sofa in someone’s basement. It’s summer. We’re fifteen. I can tell by the roundness of my cheeks and the sun streaks in his hair. I’m laughing, mouth wide, while London side-eyes me, an arm thrown around my shoulders.

He’s wearing his weird smile and the navy hoodie.UCSBstands out in bold yellow lettering. I have on my matching sweatshirt.

The room spins. My phone falls from my hand. It knocks over what’s left of my noodles. Diana leaps away, meowing. Ache spreads cold and fast through my chest.

I don’t have time to stop it. The tide of grief. Its vicious grip strangles me.

When I look down, my phone screen is still lit. The photo mocks me from the floor.

In a rush, the memory pulls me under:

Sweat hangs in the air. The stench of too many teenagersin a small dank basement. A silly, forgettable pop song thuds in my ears.

London leans close. His breath is warm against my cheek. He tells me my music is better. That one day we’ll dance to one of my songs. He’ll pay the DJ to play it at prom.

That never happened.

London never went to any school dances. The last suit he wore was the one his mom picked out for his funeral.

He never got to wear that hoodie on UC Santa Barbara’s campus either. He never even filled out the application. Or walked across the stage for high school graduation. He never got to become all the things he told me about.

Neither did I.

But that hurt doesn’t come close to the ache of knowing I never got to watch all of London’s plans—the ones he worked so hard for—come true.

It’s all my fault. Even if it was an accident.

I took away the life London was supposed to have.

Jolting to my feet, I pace the living room. My fingers tangle in my curls. There’s a steady throb in my head I can’t get away from.

What am I doing? Why am I like this? Stuck in a time loop where he’s dead and I’m just…here. Not being the son my parents want. Or the friend Max wants.