Page 17 of What You Left Me

Why am I not afraid to be so close? It’s not right. Or normal. It’s driving extra slow past an accident to gather up as many details as I can. I force myself to turn away. The second my body pivots, Mama Dorothy wraps her arms around me once again.

“What’s happening?” I ask, a question more for myself than her.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Mama Dorothy says.

This is too much. I wiggle out and walk away, trying not to look back but unable to stop myself. The McGees wave. The nurse does too.

They don’t even know my name.

• • •

In my heart I know that when it happens to me for real, I’ll be a one-hundred-year-old dude, sitting on my front porch kicking back a fine bottle of whiskey and telling stories to my great-grandkids. I’ll finish up the one about how I charmed Grandma. They will all know the tale by heart, but they will listen like it’s the first time they’ve ever heard it. I will tell it like it’s the first time I’ve ever lived it. It will choke me up, and I will excuse myself to go upstairs. I’ll fall asleep holding a picture of her, never to wake up again.

Mina Lonigan and Brooke Delgado. Those are the only girls I’ve ever dated, which is not too bad for an eighteen-year-old. But neither one of them was close to being my lucky lady for life. I’m looking forward to that. Finding a girl who likes talking to me when I don’t feel like being Fly. Who tolerates sports enough to go to games with Katie, her husband, and me. Who keeps my bullshit in check but doesn’t mind when I air-guitar the classics in the middle of a grocery store.

A girl who calls me Martin.

Somewhere way down the line, like in my late twenties or something, I plan on getting my life together.

For now, I need to wake up.

• • •

I get as far as the elevator before I collapse, tucking my body into a corner. The wall hugs my right side and a gigantic potted plant holds my left. Without these surfaces, I’d surely combust. My body would crack open and let all the strange things inside of me spill out onto this shiny linoleum floor.

My phone, long neglected in my pocket, vibrates. I pull it out to see eight missed calls and six voicemails from my parents. It’s clear Jessica did not tell them where she’d taken me. Nice.

My eyes skim for any interesting texts and land upon Mr. Valedictorian himself, Steve Taggart.

Word on the street is that I won’t be seeing you at Notre Dame after all. Is it true? You always did have a hard time with math. I have some packets from middle school if you need them.

Of course he’d find out. If anyone cares more than my parents about my rapid descent in class rank, it’s Steve. I couldn’t be in less of a mood for his backward flirtation, and I don’t want to even go near the parental drama I’ve stirred up. I close out of my texts and open Instagram to type in Martin McGee. How unfair to meet his face in its damaged state. While I’m safe in my corner, I have to know who he used to be. The small little circle of a photo meant to represent him is a picture of young Michael J. Fox. His most recent picture is a body shot of him standing on what looks to be a beer pong table, cape around his neck, hands stretched to the side as if he’s flying. The time stamp tells me it’s over three years old. I pinch the screen to zoom in on his face. It’s pixelated, but I see Mama Dorothy in his grin. The rest of his account pictures are of Cubs players or different pairs of sneakers.

I scroll through his tagged photos. Not one of them ever gets close to his face. He’s always turned away from the camera. Turrey, from the vending machine yesterday and the waiting room today, is in almost all of them. It makes sense why he stared me down. He is a member of the innermost circle of Martin’s social group, one that probably has the rings of an ancient tree, and he knows I come from a different world altogether.

“Hey,” a voice calls out to me. “Who are you?”

Like the universe heard my thoughts and brought him to me, it’s Turrey. He walks up to my potted plant corner, investigating my suspicious nature without hesitation. He picks up the plant and scoots it over so he has room to sit beside me.

“I’m Petra,” I tentatively answer, as if that may or may not be who I am.

“You know Fly?”

I decide to be honest. “Kind of. He sat next to me at graduation.”

“And you’re here?”

He’s so to the point with all of his statements that I get that helpless feeling that comes along every so often, like when I’ve misplaced an assignment or slept through an alarm. “I just feel really bad about what happened.”

“I’m Mike.”

“I thought your name was Turrey.”

“Are you some kind of stalker? That’s my last name.”

“Oh,” I say, shrinking by the second. Turrey’s fast-talking, quick-thinking, ball-busting confidence gives me whiplash. It makes me too confused to break open, which is the only plus side.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says.