Page 22 of What You Left Me

Turrey stands up. He walks over to Fly’s perch and hugs Fly close. “I know I don’t really do this kind of shit, but I love you, man,” he says, tears in his eyes. “Please come back to us.”

9

It happened again.

I was with Turrey, Spits, and Chris. Petra was there too. They weren’t paying attention to me even though they were all gambling for…me? I kept asking what was going on, but no one would even look at me. I was up on this beer can throne in my Cubs jersey, watching over them.

Their cards played memories from my life. Seeing myself in different stages—smiling and laughing and being the general jackass I’ve grown to be—made my heart numb out and my knees cave in. The only thing I knew for sure was that after they picked a winner from the round, all the other memories were supposed to disappear forever.

They picked me in a wet suit sweating my ass off dancing with Brooke’s Poms team, trying to get her to go to prom with me. It was a good memory for sure, but it wasn’t the one that should last. How could I be reduced to just that day?

Turrey’s been there for me since we were playing Pee Wee together in kindergarten. That kid was the first person to ever invite me to play sports during recess. He was dribbling a ball, getting ready to start up a round of foursquare, and he yelled out, “Hey, Martin! We need one more. You in?” Freakin’ six years old, and he could see I needed a friend.

I had to speak up and defend the card he chose. I didn’t care if they weren’t going to listen. After I finished talking, Turrey told me he loved me and that he needed me to come back to them. As much as I’ve been through with that kid, it’s always been out of love. We both know that, but it gets me to hear him say it, especially when I don’t know why he felt it needed to be spoken. Or why he was so upset. Or what he meant byPlease come back to us.

Like wake up?

Believe me, Turrey, I’m trying.

• • •

Turrey’s slumped over the steering wheel, snoring. He really did need it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person fall asleep so effortlessly. We’re in the back of the mall lot, where no cars dare park unless it’s the day after Thanksgiving or the day before Christmas. Turrey left the engine running so the air could stay on, but I open my window anyway. I stretch my hand out, and my fingers pinch distant trees that stand as islands in the concrete ocean around us.

Without warning, Turrey wakes up, as abrupt and effortless as his descent into sleep.

“Welcome back,” I say.

“I had a weird dream.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah. I saw Fly.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” He turns up the radio to hum along.

There’s no way I’m going home now. “Could you drop me off at my friends?” I ask. I give him Daniel’s address so he can plug it into his GPS.

“That’s my address,” he says back.

A misplaced two instead of a four, and I stumble on the discovery that Mike Turrey and Daniel Stetson are neighbors. I realize I’ve seen Turrey before—granted, through a fence or from a second-floor balcony—but I have years’ worth of squinted glances into his home life. His family loves to throw huge backyard parties. We even snuck into one. His little brother and sister publicly hate each other, staging outdoor fights with the regularity of a scripted reality show, always finding new ways to scream children’s versions of obscenities at each other. When they think no one is watching, they get along perfectly.

“I knew I’d seen you before,” Turrey says. “You’re at Daniel’s a lot.”

“Yeah. He’s one of my best friends.”

“Cool,” Turrey answers, his favorite drifting response. He starts up the engine and rolls the windows down lower.

I stretch my hand out to feel the warm air blow through my fingers.

I went to the same school as Martin. The same mall. I’ve had the same skeleton of a life. Now I know his family. I know one of his best friends. How interesting to paint a picture of someone when they aren’t around to help with the shading.

What picture does the world paint of me?I wonder.And how close is it to the truth?

Not very,I answer as I pretend to smash a distant oak tree between my thumb and my index finger.

I don’t know Martin at all.