Page 47 of What You Left Me

It’s decided. That’s where they go. Where they were before can’t be said, for it’s too vague to be anywhere. Daniel opens his front door, and Michael follows, the silence between them so loaded it is certain to combust.

Daniel’s front room is spacious and airy. All furniture available, asking to be occupied. All the buildup, and now they’re here. Daniel falls into Michael, kissing him like nothing has ever mattered more. He pirouettes him down the wall, not even bothering with the couch. Tender and passionate all at once, it’s everything Daniel’s ever hoped for in a romantic encounter. A boy from his own school. It’s a first, and it matters more than all the other hookups he’s had, because beyond knowing, there is friendship. Beyond friendship, there is tension. Beyond tension, there is possibility.

Daniel slows down, taking a moment to look at Michael. Something new and unfamiliar reaches out of Michael’s eyes and into Daniel. Trust. Daniel uses it as a signal to lift up Michael’s shirt. He places it on the ground with care. He kisses Michael, soft and slow, shutting his eyes to take it in. When he pulls back, ready for another step, the front door creaks open.

The two boys part. Daniel expects to find his parents gawking. Instead, his hodgepodge new friend group awaits them: Aminah, Cameron, Petra, Brooke. And Martin?

Is this really the famed Martin McGee?

Daniel can’t be certain. He has only a hazy idea of what this boy looks like. But there’s a certainty he feels. There’s no way this is anyone else.

The group takes in shirtless Michael Turrey and flustered Daniel Stetson. It’s certainly a rare sight.

“What?” Daniel asks, trying to regain his signature blasé composure. “We’re a little busy here.”

His confidence eases a laugh out of everyone. Even Martin, who’s standing there looking mystified. “Do I know you?” Martin asks.

“Excellent question,” Daniel quips. “Do you?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m here.”

“I think that solves it then. Now would you mind leaving? I love you all, but really, I’d like a moment.”

24

This is gonna sound so strange, but I keep thinking of what it’s like to hug my mom. How she smells like cigarette smoke in a bakery. Her loud-ass voice hollering for the home team at every sports game. The number one fan of being a fan.

My dad. The man who eats Cheerios religiously because my mom told him it would help with his cholesterol. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even have cholesterol issues. He’s just like that. He looks like a guy who listens to NPR while reading the business section of the newspaper and drinking a latte, but he loves classic rock and drinks two shots of whiskey every night before bed. He does read the newspaper though. He refuses to get information from the internet. I love him for that.

God. I really do.

Spitty and I have a hundred-dollar bet that Katie will name her firstborn Wrigley, boy or girl. I mean, I get it. Dad raised us to live and die by Chicago sports. If you wanted in with him, you had to love every team, but the Cubs most of all.

Katie’s more than that though. She’s a great listener. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve complained to her about the silliest things, and she’s always interested. She’ll be like, “So is your Spanish teacher still giving you weekly detentions even though you weren’t the one to draw penises on your homework?” and I will have to think for a good twenty seconds because she’ll be following up on a story I told her months ago.

What a good sister.

The best sister.

Then there’s Spits. The curly bowl cut he hasn’t changed in ten years. The braces I swear he’s had for even longer. If he ever gets them off, his teeth will probably have little white squares stained onto them for the rest of his life, and he’ll have no place to store the extra pieces of his sandwiches. Speaking of, I still want my graduation sandwich. He owes me a Potbelly’s Wreck with extra salami now. And a cookie.

No. Two cookies.

Dammit, Spitty.

Then you’ve got Turrey. That kid—a lifelong White Sox fan—got me a custom Cubs jersey for my sixteenth birthday. That’s the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten in my life. It’s so Turrey of him. Low-key thoughtful as hell without being showy about it. He works his ass off to be good at everything he does; sports, gift giving, being a friend. And he makes it all seem easy.

And of course Brooke, the girl who sat behind me in freshman biology and used my arm to draw pictures of protons and neutrons and electrons. Who gave me Mina Lonigan’s number sophomore year and told me exactly how to ask her out, then gave me a heads-up the day before Mina was going to break up with me. Who stood up for me that time Hornsby thought I was cheating on my test, when really, I was just trying to find my lucky pencil. Who wanted to know me even after kissing me.

Rounding it out is Chris, the guy that’s in the group because he’s never been anywhere else. I love him for that. It’s comfortable. It’s what we know. It’s how life has always been.

But now the gallery of all the people I love shuffles through my memories on repeat. My feelings for all of them are so strong it’s like I touched a hot stove and I can’t take my hand off. It’s a constant ache that I can’t place because it’s pain that is physical without any physicality, because I don’t have a body, because I made some extremely terrible choices. I hate all of this so much. I don’t want some untouchable idea of pain. I want the real thing.

I’d love a paper cut right now, and that’s really saying something.

Dreams are like movies. When you’re in them, your focus is pulled to the star. And there I was inside a dream starring a dude I didn’t recognize, and he was with Turrey. Like,withTurrey.

So now someone I’ve never met is dreaming of me. Some of my friends are his friends. One is more than just a friend actually.