Page 83 of Exchanged

“We made something for y’all,” Garrett says. “A thank-you gift, I guess. For everything you did for me this year. I was going to give it to you after graduation, but…” He shrugs and gestures at the package.

Dad takes it from Aunt Liz. “You didn’t have to,” he says. With Emma’s help, he tears the paper away, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. I, however, am too busy staring at Garrett’s face, trying to memorize every part of him as he stands here in my home on Main Street in Irontown, Michigan.

“Wow,” Dad breathes, examining the gift. “Garrett … thank you.”

I finally look away from Garrett to the object in Dad’s hands.

It’s a twisting tree, made from wire and wood, carefully polished and painfully intricate. This I recognize as the work of Aunt Liz, produced in the small workshop she maintains in her garage. But in place of leaves, the tree holds dozens of photographs, clipped to branches with purposeful messiness. Those are all Garrett.

I lean in closer to look.

There is our family at Christmas, Garrett beaming at the camera, his arm thrown over my shoulders, Gloria giving the two of us a knowing side-eye.

Dad and his friends in front of their outhouse on New Year’s Eve, red-cheeked and happily drunk.

Emma and Aunt Liz cooking together at the kitchen island, their hair pulled into messy buns, temporal mirrors of each other.

And me, on that winter morning in the Caving Grounds before we first kissed.

This is the photo he never showed me. In it, I sit on the stone steps leading up into the woods, knees spread wide, elbows resting on them, hands hanging loosely between my legs. My hat lies in the snow at my feet, my hair a tangled, flyaway mess. But my face serves as the focal point. He caught me in the middle of explosive laughter, my eyes squeezed shut, nose crinkled, teeth out. He had just made that stupid joke about Dad and my chemistry teacher. I look so free, so confident, like for a moment I had forgotten that anyone was watching me, like I didn’t care if they were.

Garrett saw me like that, saw the best version of me, the one I don’t always recognize. He’s seen all of us at our best and worst, but in this gift, he included only the very best. Dozens of images depict our family living out the ordinary days of our lives, distilled moments we never would have granted a second thought. He did, though. He’s always noticed things no one else has, and it only makes sense that all along he was capturing these small, insignificant instants, documenting them in his art. This gift and this noticing—they make it hard for me to breathe.

Dad carefully places the tree on the front desk and pulls Garrett into a hug. He says something in Garrett’s ear. Garrett closes his eyes, leans into him, and nods.

Garrett turns to Emma. He hands her a copy of the fourth book in the Centaurus Chronicles. She throws her arms around him, and when she pulls back, tears glimmer from the ends of her curls.

Aunt Liz is saying something about it being a beautiful morning, about how we should wait on the porch, but her voice is muted because a rush of sound is filling my ears, cutting everything else out. Dad and Emma and Liz shuffle out the front door, wanting to give Garrett and me a chance to say goodbye.

And then it’s just the two of us, watching each other’s faces in the morning light, the space around and between us feeling massive and silent. This is the last time we’ll be alone together. The stupid grandfather clock ticks away the seconds I have left with him. I should say something—something powerful and important, something to show him how much I love him or some small bit of encouragement to feed him before he goes home with his parents.

He doesn’t know what to say, either. He lifts his shoulders and attempts his old one-third grin, like, What’s left to be said, right? But all I can see is the sadness behind his eyes.

“You’ll be okay. You’re strong,” I say. “No matter what happens, remember that.” I reach in my pocket and pull out a copy of a photo I took myself and hand it to him. Garrett’s language is photography, and mine is music, but he’s not the only one who can capture someone at their best. It’s the photo I took on my phone during the outhouse race. Garrett is straining at the tow rope, and he has an expression of fierce determination on his face but also the ghost of a smile, as if the whole thing is a hilarious joke to him. The guy in that photo is capable of anything.

Garrett stares at it for a long time before sliding it into his pocket. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Then he grabs the handle of his luggage, rolls it to the door, and looks back at our home one last time. His eyes travel from the dining room, where we ate so many courses of pasta and played too many board games, to the living room, where he watched hours of football with Dad, then finally again to me. He gives a tiny nod, like he’s sealing off this part of his life.

We step out onto the porch. Yesterday’s rain has given way to a fresh spring morning, awash with green buds and infant flowers. Our pride flag rustles in the breeze. Before Garrett or I can settle onto a porch chair, a car and an SUV pull into the driveway.

Lana Augustine steps out of the car wearing her red-framed glasses and carrying her clipboard. Garrett’s parents emerge from the SUV. His dad is dressed in a sport coat and jeans, an expensive watch glinting at his wrist. He has the same russet hair as his son, but the lines of his face are harder, his gaze cold and calculating rather than open and curious. Garrett’s mom wears a blouse and skirt and heels, her light hair blown out like a church lady from the nineties.

The three of them walk up the path toward our house, and we shuffle down the steps, meeting in front of our porch. It feels like Garrett is getting picked up after a sleepover rather than from a forced exile meant to turn him straight.

Lana tries to mediate. “Joe, Liz, Enzo, Emma,” she says, gesturing at each of us in turn, “this is Brock and Gina. Brock and Gina, this is the Rossi family. I’m sorry your first in-person meeting isn’t under better circumstances.”

Brock chuckles. “The boys really made a mess of things, didn’t they?” His tone holds a jagged edge, and no one laughs. Then he pulls Garrett into a one-armed hug.

I wonder if it’s their first physical contact since he hit Garrett. Next to me, Dad’s breathing has grown shallow and rapid.

“We missed you, Garrett,” Brock says. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay,” Garrett says. “Other than this screwup.”

He’s different from the boy I’ve gotten to know this year. He stands tall, his movements stiff, his voice low and measured, like none of this affects him much, like he’s once again the cocky football player who stepped off the plane in August.

He plays the part of the obedient straight son well.