winter break is for frequent updates luv xx
7200 words wtf am i on
i'm going to warn you readers, there are some very religious ideas/actions in this chapter. that said, i'm also going to warn against lack of respect in the comments for anyone's religion/lack thereof. the part of the chapter i'm referring to isn't even really about the religion itself, it's about the meaning behind the actions taken, so focusing on the religious aspect will be a waste of everyone's time
cool that's all
oh also this is the third to last chapter. just thought i'd warn you all bc i'm a giver :)
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Time was stupid. And crazy unfair. When you wanted it to go faster -- when you were reeling from heartbreak and anxiety -- it took its sweet damn time. But when you wanted it to slow down -- when April was transforming too quickly into May, and graduation was approaching at a freight train's pace -- it decided to pick up speed.
I felt like I was racing with life, and life was working very hard to pass me.
For a while, school was weird after I came out. Nobody was outright nasty to me; I didn't live in a big city, but it wasn't a small town, either. I was a few hours from Pittsburgh, not in the middle of buck-ass nowhere in, like, Nebraska or some shit. People here don't care all that much.
Some were supportive, some weren't, everyone was interested. I got a lot of stares, a lot of glares, a lot of freshman girls deciding they wanted to be my best friend. Zack backed off; he seemed to know better than to poke fun at my sexuality. Now that everything was confirmed, people wouldn't take to it like they had when he was picking on Jamie. Plus, even if he would never admit it, he was scared of Bryan.
Who still beat him at Prom King, by the way.
I didn't have the time to focus on Zack. Or anyone at school, really. Not when my parents were still alienating me at home. Not when Jacob and I were starting to really move forward and get closer.
Not when the same recurring dream was keeping me up at nights. The same wishful imagining of what might've happened if Jamie hadn't backed away from me that night on the hilltop.
The dream always started off almost too realistic: when met on the football field, we did little more than exchange basic greetings before walking wordlessly up the hill. Then, in that time in the middle -- when the rain started coming down and the lightning started flashing and the thunder started ripping at our hearts -- it was almost like we were together again, if only in grief. He held me together when I broke down, running his fingers through my hair, keeping me steady since I couldn't. Then, when the storm had ceased and Jamie asked me if I was okay, I saw that he wasn't, either. His eyes were watery, but he didn't want to talk about it. He just needed to lean on me.
But in my dream, he kept leaning. And leaning, and leaning. His lips on mine sent a jolt down my back so real, I shot awake every time, parched and reeling, still feeling the ghost of his kiss.
But then I would have to roll out of bed to go eat and shower. I would have to ignore the tingle on my lips and go to school and act like everything was normal, because everything was normal. They were just dreams. They had a start and an end, and they never bled through to the next page.
Sometimes I woke up feeling so down, I almost texted him for real. Almost took him up on his offer to meet me there again. But then what? It wouldn't play out like it did in my head.
I would want to give him something -- a hug, a thought, a smile. But I wouldn't allow it, knowing he didn't want it. God, I would kill to get something from him -- anything from him. I would kill for him to turn back as he walked to his car and pull me close and tell me that he still loved me. But he wouldn't. He already had given me something, and I'd thrown it away, and there was no magic button I could press for a second chance.
I would drive away feeling worse than when I arrived. So I never texted him. And he never texted me.
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I shifted beneath the sheets at the sound of a knock on my bedroom door. I was already awake, sure, but I had no plans on getting up until at least ten. "Come in," I more or less groaned, knowing that it was Jacob; nobody else ever knocked on my door nowadays. Curse him and his early mornings.
The door was slow to open. I propped myself up on my elbows so I could glower at my brother, then almost fell right back down when my father's face stared back at me. I rubbed my eyes, blinking against the light shining through the blinds I forgot to close the night before, but it was still him when I looked again.
"Dad!" I said, wide-eyed and startled, pushing myself the rest of the way up. "Um, hi. Good morning."
"Did I wake you?" he asked awkwardly, opting to remain in the doorway. "I'm sorry."
"No -- you didn't, I'm just . . ." I rubbed the sleep from my face, "What's up?"
My dad took a short breath. "Do you have plans? Or can you come somewhere with me today?"
My lips curved into an 'o' and I leaned forward, like I wasn't hearing him properly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I'll get ready."
He nodded once and slipped back through the door, leaving me to stare at the space where he'd stood and wonder if this was a trippy hallucination. I didn't give myself much time to ponder, though; when it sank in that my dad had just offered to take me somewhere for the first time in months, I jumped to my feet and practically ran to my bathroom to get ready.
Too nervous to eat, I skipped breakfast and met him in the living room not even ten minutes later. He looked startled when he saw me, like he hadn't been expecting me to get ready so fast. Wiping his palms on his jeans, he stood up with a tense smile and nodded toward the front door.
I followed him out wordlessly. The silence was too thick to ignore and uncomfortable enough to make me squirm. It didn't go away when we climbed into his truck.
Most of the way there, I thought he was taking me somewhere new. He didn't offer up where, and I was too busy sweating in my seat to ask. As we got closer, though, I started to recognize the route. Any excitement or anticipation slipped through the spaces between my ribs, and my heart drummed away jealously within the confines of my chest.
"Dad," I said hollowly, disbelievingly. "Are you serious?"
Since I came out, my dad had been the quiet one, my mom the cruel one. But as my dad pulled into the parking lot of our old church, I wondered if the roles had reversed.
Our family had never attended service regularly. If we ever did, it was when I was really little; after the first divorce, our consistency took a nose-dive, and only faded more and more with each round. The only time I could remember going often was when mom was with Richard, and our church-going ended the second their relationship did. Even after mom and dad got back together, we never managed more than a handful of sparse, random trips per year and appearances on special occasions like Easter and Christmas.
And yet there I was, trapped in a car with a man who was suddenly a saint compared to me, suddenly ready to act like he'd lived his entire life in God's name and beg for my soul to be saved.
"Come with me, please," he said. He turned his body towards me but didn't meet my eyes, gazing down at the buckle of his seatbelt long after he'd undone it. His voice was soft, unimposing, and yet I had never been more wary of him. I knew for a fact that he didn't care any more for Bible verses and outdated standards than I did. I knew for a fact that he didn't believe that I was going to hell for loving the way I loved. I knew for a goddamn fact that he hadn't dragged me here because he believed he could help me.
Which could only mean that he had done it to hurt me.
"No," I said, firm despite the desire I felt to curl into myself like a child and beg him to leave me alone. "No, I won't come with you."
My soul didn't need saving.
My dad finally looked up at me, properly meeting my eyes. "Please," he said again, and there was nothing fair about it. We were stepping into battle, and I was armed with a club to fight his grenade. I hated how much I loved him; how, even after everything he'd put me through, I was still as desperate to please him as I was ten years ago. I knew I would open the door before I even lifted my hand to the handle. I knew I'd go with him, and I'd let him tear me down all he wanted, because it would still be the most time I'd gotten to spend with him in months.
He walked me as far as the front steps to the large yet simplistic Methodist establishment. He sat down, so I followed suit, shrinking away from him and bracing myself for his attack.
He was looking at me, but there was no way I could bear looking at him. "Can we pray?" he asked.
I had never hated my religion before. Even at the worst of times when I was discovering my sexuality, my beliefs were never something I doubted or feared; I always chose to trust that being Christian and being gay didn't need to be mutually exclusive. I wondered if my dad was about to change that. He sure as hell had the power.
"Dad," I whispered.
It was as if he didn't hear me. He put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and shut his eyes.
I did the same.
"Dear Heavenly Father," my dad said, somehow sounding more uncertain than he had all morning. "This is probably something I could've done from my own home, but it feels so much . . . . bigger than that. I've had a lot on my mind for the last few months. And I've been thinking, and thinking, and trying to figure things out for myself and for my family. Everything seems to be working in reverse, and I have no idea how to handle it. I've been looking for a solution, some way to fix all of this, but I'm starting to realize that not everything can be changed. As a man, I can only do as much as I'm able, and that only gives me so much power, so . . . I need to start by doing whatever little I can."
My dad took in a long breath through his nose. I was tempted to open my eyes, to beg him to stop, to unclasp my hands and hold them over my ears -- anything to keep him at bay before he could sink his holy knife into my chest. I should have hated him for this -- for using religion as a weapon against me when it was never meant to be a weapon against anyone. For resorting to the cheap justification for his actions that not even my mother had pulled yet. But I was, predictably and hopelessly, stuck there next to him, on the stairs of my old church, with my ears open and my eyes closed and my hands clasped in prayer for my own soul.
"I want to start by asking for forgiveness," my dad continued after what felt like forever. I realized I wasn't really breathing. "For how I've treated my son these last few months."
His words hit like a bullet -- sudden and fierce and piercing -- and there was no stopping my reaction. My eyes flew open and the breath I'd been holding soared out of me like a bird from a cage. I didn't dare to speak -- to open my mouth, even. All I could do was stare at him as he sat with his eyes shut tight enough to crease his forehead. He didn't open them, didn't show any sign that he knew I had. He didn't say anything, either. For an agonizing minute, he didn't speak again. He tried -- I saw him try -- but whatever he wanted to say seemed stuck in his throat, and so his words hung in the air and I just waited. Stared at him and waited and fought with everything I had not to get my hopes up.
Finally, he found his voice. "My son came to me with honesty, and I threw it back in his face. I was so afraid of . . . I don't even know what I was afraid of. Change, I guess, because even when my life kept flipping upside down at every turn, he was a constant. But it's insanely unfair to ask him to stay the same after the whirlwind I've put him through. I just wish I hadn't taken so long to figure that out. He threw something new at me, and I was so shocked and confused and set in my ways that I didn't even try to catch it. I've been worse than a stranger to my son for months now, and . . . and all I can do now is ask for forgiveness. From both of you."
I'd seen my dad cry before. He was a sucker for sad movies and depressing news stories and tragic books. A good Christmas card could get him going like nobody's business. He wasn't crying now, but the way his voice was shifting -- rising and falling unsteadily, like a boat moored by a thread on a churning sea -- I had never heard before. My dad hadn't always been strong, or brave, or confident, but he'd always been stable.
His hands held each other so tight, he was bound to bruise himself. I almost wanted to tell him to stop, because it was obviously hard for him to do this, but the selfish part of me needed him to continue. I deserved to hear what he had to say after barely hearing him at all. I needed his apology.
"And I . . . I would like to thank you. You blessed me with three beautiful children. Liam has never been anything short of spectacular -- he is the caring, smart, ambitious son that every dad wants, and he's made me so proud, and I can't believe I was so willing to forget that." This time, his voice broke completely. It felt strangely wrong to watch him like this, so I forced my eyes closed, folding my hands in prayer again.
It took several deep breaths for my dad to be ready to speak again. "Most importantly," he said, "Please guide my wife as she processes all of this. She refuses to see what I'm finally able to see, and she's running out of time. In just a few days, Liam is going to walk across a stage in a cap and gown, and then he'll be gone, and . . . and she'll regret it for the rest of her life if she isn't there to see him off, and--"
But he had worn himself thin. He didn't have anything else to say. Or at least, he didn't have it in him to say it.
So he ended with, "In Jesus' name I pray, Amen."
"Amen," I whispered; it was all I could manage.
We opened our eyes at the same time. He looked at me, and I could see how afraid he was. I'd never seen my dad so vulnerable.
Words would have never worked. Every word that needed to be said was already up in the air, floating away in the wind. He'd said enough. And I had already said my piece --months ago in the dining room. There was nothing left to say.
So I settled for falling against him instead, tucking my arms around him. He wrapped me up in a hug and held on tight, holding me upright after failing to do so for too long.
"I'm so sorry, bud," he whispered into my hair. With his hands running up and down my back, with the sound of the old nickname coming from his lips, I felt like a child again; a frightened little kid who just really needed his dad. And finally, I had him. "I know this doesn't fix everything. Not even close. But I will, I swear I will, just give me some time."
I nodded against his shoulder. He was right -- this didn't fix everything. Trust wasn't that easy to come by. Neither was time, but we would find it. We'd make it, if we had to.
My dad leaned away from me, holding my face in his hands like he'd never seen me before. "I love you, you know. That never stopped. But I missed out on so much . . . I want to know everything. Tell me all the things I should have known these past few months."
"I love you, too," I sighed; it felt so good to say it again, out loud, not just in a memory. "The last few months have been crazy . . ."
I knew he'd meant for me to go as far back as the disastrous Family Talk. But I went way, way further.
Somehow, the story started and ended with Jamie.
I could tell he was uncomfortable hearing about it. I was vague, of course, but that didn't change the fact that just yesterday, he hadn't been able to look at me head-on. I wasn't even sure why I was telling him. But I told him anyways, and despite the discomfort I could read clearly on his face, he listened. He listened to every word.
And, some vast amount of time later, when I was finished, he didn't focus on Jamie at all. His eyes were wide and worried, and my ex-boyfriend was far from his mind. "How did I not know?"
He was asking about the panic attacks.
"I didn't want you to," I shrugged, staring out at his car. "I didn't really want anybody to. People keep finding out, though."
"I would've helped you," my dad said. "Just like --"
"I'm not Stevie." I didn't mean to snap. "I didn't think I needed it, okay? Last year, when it was happening, it faded after a while. And it's starting to fade away now, too. I haven't had a bad one since . . ."
I didn't finish the sentence. Since I came out to you. But by the strangled noise I heard from the back of his throat, I didn't need to.
"Maybe they're going away for good now," I said instead.
"But you don't know that," he said. His voice was surprisingly firm, and it drew my gaze toward him like a magnet. "You don't know if it's coming to an end or just getting started. Like one of those cars that you have to rev up a few times before it can go."
I shuddered at the thought. "You think it might come back permanently."
My dad pondered this. "I think . . . I think you're an 18 year-old boy, and you're still growing and developing. So is every part of you. That includes your problems."
"So this is just the growing phase," I said bitterly. "How lovely."
"I'm no expert," my dad said. That wasn't very comforting; he was one of the smartest people I knew. "But there are people who are, who can help you. Just say the word, Liam. I'll pay for anything you need."
"What's the word?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Okay."
So, nodding, I said, "Okay."
When he smiled at me, I was so relieved to see the familiar wrinkles by his eyes, I felt a little sting at the corners of mine. But I didn't cry, and neither did he; I just smiled back, and when he stood and offered me his hand, I let him pull me up.
I heard my parents fighting that night. I knew they were fighting about me.
Whatever he said to my mom didn't change a thing. She treated me no differently the next morning. But he did, and for the time, it was enough.
Stevie, Jacob, and my dad all came to my graduation ceremony. Stevie and my dad cried like babies. Jacob took a really embarrassing picture of me when I wasn't looking, which made Stevie and dad cry even more from laughter. Jacob and Stevie put together turned out to be my worst nightmare — for the weekend that Stevie spent with us, they were hell-bent on driving me bat-shit crazy. I wasn't sure when they'd become partners in crime, but it wasn't fun being the victim of their conspiring.
Except it was. Fun, I mean. It was crazy fun. Them, my dad. All together. Goofy and high-spirited, a little awkward but getting better.
We were almost a family. And for the time, that was enough.
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As sick as I was of graduation parties, I had to admit: Vanessa's was pretty amazing.
Not because it was some big pre-summer bash with blaring music and flashing lights and pool-dives and bottles of booze. It had none of that, actually; it was a much more intimate event than any that I'd been to yet (including my own -- whoops), and that was what I liked so much about it.
The only guests were her close friends and her family. Given that Vanessa was hispanic and her family could probably pass for the population of a small town, the house was still packed to the brink, pushing most of the guests into the backyard. With the amazing Puerto Rican food, the slideshow on the TV showing pictures of Vanessa (ages -9 months to 18 years), the soft music playing in the background, and the genuine smile on Vanessa's face as she interacted with her guests, her party was more homely than all the others.
I hung around Bryan for most of it, but it was impossible to be around Vanessa's (very outgoing) family and not end up getting to know a few members. Bryan disappeared from time to time to be with his girlfriend, which would have rendered me very lost and very uncomfortable had it not been for Vanessa's powerhouse abuelita, who told me stories about baby Vanessa and Puerto Rico and made it her personal duty to make sure I had tried every single food item on the table. I didn't mind one bit -- she was a hilarious woman, and her distraction kept me from hyper-focusing on Jamie for the whole night.
Still, I couldn't help but glance over every now and then as Vanessa pulled him along, introducing him to each of her family members in turn. He hid it well enough, but I could see how uncomfortable he was in the unfamiliar environment. I nearly laughed. Jamie could startle the wits out of half of our school's population with one look, but when Vanessa's little cousin Maria -- a girl about Penelope's age with curly brown hair and a gap-toothed smile -- started hounding him with questions, his expression reminded me of something I'd seen on a crime show once. He was the innocent suspect, and Maria, in all of her four-foot fierceness, was the cutthroat interrogator, asking such savage questions as "how are your eyes like that?" and "did it hurt to put that ring in your nose?"
Uneasy as he was, he played along anyways, letting his friend drag him around and have her moment in the spotlight.
"Okay, do I have to say it?" Bryan piped, sliding into the patio chair across from me that Vanessa's grandmother had just vacated.
"I'll have you know that that seat's taken," I said matter-of-factly, briskly avoiding his comment. "Dolores is just fetching some tostones, and if you think I want you here more than her, you're sadly mistaken."
"Didn't you eat, like, seven of those?" Bryan asked, even though he knew the answer -- he and I had inhaled our fair share of everything. It was like the food never stopped coming.
"Not enough, apparently," I chuckled. "She's a very persistent little woman."
"And you're very bad at changing the subject," he quipped. "Seriously, you're driving me insane. Just go talk to him."
I raised my glass of water to my lips, drawing out a few sips for as long as possible in search of a suitable response. Afraid to break eye-contact and give myself away, I held his gaze, but I couldn't come up with anything better than, "You know you're being incredibly vague, right?"
Bryan settled back into his chair, folding his hands in his lap and sending me his best don't bullshit me look. "Okay, fine. Him is Jamie. You've been staring at him all night. Not to confuse this 'him' with one of the many other 'him's I could possibly be referring to right now. Still talking about Jamie. Just to make sure you got all of that: You've been staring at Jamie all night. Jamie Alexander, in case 'Jamie' is too vague. So you should go talk to him -- 'him' once again being Jamie -- because all of the lovesick gazing is seriously depressing."
I raised my eyebrows at him. "You done?"
"Just about."
I started to raise my glass for another drink, praying that Dolores hadn't gotten caught up in a conversation inside and would be back before I finished my sip. Bryan caught my trick and said, "Take another drink of that water and I'll throw it in your face, Bane."
Lowering my glass to the table, but not releasing it, I said, "I don't like you."
"And I don't like seeing you like this," Bryan countered.
"I wasn't even looking at him," I grumbled, stubborn and pouty like a child caught in a bad deed. "How would you know? You were . . ."
"With Vanessa," Bryan supplied when I didn't finish. "And, by extension, with Jamie. I saw you, Liam; you glanced over, like, every ten seconds. Don't even try to tell me you weren't zoning in on him, because I was two feet away from him and you didn't even notice I was there."
"Fine," I gave in, finally breaking eye-contact. "But can you blame me for staring? I know you wouldn't get this, what with your perfect relationship, but sometimes that happens when you fall in love with someone, break his heart for no reason, realize you're in love with him when it's too late, sleep with him on a stupid whim, believe he hates you, find out he doesn't hate you but doesn't trust you, spend a depressed night crying on his shoulders, then proceed to dream of that night again and again so that there's no way in hell you can get over him any time soon."
By the end of my self-pitying monologue, Bryan had shifted closer, leaning intently in my direction. With his elbows rested on his knees and a gentle frown etched onto his lips, he said, "You're right, I don't get it. I've never had that kind of history with anyone. But that doesn't change the facts, does it? And right now, the fact is, this is probably the last time you're going to see him."
From the look on his face, he had a lot more he wanted to say, but he stopped himself there for my sake. The sympathy I saw on his face before I cast my eyes down gave me a good idea of what my own expression must have looked like. His words sank in like an anvil in the shallows.
Up until now, I hadn't thought of this as the last time.
Jamie would still be in school for another week, but I hadn't had classes since walkout. Unless I passed him on the street, he and I weren't going to cross paths again. And even then, I didn't have much time to hope for that coincidence. I had no way of knowing where Jamie would be in a few weeks.
And in fourteen days, Bryan, Vanessa and I were flying out to California to stay in Bryan's aunt's beach house for most of the summer.
After the trip, Vanessa and Bryan would fly back here -- Bryan to pack for the big move to USC and spend some final time with his family, Vanessa to come back home, since the research college she was attending was only a twenty-five minute drive downtown. But I would be getting on a different plane, to take me to a different airport. Stevie was coming down a few days after I left to spend the summer with Jacob and our parents, but she would drive back to pick me up from the airport. Missing the summer with them was the only thing I was regretting about California.
It was a cheap escape, going straight there instead of coming back home first. But this way, I wouldn't have to climb into the car for the biggest drive of my life, my dad and brother at my side, while my mother locked the door behind us. Either way, I was leaving without a goodbye from her, and maybe I was fooling myself to think that it would be easier to do it sooner than later, but I was fine playing the fool.
On the day my flight landed in Pittsburgh and I stepped into the next phase of my life, my dad and brother would meet me at Stevie's apartment with my belongings to help me move in and see me off. Sure, I wasn't preventing the pain, but at least I was rerouting it.
That was the plan. But in all of the excitement and stress of collage preparation, I had left a very important variable out of the equation.
"I hate how much smarter than me you are," I muttered, twirling my cup in my hand and watching the water swirl against the glass. My stomach was starting to twirl along, and the delicious smell of food wafting outside was suddenly nauseating. I was glad, now, that Vanessa's grandmother had never reappeared with her tostones. "Fuck, you're right, I have to talk to him."
I couldn't leave things off the way they were. I couldn't hope for closure, but Jamie was too big a part of my life to leave without saying something. What was there to say, though?
"How about goodbye?"
I glanced up at Bryan, not realizing I had spoken out loud.
"Goodbye would break my heart," I said, too sad to care about how pathetic that sounded.
"Can't break what's already broken," Bryan said, offering a melancholy, supportive smile.
"You'd be surprised."
His eyes left my face to track something behind me, and I turned to see Vanessa hugging Jamie tight, the pair of them rocking back and forth like they'd known each other for years.
"Well whatever you want to say, you better figure it out fast," Bryan said. "Because I think he's leaving."
I shook my head, watching as he disappeared into the house. "No," I said around a dejected sigh. "Might as well let him go. I can't . . . I can't talk to him."
"No," Bryan said firmly.
"What?"
"No," he said again. "You're my best friend, and I know you're gonna regret it like crazy. I'm not letting you do that to yourself. Go."
"What's the point?" I asked, almost begging him to show me. "You said it yourself, Bryan: I was looking at him all night. I never saw him looking back at me."
"Well I was standing right next to him," Bryan said. "And I did."
That was it. The push I needed to jump from my seat and hurry into the house, making my way as quickly as I could through the crowded living room, trying not to vomit at the strong smell of food as everything I'd already eaten jumped to my throat. Jamie was already halfway to his car -- which was somewhere in the middle of the seemingly endless stream of vehicles lined up against the curb -- and I broke into a jog to catch him.
"Jamie!" I called out before he could reach the diver's side. He stopped in his tracks, and I slowed to a walk, but by the time I reached him, he still hadn't turned around. "Can we talk?"
He recovered, turning around with a tense, thin smile. "Um, yeah," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "What's up?"
Rocking back on my heels, I shrugged and said, "We didn't really get a chance to talk before."
"Oh," Jamie said, a perplexed crease in between his brows. "I didn't know you wanted to."
"Tell me something I never knew about you," I blurted. Immediately after I said it, I pressed my lips together, as surprised as Jamie looked that those were the words to come out. "Sorry, I don't know why--"
"Good or bad?"
I paused mid-sentence. "Is both too much to ask?"
He pursed his lips like he was thinking about it, then shrugged and shook his head. "I went to Disneyland with Penelope once, when we were younger," he started. "Back then, I was weirdly into that stuff, and Pip was so excited, and . . . I don't know, it's one of my best memories. My parents and I were still good back then, and everything was just really easy. I think about it sometimes when I'm upset, and . . . yeah."
"And the bad?" I asked.
Jamie leaned against the passenger door casually, like he was going to say something simple. What came out of his mouth was nowhere near simple. "I tried crystal meth once."
I felt as if someone had kicked the backs of my knees in. "You -- what?" I sputtered, reaching with my hand for something to hold onto when nothing was there. "When?"
Jamie looked amused by my shock. "When I came out to my parents and they turned on me," he said, as if it were nothing. "I got it from a really shady guy at Vagabonds. I think I bought it because I knew the dude who made it did a shitty job. I wanted it to fuck me up."
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from gaping at him, clenching and unclenching my fists as if the bastard that had sold Jamie that garbage was standing in front of me like a punching bag.
"It did," Jamie said dismissively. "Just made me crazy sick. My body rejected it completely. The high was so short and the crash was so bad, I never tried it again."
Just when I was about to feel relieved, he continued.
"I did try ecstasy, though. And heroin, and LSD," he recalled them like a fucking grocery list. "And coke, but I guess you know that. That was— it was the only one I ever did more than once. I remember," an unhappy hum sounded in his throat, "I thought I'd get addicted, and it would mess me up enough for Pip to see, so I would lock myself in my room for days and not leave until I was sure I wouldn't be tempted to buy more. But, I don't know, I guess I caved a few times. Cigarettes were like . . ."
"A safety net," I said hollowly. The entire time Jamie had been going through his withdrawal, I'd thought that the cigarettes were the worst choice he could've made. They didn't come close.
"Yeah," he said shortly. He averted his eyes, and I wondered if he regretted choosing something so dark to share. "Funny how the bad always seems to outweigh the good."
"I don't think it does," I said. He looked back at me, but the curve of his lips was wary. "I mean, what's the value of a happy memory?"
He raised an eyebrow at me.
"Or . . . something deep like that," I said sheepishly.
Jamie's laugh was startling. It was quiet, and it barely carried a hint of a smile, but it seemed like such a long time since I'd heard it, it took all of my will to keep myself from smiling. That laugh was enough to keep me wrapped around his finger, and he didn't even know it.
"I know this probably doesn't mean much coming from me," I said when he didn't opt to speak, "But I'm . . . I'm really proud of how far you've come."
I hadn't asked a question, but Jamie shook his head as if I had. "You know my plan hasn't changed, right?"
It wasn't my place, but I couldn't help it. "If you think I believe that, you're crazy."
Jamie rolled his eyes. "If you think that a few months of good grades and clear lungs have made me want to run into the sunset and live happily ever after, you're crazy."
"Pity," I said. "Your hair would look really cool in the sunset."
This time, I let myself crack a smile, and he returned it. The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, exactly, but all things considered, it could have been worse.
"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Jamie spoke up eventually.
"No, that was word vomit," I admitted, happier than I should have been to hear his soft laugh again. The high was short-lived, and I came back down as the next words pushed their way to the surface. "I, uh . . . well, I don't really know what I wanted to say. Except that I'm going on the trip with Vanessa and Bryan in a couple of weeks."
"Oh," was all Jamie said for several moments. "I . . . didn't know that. Have fun, I guess."
Clearing my throat, I added, "I'm not coming back."
Whatever chaos was going on in Jamie's head seemed to roll to a slow, uneven stop. The constant turmoil behind his eyes flickered off, he stopped shifting on his feet, and not a trace of his former smile survived on his lips.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"After the trip, I'm not flying back with Bryan and Vanessa. I'm moving in with Stevie. I'm going to Pitt."
Again, his only response for a long time was, "Oh." There was nothing I could read on his face. His eyes were blank, his mouth was straight; the only sign that he was thinking anything at all was the stiff jump in his jaw.
The noise from Vanessa's house was faint with distance, but in the silence from Jamie, it roared like thunder against my ears. The ground felt like it was shaking beneath me, but that might have been the beating of my heart, or it might have been his. It might have been both of ours; I wondered, then, if they were still beating in the same time after so many months, pounding together hard enough to course through pavement, or if we had grown so out of sync that we created an earthquake.
Even though the night was warm, Jamie rubbed his upper arms with his hands. His foot lifted to step back, but his back was already against the car door; there was nowhere for him to go.
Finally, he said, "I don't know what to say to that." His teeth closed over his bottom lip, and I got the feeling that he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and wouldn't let himself say it. Whatever it was, I wanted him to say it -- whether it broke my heart or gave it back to me -- but I knew Jamie. If he was given the option to speak now or forever hold your peace, he would hold his peace, and he would hold it tight -- flush against his chest -- until he felt safe enough to let it go. Once upon a time, he had felt that safe with me. But every Once Upon A Time came with a The End, and not every fairytale had a happy ending.
"You don't have to say anything," I said. "I just thought you should know."
Jamie raised one hand to his face. My fingers itched to reach forward and pull it away, to stop him from biting his nails and hold his hand in mine. "Okay," he said softly.
The hollowness in his eyes was slowly filled, and I finally saw something I could recognize. It was the same look he'd had on our winter break trip to Stevie's, when he'd poured out and apology for the way he'd been treating me. It was the same look he'd had whenever he couldn't steal time with Penelope, whenever he had a bad nicotine craving, whenever he got fed up with school. It was the look he'd had when we were on the hilltop together and he'd leaned his weight on me. It was frustrated, watery-eyed withdrawal.
Moments passed in the silence between us, and suddenly, Vanessa's house could've been light years away. The crickets fell silent, the night lost its hum, and the air turned to stone around us. The quiet, Jamie's expression -- it was too much.
"I should get back inside," I murmured, glancing back at the house. It was the last place I wanted to be. I wanted to stay out there for hours, I wanted to give Jamie the departure he deserved. This moment -- the last we would spend together -- needed to be treated as delicate as it was. No number of words would ever put us to rest quietly, but it was only right that I did my best to say everything that needed to be said.
Yet, after everything we'd been through, I had nothing to say.
"How about goodbye?" Bryan had suggested.
So I opened my mouth to say goodbye. What came out instead was, "Thank you."
"For what?" Jamie asked shakily. His hand was still at his mouth, muffling his words, and his eyes were trained on his knuckles.
"For changing everything," I said, already taking a step back, knowing I would take flight at any second. "I didn't believe in love before. I do now."
Jamie didn't say anything, but his hand clenched into a fist against his lips. Nodding, I took another step back, then turned around and started making my way back towards the house.
It wasn't I love you. But it might as well have been. It was the same confession -- a confession I'd been afraid of my entire life.
I had been running away from I love you for as long as I could remember. And yet tonight, I love you seemed like nothing compared to goodbye.
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so i was looking back the other day and apparently i made liam catholic? lmao well that went out the window