Page 129 of Goodbye Days

We trade stories of Mars. Some are funny. Some are not. Some uplifting. Some not. Some important. Some ordinary.

We build him a monument of words we’ve written on the walls of our hearts. We make the air vibrate with his life.

Until our milkshakes are gone.

Until Judge Edwards begins yawning and says that he has to be up early for court; that he’s not as young as he once was.

Until it’s almost my curfew anyway.

Until the wind gusts hard, bringing cool autumn rain, falling like silver arrows.

He doesn’t apologize and neither do I. He doesn’t offer to absolve me and I don’t request it. He does shake my hand and pulls Mars’s drawing of Sauce Crew from his coat pocket, giving it to me when he drops me off, a few minutes before midnight.

I go in my parents’ room to hug them good night. They must sense something in me. They hold me between them where they lie—warm and sleepy—and I cry like a child in their dark room. The tears are heavy, weighted with what they’re carrying from me. When I finish, I’m quiet inside for the first time in months. Not happy, not free. Like floodwaters that haven’t receded but are finally tranquil, all that was lost and broken drifting just below the surface under a cloudless sky.

I sit on my bed, not ready to sleep in spite of my exhaustion at the end of this seemingly year-long day.

There’s something about the stillness in me that’s too hushed. The way birds don’t sing on a winter night and the frigid air buries every sound.

I need to try to fix one more thing.

I stare at my reflection in the screen of my black, lifeless phone. If you survived this day, you can survive anything. And what do you have to lose?

I pick it up and text Jesmyn, figuring she probably won’t be awake. I’m sorry. Beach in November.

I wait a minute and there’s no response. Why would there be? I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and change into my sleeping shorts. I turn out the light.

Behind my closed eyes, I see a pale white glow illuminate my room. I sit up to see my phone buzz, skittering on my desktop.

My heart pounds what must be my last reserves of adrenaline into my veins. My phone goes dark. I think about not even checking it. If it’s the answer I expect, it’ll leave me lying awake all night, heartache pulling me from my shallow bouts of sleep the way it did for the first month after the Accident.

But I do it. I pick up my phone.

Come tell me to my face.

Now? If the speed of a response to a text is the measure of dignity, I now have approximately zero dignity.

Now.

I dress as though I’m trying to escape a fire.

Around the corner from Jesmyn’s house, I sit and watch the raindrops patter on my windshield and slide down in rivulets, making the streetlights flare orange like squinting at them through tears.

I spot her running in flip-flops, her jacket pulled over her head. I open the passenger door and she jumps in and slams it behind her. My car fills with the scent of honeysuckle. It makes me feverish with nostalgia. She’s dressed for bed in a tank top and leggings, her hair in a messy ponytail.

Neither of us says anything. I start my car so the heater blows on her, but I don’t make to turn on the lights or leave. She stares forward and rubs her arms.

“So.” It must be obvious I’m trying to stall until I have something better.

“So.” She shivers.

“I don’t really know how to do this.” A long (or at least it feels that way) silence.

“I’m glad you’re not going to jail.”

“Me too.” I grip the steering wheel hard. “Look. I’m sorry. I was wrong. What I did. What I said. How I acted.”

She takes a deep breath and releases it. “Carver, I want you to tell me right now. If we become friends again, will things be weird between us?”