sort of beanbag-toss drinking game. Miah is nowhere to be found, and so it’s Wednesday and me against Jared and Emory, and I’m downing beer after beer and enjoying the way the alcohol and the music are drowning out the noise in my head. I tell myself there is nothing in the world but this island and this beanbag toss and these people, my friends.
When we’ve used up our turns, Jared and I sit and watch the others play.
He says, “My friend Rashid was the best at this game.”
“He was the one who died?”
“Yeah.”
I study his face, which is usually wide open and easy. Right now he’s hard to read, as if a veil has dropped over his eyes.
Finally I say, “What happened to him?”
It takes him a few moments to respond. Then he tells me that Rashid killed himself three years ago in August. But this is all he says about the death. Instead Jared tells me about Rashid’s short, brilliant life, and about the strength it takes to be the one left behind. Like Aunt Claudine, I think, following the death of her mother.
Jared says, “Has Miah taken you to the old airfield yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We should go before you leave, maybe pack a lunch. There’s not much to see there, but for some reason I like it. I’m pretty sure you’d like it too.”
I stop thinking about one of the worst things that can happen to a person—suicide, your best friend gone forever, and all the upside-down that comes with it—and start thinking about a boy named Rashid who made the most of every second he was here and a boy named Jared who is choosing to live as fully as possible.
* * *
—
At some point, I go inside in search of the bathroom. I close the door and lean into the mirror and examine my face, not as a whole, but each feature—mouth, nose, eyes, eyebrows, freckles, forehead, chin. I stand back and look at all of me. I smile. The girl smiles back. I stick out my tongue. She sticks out her tongue. I scrunch up my face. She scrunches up her face. But it’s like Addy’s shampoo, perfume, mole—they’re just details that mean nothing.
* * *
—
I come out of the bathroom and crash right into Grady, so hard we almost fall over. “Watch it,” he says, rescuing his drink before it spills everywhere.
“Sorry.”
He studies me in a way that makes me go down a checklist of my mouth, nose, eyes, eyebrows, and the rest, as if I’ve forgotten to put something back in place.
I say, “So you’re going to SCAD.” Because I need the spotlight on him, not me.
“That’s the plan.”
“With your girlfriend.”
“Not with her. But yeah, she’ll be there too.”
“How can you do that? You’re with her, you’re not with her. What is that?”
“It’s what works. Not just for me. For her, too.”
“So do you sleep with other people during the summer?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Are you asking for you or just generally?”
“Generally.”
“Uh, then I say that’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Does she know you sleep with other people?”
“Again, you don’t need to worry about it. Although you seem to be worrying about it. A lot.”
“I’m not worried,” I say. I stare at him without blinking. I’m thinking about honesty and how it doesn’t matter how much you open up and put yourself out there—people are still going to lie. “Do you have any of your art here?”
“Not really. One or two things, maybe.”
“Can I see it?”
And I’m not sure who’s talking—me, who’s had too much to drink and is walking around with no floor, or the girl in the mirror, whose features are all in place, just like always. What I do know is that a slightly ominous burning feeling is growing in my stomach, which means I’m about to do something I’ll regret.
Grady says, “Sure.”
* * *
—
His room is upstairs, at the end of the hallway, facing the marsh. It’s just a room, not some love den filled with pinups and bongs, like I expected.
I sit on the bed. “So show me.” It feels as if I’m daring him. Show me. Show me the kind of guy you are. Show me that I’m here.
He leaves the door open. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to show me your art.” I try to say it as breezy as a summer’s day. And I know I should get up and walk out, but there is this terrible, hollow ache inside me