a college student, before I saw him in the hallways at school. But the moment he says my name, I know why I’ve come here today. No more waiting. Nothing to lose.
“You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I smile, and it’s easy. Without telling them to, my lips automatically curve up at the corners. My teeth flash. My mouth spreads open wider and wider until my face may crack in half. And then he reaches out and takes two of my fingers in two of his, and I feel the jolt of his skin on mine, even this little bit of it. And it’s more than the jolt—it’s the sudden closeness of another person, touching me, that makes me say: “Actually, I’m not good. My parents are separating. I’m not supposed to say anything. Saz doesn’t know. But if I don’t tell someone, I might disappear. Please don’t repeat this to anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I promise.”
I take a breath. I shouldn’t have said anything, but he doesn’t know my parents, and his parents don’t know my parents, and he doesn’t really know me, and I don’t really know him, which is why I told him. Somehow I feel my secret will be safe here.
“In case I never see you again, I just want you to know that I like you. I’ve liked you since sophomore year.” I should feel bad about Lisa Yu, but I don’t. She is the furthest thing from my mind. Because after suffering a loss, you become a ghost in your own body. You observe yourself doing things and saying things that you might not normally do or say. You need something to ground you and prove to you that you’re still here. As a way of feeling something. Anything.
Which is why I say, “I want to kiss you now. I hope that’s okay.”
I wait for this to register. It only takes a second or two, and then he gets this smile on his face, and says, “That’s definitely okay with me.”
I lean in and kiss him. His mouth is warm. I can taste the sweat and salt. I am kissing Wyatt Jones. I tell myself this to make myself feel it and believe it and know it as much as I can. I keep my mouth pressed to his as long as possible.
When I pull away, I lick my lips, drinking in this little bit of him. He moves his head and suddenly the sun blinds me. I close my eyes for a second and he’s still there, a silhouette.
I open my eyes again and he is looking at me with a mix of confusion and concern, and his friends are yelling at him, and now I can see his eyes, which are brown and deep-set.
Just in time, I scratch at the tear that goes running down my cheek, pretending it’s an itch. And then, before he can say anything, I walk away.
THE NIGHT BEFORE WE LEAVE
On our last night as a family, my parents and I sit at the dining room table and eat dinner together and pretend the world isn’t ending. They talk in these courteous, matter-of-fact voices that make me pinch my arms. Upstairs, my bags are packed and waiting.
“If we leave by ten, we can beat the traffic around Cincinnati and make it to Atlanta by dinner,” my mom says.
“You should leave by nine to be safe.” My dad sounds worried. “Earlier if you can.”
Both of them are speaking so politely, as if they’re just meeting for the first time.
My mom sets down her fork. “Why?”
The word sits in the air between them.
“Why, Neil? Why do I need to leave by nine?”
I look back and forth at Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad. She is hurt and she’s not hiding it anymore, and this throws me. And for the first time I see it—the divide, as if a crack in the earth has suddenly opened up. I feel stupid for not having seen it before now. So incredibly stupid and blind and naïve. Sitting there, I make a promise to myself: I will never be surprised again.
I say, “The chicken is good.” Even though I can’t taste it. Because suddenly I don’t want to see any of this—the hurt, the divide. For the next few minutes, or as long as this dinner lasts, I just want them to be the parents I’ve always known.
They look at me, remembering I’m here. I see them remembering and this is when it hits me.