in a heartbeat—sometimes without even looking at the sheet music.
I forgot some of these stories until tonight, forgot that we used to have fun together, as a family. That Jordan and I used to have fun together. Even before the shooting, things had gone sour between us, and with my parents—my dad was always trying to get Jordan to do more, to push himself harder. My mom went along with it at first, but when my dad started talking about having Jordan apply to college early—mostly, I think, because he wanted to be able to brag about it to his friends—she finally started pushing back.
I’m not sure how much time passes with us standing here, Zach leaning against the doorframe, me close to him, arms wrapped tight around myself. It’s only when my stomach gives a ridiculous growl that I realize it’s getting late and I haven’t eaten. I ask him if he wants some food, and we head downstairs to make popcorn.
After, we sit on the couch in the living room and just talk. I tell him family stories, memories I haven’t let near my heart since Jordan died. I haven’t talked this much in forever—not since the days when I’d drink too much and babble on and on into Lucy’s ear.
Maybe Lucy is right. Maybe it’s good to open up about things before they begin to eat you from the inside out and eventually crater your soul.
I can’t believe this is the son of the person I hate more than almost anything. He was definitely home some of those times when I’d ride my bike over with a can of spray paint in my bag and write shit on the door of their garage. When Lucy and I salted nasty words into their lawn. When we left mean notes in their mailbox.
It hits me, deep in my stomach: he can never find out about any of that. I stopped going over there after the night I freaked out in their front yard. I couldn’t do it anymore. He was inside. If he ever found out, he would never, ever forgive me. And I don’t blame him.
I need to hide the things I did to his family forever.
Now he’s here, on the brown suede couch, where Jordan used to sit, and it’s surreal. That day in drama when I found out who he was, I never imagined this. I never imagined he’d be sitting next to me, listening to me talk about things I’ve never thought I’d say out loud.
His brown hair flops over his forehead, and these fucking feelings arise in my chest, and it isn’t good. It is NOT GOOD.
I’ve been a ghost for so long.
I want to kiss her. She’s sitting here next to me, telling me all these stories about her brother, and all I can think is how much I want to kiss her. I’m having yet another Jesus Christ, Zach, you are an enormous douche bag moment, because I know—I know how inappropriate it would be to do that. I can’t help it. I want to anyway.
I put my hand on the couch a few inches from hers, and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from grabbing hers. I know if I do, her eyes will lose the light that’s started to come back into them and we’ll be back to where we were before, with lectures about inappropriate touching and bad timing.
It’s a struggle, though. To pay attention to her words and look at her eyes.
It’s a serious struggle.
I keep talking. I don’t understand why I can’t shut up, because for so long I could do nothing BUT shut up. Zach puts his hand on the couch, fingers splayed, and for a moment I think he’s going to grab my hand, but he doesn’t. And I talk and talk, and I think that maybe it’s for the best.
No, it’s definitely for the best.
But then my dumb hand decides to go rogue and do whatever it damn well pleases, and all of a sudden, it’s inching closer to his.
When our hands touch, his eyes widen in surprise.