Page 33 of Within These County Lines

His house once belonged to his grandparents, so that Thursday, we dug through his late grandfather’s closet in search of something he could wear. What we found was a time capsule of suits from every era—long black waistcoats, pinstriped vests, checkered blazers, baby blue trousers, and even top hats.

“Fashion show! Fashion show!” I chanted, clapping my hands as Murray rifled through drawers, pulling out funky-colored socks and thick gold rings.

He tried on suit after suit and strutted across the upstairs hallway, as if his long legs were meant for the runway.

The first tan suit sagged at his ankles. He leaned against his mom’s door and licked his lips, staring right through me. The dark circles under his eyes stood in sharp contrast to the bright fabric, making him look like a flamboyant British rock star at the height of his fame.

Next, he stepped out of his grandfather’s room behind oversized sunglasses, slowly pulling forest green trousers up his leg. He teased his ankle, then his calf. He stopped at his thigh, then wagged a finger at me with a pout.

I laughed every time. And every time, I was stunned by how effortlessly he fit into each look. He was a man for every decade—classic like the ’20s, smooth like the ’50s, trendy like the ’70s, and rebellious like the ’80s. I wanted him forever, in perpetuity, the way those suits had stood the test of time. I thought, maybe we could too.

But looks only get you so far. And time made sure I learned that.

I knock on his open bedroom door. “Hey, Murray. It’s Stetson.” I turn inside and find him playing a video game at his desk.

“Murray?” I question.

He doesn’t move or say anything.

I thrust my hands in my pockets. “Murray, can you please tell me if you’re ignoring me or not? I have this weird thing going on and I really need you to say something.” I grind my teeth. “Anything.”

He grabs a pretzel and pops it into his mouth.

“Please.” My voice cracks. “Can you see me?” I reach for him. My shaky hand hovers above his shoulder. Then the front door slams closed downstairs.

Murray pauses his game. “Who was that, Mom?” he asks, yelling into the hallway.

“Stetson,” she says. “Didn’t he come up there to say hi?”

Murray jumps to his feet. “Stetson! Where?”

He tosses his video game controller onto the desk and spins toward his mom’s voice with a broad grin. His hazel eyes flicker, alive with something I’ve only seen a handful of times. Once after our first kiss. Another on the day he made the Penango College football team.

Next, he unexpectedly passes right through me as if I’m not even there. My skin detonates from the inside out and sends a cloud of dustlike particles bursting into the air. My breath catches as I watch tiny specs of my body shimmering in the blue light of his TV screen. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, leaving my limbs weightless.

Murray stomps down the stairs. “Where’s Stetson?” he asks.

The shattered pieces of my body snap back together in an instant, like iron filings in science class drawn to a magnet, merging into something whole again. But even as my body reassembles, I feel hollow inside, and unsteady.

This must be what Xander has felt the past ten years. A decade of numbness.

The shock of what just happened knocks me off balance, and I collapse onto Murray’s bed. A sob escapes before I can stop it.

My tears soak into his sheets. They’re pale blue and covered in a repeating pattern of soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs, and footballs. They form perfect diamonds across the fabric that are easy to follow. I trace the pattern with my fingertips, tapping each ball in an even rhythm as my breath shudders out of me.

“Soccer ball, basketball, baseball, football,” I whisper. “Soccer ball, basketball, baseball, football. Soccer ball, basketball, baseball, football.”

The counting calms me and steadies my breathing. Below, I hear Murray muttering frustrations as he climbs the stairs. But I don’t move from his bed. I don’t even look up. What difference does it make? I got my answer.

He can no longer see me.

17

Later that night, beneath the full moon’s glow, I return to Rainbow Valley Swim Club. Xander is sprawled out on his usual lounge chair, Because of Winn-Dixie open over his face, acting as a makeshift sleep mask. One hand is tucked behind his head, the other dangles over the side, swaying slightly in the night breeze, inches above the grass.

I tap his shoulder. His skin is damp—either from the humidity or a recent dip in the pool.

“Wake up,” I say, my voice raw from all the tears I shed on the drive here.