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“That’s not going to happen,” I insist. I can’t imagine that sweet girl being violent.
“So that was the family emergency you were asking about. I had to pick her up from school before Howl started.” His shoulders sag. “At least she’s having her friends over tonight. That’ll be good.”
All these years, he’s been wearing armor. His plan to hide so many pieces of himself clearly worked, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“It will. Thank you… for telling me this.” I hope I’m not saying all the wrong things. I hope he knows I’ll keep this as safe as if it were my own secret. No—safer.
“I—I haven’t told anyone in a while,” he says. “Please don’t act weird around me now. That’s why I stopped talking to people about it. Of course my friends know, and I used to talk to Sean about it all the time… but not as much anymore. Everyone would act like they wanted to ask questions but didn’t know a tactful way to go about it. So. If you have questions, go ahead and ask them.”
God, I have a million, but I manage to pick one. “Do you visit him?”
“Natalie and my mom do, but I haven’t seen him since I was sixteen. That was when my mom said I could decide for myself whether I wanted to see him, and I just… don’t. That’s why I want to change my name, too.” He continues messing with the blanket. “But it costs money, and it was a legal mess when my mom looked into it for Natalie and me. There was always something else that felt more important.
“I hate having his name sometimes. Even when he was here, we were never really close. It was clear I didn’t exactly fit his description of what a man should be. In his mind, there were ‘boy hobbies’ and there were ‘girl hobbies,’ and most of what I liked fit into the latter category. It was a crime that I wasn’t interested in sports, and if he knew I was getting emotional about this—” He breaks off, as though the weight of it all is just too heavy. He tries to take a deep breath, but all he gets is a shallow little puff.
I despise Neil’s father with every fiber of my being.
“You have every right to be emotional. About anything.”
He sits on the edge of his bed, gripping the blanket. His shoulders rise and fall with his labored breaths, and all I want is to sit down next to him, drape an arm around him, something.
“It’s okay,” I tell him in what I hope is a soothing voice. I hope that’s something I’m capable of when talking to Neil McNair. But it’s not okay. What his dad did was horrendous.
“That’s why I wanted to win so badly,” he says, voice breaking. “He—he wants to see me before I go to college, but the prison is on the other side of the state, and I’d have to stay overnight, and my mom’s already working overtime, and… I won’t be coming home that much in the next four years, and when I do, my mom and Natalie will be my priority. So… I almost feel like I need to say goodbye and close the book on that whole situation. And—and if I won the money, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about dipping into what I’ve saved for school.”
This is what breaks my heart most of all: that he thinks he needs to use the prize money for someone who’s been so awful to him.
He’s crying. Not full-on sobs, just soft little hiccups that make the bandanna on his arm bob up and down. Neil McNair is crying.
And that’s what does it. The bed creaks as I sit down next to him, a good several inches of space between us. Still, I can feel the heat from his body.
Slowly, I lift one hand and place it on his shoulder, waiting for his reaction. It’s an odd boundary to cross. I’m even more aware of his breaths, their erratic rhythm. But then he relaxes into my touch, as though it feels good, and it’s such a huge relief that I haven’t misstepped, that I’ve reacted to this like a friend would. So I run my palm back and forth across the fabric of his T-shi
rt, his skin warm underneath. Then it’s not just my palm, but my fingertips, too, my thumb tracing circles on his shoulder. A hug would have been too much, too out of character, but this—this, I can do.
The entire time, I’m radically aware I am sitting on Neil McNair’s bed. This is where he sleeps, where he dreams, where he texts me every morning.
Texted me every morning.
This close, I can tell his freckles aren’t just one color, but a whole spectrum of reddish brown. Long lashes brush the lenses of his glasses. They’re a shade lighter than his hair, and I’m mesmerized by them for a moment—how delicate they are, a hundred tiny crescent moons.
When his eyes flick open to meet mine, I immediately drop my hand from his shoulder, as though I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be. Something my fourteen-year-old self with “destroy Neil McNair” as her ultimate goal would be very, very disappointed by.
Besides, an average amount of shoulder-comforting time has passed.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and we’ve been quiet for so long that his words jolt me. He has nothing to apologize for. I should stand up. It’s strange sitting on his bed like this, but even though I’m no longer touching him, I can’t seem to make myself move. “I didn’t know I was still so messed up about this. My parents, they got divorced a couple years ago,” he continues, swiping at the tear tracks on his face. “We’ve all been in therapy, which has helped a lot. And my mom’s started dating again. Christopher, that’s her boyfriend. It’s extremely weird that my mom has a boyfriend, but I’m happy for her. And I’m not ashamed of not having money,” he adds. “I’m ashamed of what he did to us.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I say again. Softly. “Truly.”
“It’s the last day,” he says. “It’s not anything you can use against me now.” He gives what sounds like a forced laugh. “Or the crying.”
“Never,” I say emphatically. I want him to know it is okay to cry around me, that it’s not a sign of weakness. “I swear. I wouldn’t have. Even if we were going to school on Monday.” I wait for him to meet my eyes again. “Neil. You have to believe I’d never have done something like that.”
Slowly, he nods. “No, you’re right.”
“We can change the subject,” I say, and he lets out an audible exhale.
“Please.”
