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I loved Brooklyn before we got together. I loved her fiercely a day a go. Right now, I love her more than all matters of life.
I have cried twice in my life, not counting childhood bruises and scrapes. The first time I cried was when my mom told me I needed to live with my grandparents because her graduate programs were too demanding. I was nine, and I hated my grandparents.I still hate them.
This is my second cry. And it burns deep.
The first time my dad was up for parole, I was prepared. I knew it wasn’t common for prisoners to be granted early release on their first hearing. I had hope because it had been sixteen years, but when it wasn’t granted, I didn’t cry.
Now, I cry for then. I cry for my present. I cry for the days stolen from my father and me for reasons I can’t possibly comprehend.For a campaign slogan.That’s the fear that has been tearing at my heart for hours. What if this was all about a campaign? Just like his threat to keep me and Brooklyn apart.
The sunset outside the library windows spills warm golden rays across the room, the dust particles in the air sparkling around us. They’ll be closing the library soon, and we’ll have to move. I haven’t been able to say the words yet; I need to, though. It’s been hours of crying and hours of sick silence. Brooklyn deserves to know why she found me like this. She needs to know everything, from the very beginning of yesterday’s football game to this moment right now.
She needs context.
“Theo’s gone for the weekend, and I would really like it if you would come to my room with me. I want you there. With me. There’s . . .” My chest burns with acid, anger, and the weight of my helpless situation, and it takes my voice away. I wrap my hand around my throat and breathe, feeling the tendons and muscles work under my palm.
“Tell me. I promise it will be okay,” she says. It’s the same vow she has made all afternoon. But she doesn’t know what she’s guaranteeing. There is no way this doesn’t hurt her too.
“I love you. Before I show you this, I need you to know that hasn’t changed, and when I said I have loved you for years, I meant it. I love you, and not like a boy with a crush. I love your smile and passion and drive. I love that you are the smartest person in this school, and that you still worry over every single test you take. I love that you call me a nice guy when you tell other people about me. Not a pothead or a daredevil or . . . a jerk.”
She shakes her head in protest at my self admonishing. I take her hands in mine and hold them to my chest.
“I don’t care what other people say about me, Brooky. I care about you. What you say and see. What you feel. And when you read this, I need you to remember that no matter what, none of it has anything to do with you.”
Her eyes droop and pool with tears that beg to fall.
“No, don’t cry. You can’t cry yet.” A pathetic, breathy laugh leaves my mouth as I wrap my arms around her and hold her to me.
“You said yet,” she says against my chest. She twists her head enough to look up at me. I won’t lie to her.
“You will probably cry. Just don’t do it yet.” My words send the ready tears down her cheeks, and I erase them quickly with a brush of my thumbs.
I wait until her eyes dip below mine and her shoulders drop with her breath.
“I’m ready,” she whispers.
I pull my phone from my pocket, the message I’ve nearly memorized still pulled up when I wake my screen.
“So much has happened in the last two days, and I wanted to tell . . . you . . .” I begin. I stammer when her eyes flash to mine. I tilt my head slightly, waiting for her to fill me in, but she simply blinks away.
“Sorry, go on,” she hums, eyes back at my chest.
“Well, most important right now is my dad’s next hearing was set. It’s in two weeks.”
And her eyes are back, her mouth open.
“Cam!” she whisper-shouts. It crushes me that her lips are tinged with a smile. I try to remember the good and force one on my face, too.
“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing,” I say, struggling not to choke on my words.
“You don’t sound amazed.” The glossiness returns to her eyes, and my heart hurts.
I’m not able to keep up with the pretend smile. It was pitiful to begin with.
“My mom has a friend who’s like this really good lawyer. She doesn’t talk to my dad, and their relationship—if you can even call it a relationship—is pretty fucked up. I know she still loves him. She’ll never say it out loud, but it’s there.”
“A lawyer sounds like a good thing.” Her voice has a tinge of hope. This will crush her.
“I thought so, too. Thing is, he’s been doing some research. And honestly?” My head falls back and I squeeze my eyes tight, steeling myself for the next minute of my life. “Gah! It’s better for you to read his words. I got this text this morning.”
