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His mother’s voicewakes him.
“What are you doing?”
His parents are clearly testing him with these questions.
“I guess I fell asleep?”
“Being grounded doesn’t mean you get to sleep all you want, Ryan.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
His mother actually tsks her tongue. Then she spots the phone on his bed.
“I’ll take that,” she dictates, holding her hand out. “You can get it back tomorrow morning before school.”
“Come on,”Ryan says before he can stop himself.
“Now.”
He powers off the phone before he hands it over. The last thing he wants is for his parents to see any texts that come in.
His mother says, “Do some homework before dinner.”
“Okay.”
Ryan gets up and opens his laptop. Satisfied, his mother leaves the room.
The first thing he does is message Avery to tell him not to bother calling.
—
The next weekis awful.
There is only a small window when Ryan and Avery can actually talk—when Avery is free from play practice, before Ryan’s mom gets home. These check-ins are something, but they aren’t enough. All Ryan and Avery can do is catch up on the things they’re creating without each other. They can’t create anything new together.
Ryan is grateful when he has to work at the grocery store, because there he can talk to people, even if they aren’t Avery.
The weekend is the worst. Ryan’s parents don’t give his phone back on Saturday morning, and they hide his keys. He goes to watch TV, but his father turns it off, saying thereisn’t going to be any TV, not while he’s grounded. The same thing happens when he tries to watch something on YouTube; they don’t take away his laptop, but they say he has to keep his bedroom door open at all times, so they can make sure he is doing “valid work.” But the thing is, he only has so much homework to do. He’s finished by Saturday afternoon. Ordinarily, his father would make him do yard work, but the snow is still on the ground, and the garage is too cold for them to spend the time needed to straighten it up. So Ryan has nothing to do. If he tries to nap, his parents wake him. They tell him to read a book.
Being with Avery is starting to feel like something his mind invented as a coping mechanism. How can memory do anything besides approximate what it felt like to have his neck kissed, to feel Avery’s warmth beside him, to feel the same warmth from a smile? And how could he fully trust an approximation to be true?
Then the nightmare thoughts make their visits. Avery is so great—wouldn’t it make sense for other boys to be interested in him, too? Other boys who aren’t grounded, who aren’t stuck like Ryan is. Maybe someone at play practice. Another actor, or a cute boy on the crew. It wouldn’t even be disloyal for Avery to go for it, would it? It’s not like he and Ryan are boyfriends. It isn’t like they’ve said they’re going to stop seeing other people.
On Sunday morning it snows again, and what was once magical is now muted, melancholy. No one warned himthat the intensity of sharing could lead to the desolation of its absence. The uncharted territory is starting to disappear from the map.
—
By Sunday night,Ryan is getting desperate. While his parents are safely watching football in the den, he risks sending messages on his laptop. He unleashes his full despair on Alicia while trying to keep it managed for Avery. Avery is constantly asking him if he knows when it will be over, and Ryan wishes he had the right answer to give.
I hate this,Avery types.
Don’t give up on me,Ryan types back.
When Avery replies,I won’t,Ryan tries to believe it.
Alicia wants to turn the tables, to go allHome Aloneon Ryan’s parents so they can see what it’s like to be held captive in their house. Ryan thinks this is an inadvisable course of action. Running away also doesn’t feel sustainable—since Alicia’s father is no better than Ryan’s parents, it’s not like she can take Ryan in.
He wishes he could ask Avery to visit him at work, but he knows he’ll get yelled at if he tries to take more than a ten-minute break. (“That toilet paper won’t stack itself!”)
