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“We need to get out of here,” I hear myself say. “If I’m going to be in trouble in California, I’m going to make the most of it. Where can we go? What can we go do? Anything.”
“How about a drive?” Jackson asks, flipping on the light so that your names fade instantly.
“Good battle plan,” I say.
But very little planning actually goes into this mini road trip. Jackson doesn’t swap out his sneakers for sandals to be more Californian (or at least what I understand Californians to be like); he doesn’t pack a cooler with sandwiches and water bottles; and he doesn’t grab suntan lotion in case we end up outside longer than expected. He tells Ms. Lane we’re heading out for a drive, but that’s it. Jackson takes me outside to the connecting garage, where a black Toyota Camry is waiting for him. Jackson gets into the driver’s seat and so I automatically go to the back, sitting in the center, opposite the rearview mirror, where some sort of spy pen is dangling.
“You don’t want to sit shotgun?” Jackson asks. “Oh. Wait, so how does that work? Do you never sit in the front?”
“I’ll sit in the front when I learn how to drive or move to London,” I say. Or if I manage to break out of this compulsion, but let’s be realistic: here I come, London.
“Noted.”
Jackson presses a button and all four windows are automatically lowered. That ocean breeze fills the car. He pulls out of the garage, the gate shutting behind him, turns sharply right, and sets off down the road, wind flying into my face in the most relaxing way possible. I’m about to shout to ask Jackson where we’re going first, when he turns on the radio, blasting the first pop-heavy station that comes on.
Before I know it, he’s beautifully singing this terrible song about pregaming on a Friday night. He drives with one arm resting on the window frame and occasionally throws his head back with closed eyes to carry a tune I would slaughter if I dared to lose myself in a moment like he does. But it’s fun for me, watching him sing, just like it was fun watching you sing in the car with your parents or in your bedroom. I look to the front passenger seat, imagining you sitting on Jackson’s right, singing with him. I picture you turning around to find me, reaching a hand back here to shake my shoulder until I sang with you.
There’s an alternate universe where we’re a crew of three, so tight and unbreakable we don’t need a fourth to even it out for me. Where a fourth would only be trouble. Jackson drives, you’re sitting shotgun, I’m yelling at you both to turn up the volume when our anthem comes on, and we all sing so loudly the radio doesn’t stand a chance against
our slightly off-key, comfortable chorus. But that’s not a universe any of us lives in, unfortunately.
HISTORY
Friday, September 18th, 2015
It’s been a little difficult keeping up with these Skype dates because of Theo’s college schedule and the time zone difference, but we’re managing. On Fridays he’s free from class by two, and we’re able to chat around four, once I’m home from school. But we only have an hour to do so because of his tutoring gig.
I call the moment I’m home, and he answers immediately.
“You’re late,” laptop-screen-sized Theo says.
“By two minutes,” I say.
“You’ve screwed yourself out of two minutes with me. And . . .” Theo holds up the care package I mailed him earlier this week. “That’s two extra minutes I’ve had to wait to open whatever this is! Is it you? Are you in the box?” He shakes the box, and I sway back and forth.
“Open it!”
His roommate Manuel, shirtless as usual, pops up behind Theo as he opens the box. “Hey, man.” He waves to me before asking Theo if he can see what’s in the package.
“Is it safe?” Theo asks.
“It’s not a flipbook of me undressing.”
“Damn it. Now that you’ve put that idea in my head, whatever is in here will be inferior. You are your own downfall, okay?” Theo opens the box anyway, of course, and pulls out two adult coloring books—one of Star Wars, the other of X-Men—and a pirate bobblehead. “Okay, the bobblehead is pretty awesome.”
Manuel takes the X-Men coloring book. “Theo, man, a coloring book isn’t going to help you fit in here.”
“I’ll start giving a shit when you start wearing shirts.” Theo snatches the coloring book back. “Thanks, Griff.”
Theo and I talk enough that I wouldn’t ever say we’re not catching up. His schedule for school and tutoring can be pretty demanding, but he always makes time for these Skype dates. Part of me knows we shouldn’t be calling them dates since we’re not technically dating anymore, but we’re still pretty affectionate to each other, and it’s clear neither of us is trying to move on. Knowing he loves me is the one thing keeping me from going completely insane without him.
Thursday, October 29th, 2015
Theo is twenty minutes late for our Skype call, so I shoot him a text. The message gets delivered, but he doesn’t reply back immediately. I know he had his tutoring session this afternoon—this junior at a local high school is apparently summer school–bound if Theo can’t help him turn his grades around—but whenever he stays late, he always lets me know so I’m not sitting in front of my laptop like some pathetic, lovesick asshole.
Like right now.
Except I am a pathetic, lovesick asshole, dressed up like Han Solo because I wanted to surprise Theo with a sneak peek of my Halloween costume. Maybe he’s still walking home and doesn’t want to get his phone wet. He mentioned it was raining pretty bad earlier.
