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Lightning hit when Theo packed up his room.
Lightning hit when Theo moved away.
Lightning hit when Theo met Jackson.
There’s nothing I can do but allow myself to keep getting struck. Even if I stop talking to Theo, that won’t help with my imagination. It doesn’t help tonight, when I’m trying to force myself to fall asleep early because I know there’s no chance Theo will pull himself away from Jackson to call me at midnight, my time. I can’t stand to be awake at the exact moment hours from now when he’s kissing Jackson in a completely different time zone.
Theo will finally be visiting for his birthday, so if I can be strong until February, if I can keep bouncing up whenever lightning strikes, there’s a chance I can win him back.
TODAY
Monday, December 12th, 2016
Jackson pulls into the parking lot of a church. I should remind Jackson where I stand on this God character, but this place is beautiful. I’m practically sticking out of the window to admire the sand-beige bricks and sunlight glinting in the stained-glass windows. You never mentioned going to services with Jackson, but I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. I’m trying to be respectful here, but my feelings on faith at the moment are the same feelings I have for the church itself—beautiful and promising on the outside, but possibly disappointing on the inside.
I won’t share any of these nonbeliever thoughts with Jackson. He’s clearly here with a purpose, maybe to pray for you, wherever you are.
Jackson gets out of the car and I do the same. It’s so nice out here and I feel weird thinking it, but it’s nicer to grieve during a winter in California than back in New York, where the weather makes life miserable enough. He’s already helped me by letting me run away with him.
“Get in the driver’s seat,” Jackson says.
“Say what?”
“I’m teaching you how to drive.” Jackson goes toward the passenger’s seat.
“Wait. You’re not here to pray?”
“No, we’re using the parking lot. It’s a Monday afternoon. Not exactly a busy time.”
I start to laugh. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Damn it, Griffin, language.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but why not? I get in the front seat; Jackson sits shotgun. He buckles up quickly like there’s a chance I will send us gunning into the church in the next moment or two. Being in the driver’s seat is odd. It’s been a couple of years since I even sat shotgun.
Jackson instructs me on where to place my hands, and I call him out for being a bad role model when he was driving—his left arm was out the window. He teaches me everything there is to know about the mirrors and turning and signs and even etiquette, as if I’ll be tailgating someone momentarily.
I get started. It’s exhilarating, even at fifteen miles per hour. It feels a lot like the arcade games we would race in, except it would be really bad for both Jackson and me if I drive us off a bridge right now, because we probably won’t respawn. Jackson encourages me to move a little bit faster, which, of course, nerves my foot into stepping on the pedal a little too hard, so I hit the brakes and Jackson’s head flings forward. I’m surprised it’s still attached to his shoulders and not flipping through the windshield. In this church lot, I will go ahead and say God bless the person who invented seatbelts.
Jackson doesn’t kick me out of the driver’s seat. He laughs it off and coaches me to keep going and not to freak out.
It takes a few minutes, but I start to get the hang of it. I’m driving in circles like a pro. It’s freeing to be in the driver’s seat, to decide if I’ll go left or right, forward or reverse. It’s freeing to be in control.
•••
Jackson didn’t force me to drive us on the highway—a good thing; otherwise we probably wouldn’t have arrived at your college in one piece. The student housing building seemed bigger and nicer in the pictures on the school’s website and the photos you texted me, but in person it’s a little drab. Maybe that’s another reason you liked staying over at Jackson’s so much, with his friendly dog and even friendlier mother.
It’s weird seeing students in hoodies in warm weather like this. There must be some California phenomena where residents mistake sixty-degree temperatures as cold. You’ve done this yourself. Back in December or January, I can’t really remember, we were on the phone and you mentioned needing to run back to your dorm room to grab your hoodie because it was a little chilly. Meanwhile, I was dealing with a winter that felt very subzero. I was wearing sweaters underneath my coat but forgot my gloves, so holding the phone was brutal on my fingers. It was a good-enough excuse to get off the phone. You sounded too happily Californian and unfamiliar. I’m okay with admitting that now.
Jackson parks and immediately a couple of girls come charging toward him, offering him their condolences and telling him how much they miss you. A lump lodges itself in my throat; I should have expected this. He keeps turning to me, and I don’t know if he’s trying to introduce me to these girls or if he wants me to come up with an excuse to rescue him from this, but more students join the crowd and keep us apart.
I recover quickly. This is both a show of how loved you were and of how deeply connected you and Jackson were. Jackson looks like he’s about to cry now, though. I’m catching snippets of memories, all clamoring to be heard at once:
“So funny, like, I spat out my margarita laughing the first night we hung out.”
“He was so cool about letting me cheat off his homework if I loaned him video games. He was mad chill.”
“I thought I was the king at chess until I went up against him.”
