by Val Emmich
After all the evading and anticipating, Mac lands in front of me in a faded tee, his long naked arms ending in the pockets of his jogger pants. His hair is shorter. The shoes he’s wearing look more like slippers, possibly unsuited for outdoor use.
This silent staring is only interrupted when I realize that I’m probably the one who’s supposed to talk first.
“I thought you’d be at work,” I say.
“Yeah,” Mac says. “I quit. It’s too much right now.”
That he’s still willing to divulge anything to me, even this, is a surprise worth embracing. It lifts me off my feet, but I pretend to be grounded.
“I was watching the game,” Mac says. “I saw someone out the window.”
With a shrug, I say, “Surprise.”
I try to read his face. Mostly there’s apprehension, and it’s earned, I realize, because like a total fool, I’m standing on his sidewalk and I’ve yet to explain why.
“I wanted to leave this for you,” I say.
He looks at the bag pressed tightly to my chest. I release my hold and give him the bag. He peers inside.
“You don’t have to open it now,” I say.
He pulls out the record, stares at it. First the cover, then the back, then the cover again. There’s true wonder on his face, and I’m grateful to be witnessing it, even though I made every effort not to be here when it happened.
“How?” he says, unable to wrap his head around what I just delivered—a piece of his grandfather, Macintyre Durant, the original.
“I happen to work at a museum that knows a thing or two about rare records,” I say.
I asked Maggie about the Meet Muggy Benson record, and she put me in touch with someone who put me in touch with someone else, and it went on from there. The trail ended, miraculously, in Brooklyn, New York. One physical copy just a car ride away. Charlie drove me.
“How much do I owe you?” Mac says, and it hurts because this isn’t supposed to be a business transaction. I don’t want anything in return. I only want to lessen his and his family’s pain.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say.
He looks conflicted. “I can’t imagine it was cheap.”
“It didn’t cost much, actually. I get the impression that nobody cares about this record except your dad.”
He smiles. “You’re probably right.”
“Besides, Charlie lent me the money.”
He marvels at it. “The Charlie Most?”
“The one and only. He’s a sucker for that kind of stuff.”
By stuff, Mac assumes I mean music. And I do, partly, but I’m also talking about romance. On our way to the record shop, Charlie started asking questions. There’s this boy, I told him. That’s when he revealed how he found me on the night of the storm. He was driving around hopelessly when he saw a guy walking in the snow.
“I heard you two had a little chat,” I say.
Mac nods. “He seems like a really good guy.”
“Yeah.”
I don’t expect Mac to remember, but on the night of the storm, when he heard my parents were no longer together, he said I was lucky. I never thought that word applied to me in any kind of way. But the closer I look at the family I still have, I know I’m wrong about that.
Mac slips the record back into the gift bag. “Well, I appreciate it,” he says in that tone that signals the end of a conversation. “My dad will, too.”
I guess that’s it, then. Earlier today, I have to admit, I had this daydream that Mac would receive my gift and be so blown away by it that he’d come and find me. I’m grateful for this time he’s given me, I am, but in the end it’s only been a harsh reminder of what I’ve been missing these past few weeks, and in my life in general. Whatever this is between us, it’s so hard to walk away from, even if I’m the only one feeling it.
But I won’t be greedy. I did what I set out to do. The video I leaked of his dad was from the same night that Mac went downstairs and scratched the original record. Though I didn’t cause the record scratch, I caused other damage, and replacing the record seemed like a way to start repairing everything. I can’t change before, but at least I can make a better after.
“Okay,” I say, turning to go.
“Wait,” Mac says.
I look back.
“Can I walk with you?” Mac says.
I lower my eyes, embarrassed by how much I want this. I fear I’m not worthy of his time, but I accept it shamelessly.
We start walking.
“Who were you talking to before?” Mac says.
“That was Neel.”
There’s freedom in just coming out with it, the truth. I think back to when Mac asked whether Neel and I were dating and how funny that seemed at the time.
He glances over. “Nice coat.”
“I know. I’m pathetic. It’s just, it’s really warm.”
It’s his coat. I never wear it at school, only on weekends (and sometimes when I’m at home). Meanwhile, he’s not wearing a coat—again. Another impromptu trip into the unknown.
“Do you want it back?” I say. “Full disclosure, I’ve cried all over it.”
“That’s okay. It’s all yours.”
It’s generous, what he says and how he says it, but still, I feel like a sorry case that he’s taken pity on. I can’t help it. Self-loathing is my default.
My gut tells me: Put on your hood, keep your head low, zip your mouth shut. My heart fights it: He’s walking with you, it means something, make it mean something, don’t you dare retreat.
Eyes ahead, I spit it out: “How’s he doing? Your dad.”
Mac blows warm air into the atmosphere. “He’s all right.”
It seems that he wants to say more, and I wish he would. I wish he’d open up to me the way he once did.
“Just all right?” I say, welcoming him.
He takes a few silent steps before deciding to speak.
“I had it out with him. I had all these things I needed to say. He went into a hole like he does. But it passed. Ever since he’s been okay. I know it won’t last. But at least I told him where I stand. That felt good. So thanks.”
I give him a look. “Why are you thanking me?”
“That night, the way it happened, it made me realize I don’t want to pretend anymore. With anyone.”
I know what he means. I wish I’d known a lot sooner.
I stop in the road and turn to the guy who used to be Mac Durant but is now just Mac—or Macintyre to a select few. For one night, he was a person in my life who could be touched and kissed and held, and I was a person who could be touched and kissed and held, and now any interaction short of that feels criminal.
“I’m sorry,” I say, struggling to maintain eye contact. “I wish I could take it back. Not that night. But everything before it.”
He sighs, for too long. “What you did was really messed up.”
“I know.”
He looks to the ground. “I kind of hated you.”
He kicks a rock against the curb, a move reminiscent of the sport he almost gave up because of me. I’m the tumbling rock against his foot, it feels like.
“But,” Mac says, one small word with infinite possibility. “I realized it’s not even you I’m mad at. It’s just not.”
Hearing this is like finding a rising green stem in the soil of a dead plant. You assumed the plant was a goner, but it was under the surface that whole time, refusing to give up.
“That night, I was being real,” I say. “I swear to you. As real as I could be. I don’t want you to think I’m a terrible person.”
He ponders it. “I’ve seen worse.”
A joke, but I’m still not ready to find humor in the situation. “Thank you for not telling anyone,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know for sure that you didn’t tell anyone, but it seems like you didn’t. Maybe you did.”
“I didn’t,” Mac says.
“It’s okay if you did. You have every right to.”
&nb
sp; “I didn’t.”
“Okay.”
“Well, just one person,” Mac says.
“Oh,” I say.
“I’m kidding,” he says, trying not to laugh.
I should feel relief, but I don’t feel that at all. There’s an old pain in my belly. For a split second there, when I believed my secret was out, the pain was finally gone and I experienced something like peace.
“Relax,” Mac says.
“I just want it to be over already. Someone has to find out eventually, right?”
“Maybe. But it won’t be because of me.” His golden eyes were briefly cold, but now they hold warmth again. The promise he made to me that night—maybe he didn’t break it after all. He hasn’t forgotten.
He asks, “Should we keep walking?”
The answer can only be yes.
We stay on the road, but off to the side.
I’m lucky, I know, to be standing here, a few inches from him, as he swings the bag my mom supplied that contains the gift Charlie obtained, the same gift Neel tried to help me deliver, all these giving hands forming a web of love I’m safely suspended in. I can’t help but wonder how Mac fits into this, him and me, if there’s any way, any possibility at all that there could be a we or an us. I want to ask where we’re going, whether there’s a future after now, but I also don’t want to ruin a chance to go somewhere unexpected.
“Thanks for coming to my game,” Mac says.
It makes me feel good. I didn’t think he wanted me there.
“I’m glad you’re playing again,” I say.
“I’m thinking about rejoining my club team.”
“That would be great. I hope you do.”
“Yeah,” he says, unsure but hopeful. “I want to bring my dad to the museum for a tour.”
He’s out of his mind. “Not while I’m there, you’re not.”
“Oh yes,” Mac says, relishing my discomfort. “Get ready. We’re coming.”
Fine. If it means seeing him again, I surrender.
Up ahead, over the houses and trees, the sky is shimmering violet. I wondered whether it would be weird to see Mac again, but it’s like we never parted. Talking to him is difficult and easy all at once, and I like that there can be both. Anything less is just people pretending.
“I’m really glad you came in,” I say. “That night.”
In his smile I see a wink that isn’t there, and I believe in my heart that I’m not the only one whose life has been forever changed.
There’s just one thing spoiling this moment, and I know full well it’ll spoil every good moment in the future unless I finally do something about it.
“Wait,” I say, stopping in the road.
I reach into my back pocket for my phone and scroll to the message I’ve rewritten a dozen times but still haven’t posted anywhere. The button that will make it real waits under my hovering thumb. I shut my eyes, summoning the strength. My mind flashes ahead to all the new trouble about to come my way, but it can’t compare to the torment I already inflict on myself.
I open my eyes and look at Mac. He waits patiently—for me. If he can see past the ugliest of me to something good and worthy and even beautiful, maybe others eventually can too. Maybe I can.
I press the button. I set myself free.
We walk. I turn off my phone. There will be plenty to deal with—later. I’m scared, but I’m not alone. There’s so much light around the two of us. In all the darkness I’ve made, how can there be so much light? We couldn’t see the road that night under all the snow, but now it’s laid out before us.
“I went to the inventors fair the other day,” Mac says. “I didn’t see your project. The touch thing.”
I can’t believe he went. “We couldn’t figure it out in time,” I say. “It was too hard.”
He steps closer. “You don’t need it.”
I turn, not understanding. His hand reaches out. I check his eyes, and it’s true, he’s reaching out for me.
I take in the cold winter air. I take it all in. The storm that came that night blanketed the town, but then it uncovered everything.
I pull my hand out of my pocket, and this time I reach back—with all my ugly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Thomas Edison Center is a real place in Edison, New Jersey. Also worth a visit: the Thomas Edison National Historical Park in West Orange, New Jersey.
For more information about limb difference, check out these nonprofits: the Lucky Fin Project and the Amputee Coalition of America.
The team at Little, Brown: Farrin Jacobs—thank you for your faith, taste, and benevolent brutality. Karina Granda. Jen Graham. Emilie Polster. Stefanie Hoffman. Siena Koncsol.
The team at Folio: Jeff Kleinman. John Cusick. Melissa Sarver White. Madeline Froyd. Chiara Panzeri. And at WME: Sylvie Rabineau.
For your singular artwork: Alessandra Olanow.
For sharing your stories and expertise: Claire Chapeau. Brody Marzano. Bennett Madison. Neel Khichi. Beth Levinson. Mike Emmich. Emily Emmich. Matt Friel. Trupti Patel Doshi. Jen Doktorski. Bethany Mangle.
For believing early and always: Eileen DeNobile (1957–2016). For helping me believe: Collette McGuire.
For my three bright lights in a blackout: Jill, Harper, Lennon.
Thank you.
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VAL EMMICH is a New York Times bestselling author, singer-songwriter, and actor. His novels include Dear Evan Hansen: The Novel, an adaptation of the hit Broadway show, and The Reminders.
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