It’s kept just as it was that afternoon, down to the boxes by the window on which he propped his rifle. Looking out the window, it’s all too easy to see what he saw looking through the sight of his rifle, to imagine the car driving by, to imagine….
My eyes squeezed shut, trying to stop seeing what I was seeing.
On a wall of the museum, the film showing Kennedy getting shot was showing on what seemed to be a continuous loop. I’d seen it a dozen times in school. It’s the one where you can actually see the moment the bullets hit. And the top of Kennedy’s head flying off. And his wife climbing over the back seat of the car trying to retrieve it.
I looked at Josh and started shaking. Uncontrollably. He ran over and asked, “What’s wrong?” Then he saw what I was seeing.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have thought. I should have known.” And he held me tight until my shaking stopped while the others in the museum watched, not knowing what to do, or looked away, not knowing what to do, or pointed, or even giggled nervously.
I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t say anything.
It felt like everyone was staring at us. Josh looked lost. Pained. And, it hit me with a flash: he was embarrassed to be with me; I was embarrassing to be seen with.
Still, he did what he needed to do. Josh wrapped his arm around me and walked me out quickly, telling me it was going to be okay, to just put one foot in front of the other.
Somehow I made it back to the car. Josh helped me in, fastened my seat belt for me, closed the door, and got in on his side.
And we sat. Silently.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“What? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Absolutely nothing. You got that?”
Much to my surprise, he sounded almost angry when he said that.
“I should have realized… I should have thought… I should have known… damn it… you know that I don’t want to ever cause you any pain. I know what you went through, and… I should have thought about it.”
And then, more silence.
I could see, I could actually feel him thinking. Thinking that he couldn’t do this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle me.
He looked at me. “I’m sorry” was all he could say.
It was all that needed to be said, and we drove off in silence.
I bought him dinner, hoping that it would somehow make things better, that if I pretended everything was all right, it would be. I got him a green chili cheeseburger at his favorite place. With everything. And fries. And a chocolate malt.
I had the same.
We went back to his place without saying a word. He undressed and got into bed; I went over and lay down on the sofa, still dressed He didn’t ask me to come and join him.
And I thought to myself, this is my life now. I’m broken. I’m broken and damaged.
Permanently.
I tried to stop thinking about it. All I wanted to do was hold it together until I got home and could be alone in my room.
Alone.
Ziggy came by to pick me up the next morning, texting me shortly before he arrived.
I looked at Josh. “Keep in touch,” he said.
Trying not to cry, or to call Josh every name I could think of, I walked out.
After helping me get into the truck, Ziggy took one look at my face and handed me a joint.
“Looks like you need this,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
“Want to talk about it?” he said after we’d been driving for a bit.
“Nope,” I said.
“Cool,” he replied.
The rest of the drive was silence. Except for the music playing. And the thoughts and sadness and anger and self-hate going through my head.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE PARENTS were both home waiting for me when I got back. Dad tried to look casual about it, but Mom was wearing her most concerned mom face.
“How was it?” they asked.
“It was good,” I said, trying to look like I meant it, but that, I knew, was more than even I could pull off.
“And the school?”
Oh shit… I’d kind of forgotten about that.
“Um… it’s still on the list. You guys are good?” And before they could say anything, I went upstairs to change into the Longhorns T-shirt I’d stolen from Josh that still had his scent on it, closed my eyes, and let everything that had happened wash over me.
The brief look of disgust on his face when he saw my scars.
The look of embarrassment and pity and horror and whatever I saw on his face when I lost it at the Sixth Floor Book Depository.
Whatever it was I had with Josh, it was over.
And the truth is, I didn’t blame him. I didn’t get angry with him. I didn’t phone or text or skype and call him out.
None of the stuff I should have done.
It was me. It was all me. It was all my fault.
It had to be.
And even worse, and adding to my disgust with myself, I still loved him.
But I was damaged goods. Mind and body. I got that.
It was me, not him.
Maybe he could have handled how awful I still looked physically, and maybe, just maybe, he could have handled my overwrought drama queen emotional state.
One or the other.
But not both.
I got it.
But even though I understood, it still hurt a lot. Maybe even more because I knew, I knew deep down to my soul, it was because of me.
And I still was in love with him and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d been there when I needed someone. A text from him telling me good morning and a text at night telling me sweet dreams was enough to give me hope. To make me happy for hours afterward like some sort of happiness booster shot or something.
The next week after Dallas was spent in a daze as I replayed the weekend over and over in my head, trying to figure out if I’d said something or did something on top of my other shortcomings.
And trying to figure out what I could do to fix it.
I did my best not to skype. I did my best not to text.
Even though I picked up my phone and thought about doing it a dozen times a day. Maybe sending him a video that was going around. Or a meme. Or something to restart things even on a casual level.
I did look on all his social media, though, hoping to find clues or hints that maybe he regretted what happened.
Or just to see what he was doing. And thinking.
Or seeing.
Even a postworkout selfie. Anything.
I guess I was stalking him, trying to will him into texting me or calling me or skyping me to tell me he loved me, that he was sorry, that he’d made a mistake.
I’d have forgiven him and taken him back in a second without thinking about it.
It was the following Tuesday that I received an email from him. A long one, trying to explain himself.
Collin, I feel like I owe you this.
When I walked into the ski lodge and saw you talking to Tiffany, and you looked up at me and smiled, I felt my heart melt just a little bit. I’d stopped seeing my friend a few weeks earlier, and well… I needed someone to look at me like you did. There was something in your eyes… and you were so easy to talk to and so cute that I couldn’t resist.
So it was easy for me to ask you to spend the next day with me. And the look of surprise and happiness on your face made me smile. And, well, it was good for my ego as well.
And there’s never anything wrong with a holiday flirtation, I told myself. It would be exactly the thing I needed.
The next day it was great simply seeing the way your face lit up when I walked into the lobby. And the way you just kind of melted into my arms when I hugged you was… great.
So it was easy and natural for me to hold your hand when we walked around town. I felt close to you, and it was kind of adorable ho
w nervous you seemed at first, and then slowly relaxed. It felt good to be able to do that for you.
And then, honestly, when we were driving back and you gave me that list of everything you wanted, ending with your desire to be kissed, I was happy to do so. I thought it would just be a quick kiss, but it turned into more than that. You were kissing with such hunger and need and passion that I couldn’t help but respond in kind. (You are a great kisser by the way… you need to know that.)
You should also know that I was beginning to develop feelings for you, feelings that I still have. What I thought was going to be a vacation thing was becoming something more than that. And please know and believe me when I say that I was happy with that.
And I was happy that we kept talking when we got back from Colorado. I loved your texts and learning about you and your day, and I loved skyping with you at night while we were studying. Or, “studying.” And again, I found myself falling for you. How could I not when someone as cute and smart and funny as you seemed to want me so much?
I do have to admit, though, that since you lived hours away and were going to go away to college, it seemed harmless. And if I led you on in any way, I am truly sorry.
Remember our talk on New Year’s Eve? My heart broke for you and your pain; it was the first time I really understood how much the shooting had affected you. I felt awful for you but I also felt sorry for you, and is feeling sorry for you the basis for a real relationship? Is that what you’d want?
So when you asked if you could come stay with me in Dallas, I hesitated at first. Did I want to lead you on? But I saw the look in your eyes, and you seemed so looking forward to, to put it bluntly, sleeping with me, that I couldn’t say no.
It wasn’t just the idea of sex with you; I did and still do honestly like you a lot. But the idea of being your first was definitely hot, and I told myself that at least with me, your first time would be with someone who you cared for and trusted.
I wanted it to be good for you.
And then Dallas. Believe me, Collin, I hate myself for what I did. But I’m not sure that I had any choice.
I like you. A lot. And I liked kissing you and it was obvious you needed to be kissed, and I was more than happy to oblige.
But when we got back from dinner and things seemed to be getting serious and you took off your clothes… I know. I flinched. In my head I knew you’d been badly wounded, but when I saw all your scars and everything, I couldn’t hide my feelings. And for that again, I am truly sorry.
But I swear to you that it wasn’t disgust or anything like that, but because I felt so badly for you. I could see you standing there in front of me, and it hurt me so much seeing you like that, knowing how much pain you had been in, how much you had suffered and how much you were still suffering.
And how there was nothing I could do about it.
And so we didn’t have sex. I held on to you, talking to you and trying to make you feel better, but I knew how badly I’d hurt you. Which made me feel even worse.
The Book Depository showed me that I am not what you need. It nearly killed me when you lost it there and I hadn’t a clue how to make it better. I know that I was in way over my head, that no matter what my feelings, I am in no way ready for that kind of responsibility. And to be totally honest, I know that I don’t want that responsibility.
I was looking for a hot vacation flirtation, and what was happening was more than I was ready for.
I’m sorry, Collin. I’m sure I could have handled things better.
I hope you’re okay. And I hope you can forgive me.
Josh.
That hurt. And while a part of me knew he was being a jerk, the other part knew he was right.
I cried for a long time after reading that.
On Thursday night I saw that he’d posted about having dinner with his ex. At the place I’d taken him to.
He’d actually posted a picture.
They looked happy.
Fuck. Didn’t it even occur to him that I’d see it and how it would make me feel?
He was happy, and I was… so very not happy.
Were they sleeping together again already? Did he have sex with him when he wouldn’t have sex with me? How could he do that? In the same bed I had just been in?
And as much as I didn’t want to, I could imagine them in bed together. Doing all the things I’d wanted to do. Maybe even laughing together about the silly wounded kid Josh had met on vacation who had such a big crush on him.
So here I was.
Physically scarred and emotionally damaged. And dumped by the first guy I loved because of scars and damage that were out of my control. That I could do nothing about.
It was too much.
My eyes were red from crying. Or from trying not to cry.
I thought I’d hit bottom after the shooting, that things were as bad as they could possibly be. I was wrong.
I remembered a line from Shakespeare’s King Lear that I’d read in English Lit class last year, something about how as long as you’re not dead, things can always get worse.
And so they did.
Friday would have been Nate’s birthday. And right on cue that night, I got a text from his mom.
Nate would have been 18 years old today but he’s not because he’s dead because of you. How does that make you feel?
That was it. Enough was enough.
I’d managed not to respond to any of her previous texts, but that one pushed me over the edge.
I texted back.
Mrs. Jonson, I have to tell you the truth about something. I fucked your son. Several times. He begged me to and I did and he loved it. Once in your house while you were downstairs. I. Fucked. Him.
The moment I hit Send, I suddenly felt better.
And at the same time a whole lot worse.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
AND THAT’S when it hit me hard that getting shot wasn’t the worst thing that happened to me.
This was. Right now. This moment.
I know I’m being a total drama queen. Self-pitying. Pathetic even.
But here’s the thing.
Even after I got shot, I still clung to some tiny little bit of shred of hope that things would get better.
That I would get better.
Now I knew they wouldn’t and that I wouldn’t. Ever.
The pain I was feeling from being rejected, on top of everything else, was more than I could take. More than anyone could or should have to take.
And now knowing that I could hurt someone as badly as I know I did Mrs. Jonson, that I had become that person who did things like that, it was too much for me to deal with.
I saw no way out, no way to escape who I was and what I saw myself becoming.
And late on the Saturday night two weeks after the weekend with Josh, sitting alone in my room, it hit me.
The answer was there at the bottom of my sock drawer.
Ziggy’s gun.
My gun.
I took a deep breath at the thought.
I didn’t have to do this anymore, I told myself. Any of it. I could just end it. I wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to think about that night ever again. I wouldn’t have to feel the lingering pain from my wounds. From my scars, all of them, both physical and emotional.
I wouldn’t have to have my heart broken and guts kicked in because of who, no, not who, but because of what I have become since it happened.
Because of who I am.
I went over to the drawer, rummaged through what suddenly seemed like way too many socks, and found it.
I pulled it out and looked at it. I really hadn’t before.
It was heavier than I thought it would be, than I remembered it being. And I have to admit, it felt kind of good in my hand.
I looked at myself in the mirror. It made me look like a tough guy. I struck poses I’d seen in the movies. I did a little Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
I could, I told myself, do this.
&
nbsp; I could, I convinced myself, do it. It would be the best thing for me and for everyone who knew me.
But I realized I didn’t know how exactly to do it. What was the best way? The fastest way? The most painless way?
I had no idea. So I went to the Google. (Going to “the” Google is his joke.)
Of course.
Ridiculous I know. Funny even. But I needed to know.
After a few minutes of researching “What’s the most painless and effective way of shooting oneself in the head?” I found I had two options: hold the gun to my temple and shoot through my brain from one side of my head to the other, or into my mouth and shoot straight through the back of my head.
In either case I’d be dead, I hoped, before I dropped the gun.
There were, however, disadvantages to both.
Putting the gun into my mouth and shooting seemed gross.
When Hitler killed himself, I learned, he put the gun to his temple. Did I really want to follow down Hitler’s path? I know, this is an absurd way to make a decision, but when you’re thinking about killing yourself, your thoughts go in strange directions.
The problem with shooting via the temple was if my hand shook or slipped even a tiny bit because it was getting all sweaty, as mine tend to do, and my shot was off just a little bit, I could end up brain damaged or in a coma instead of dead.
Still, I thought, temple was the way to go. I couldn’t imagine taking it into my mouth and… no.
But then I noticed Clark was curled up under my desk. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t leave him.
Could I?
Yes, I told myself, I could. He didn’t need me. I couldn’t even walk him. Dad walked him every morning and evening. He’d be fine.
I gave him a hug and sent him out the door. I thought or even hoped that he’d do like dogs do in the movies and would stay outside the door and cry like he knew what I was doing, and that would make me change my mind.
But nope, I could hear him trot downstairs.
So I picked up the gun and looked into the mirror. Saw the look in my eyes, and knew I couldn’t do this life anymore.
I thought about the shooting. I thought about the kids laughing at me at the assembly. I thought about the pain I was feeling, the throbbing that seemed to be worse because of what had happened. And the dread that any sudden noise would send me reeling back to that bloody dance floor.
What Happens After Page 12
