by Adam Silvera
“Nah, I got that birds and bees conversation when I was ten,” Theo says.
“I guess they didn’t suspect you only needed the bees talk, right? Or is it birds? Damn, my dad had a point there,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter. I like birds and bees.”
I grab Theo’s wrist and brake. “Come on, it’s me. You don’t have to keep up the act about the birds . . . or bees . . . damn it, you don’t have to fake interest in girls anymore.”
“I’m not faking interest,” Theo says. “I’m pretty sure I’m bisexual.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew. I had crushes and stuff, though I guess I talked about that stuff more with Wade.”
Wade’s smile has vanished. He’s stone-faced now, which is actually great because I might flip out if he laughed at Theo and me about this. Getting caught by my dad while we’re buying condoms is one thing; feeling my relationship threatened is another.
“I figured those crushes were covers,” I say in the silence. I did the same thing he did; I thought girls were cool and everything, but I didn’t think I actually had the right heart to date them.
“Well, they weren’t.” Theo looks genuinely puzzled. “I’m sorry you got the truth mixed up. Why does it even matter? I’m dating you, Griff.”
I glance at Wade, but he’s glued to his phone. I don’t like that I didn’t know this essential truth about Theo. I know there’s more to him than I can ever capture and keep close to me, like his fleeting thoughts or his conversations with other people, but this is bigger. It’s so central to his heart, one of my favorite things about him—the way he loves me, the way he loves his parents and sister, the way he loves the squad, the way he loves discovering life’s mysteries and solving them.
This flips everything around, right?
I let go of his wrist. “It’s stupid, but it feels like more competition.” I feel like I’m going up against the entire world, that there’s no way I’m the absolute best fit for him on this planet. I at least thought I’d be able to see a new guy swooping in, but now I have to be suspicious of everyone. I have things I don’t want to know but have to know. “What’s your type? Girlwise.”
“I don’t know what kind of girls I like, Griffin, because I think my type is just good people, period.” His voice softens. “I’m sorry we never had a real conversation about this, but trust me that this isn’t something all that serious in my head. It’s not keeping me up at night because I’m happy with you, and I’m not counting on someone better coming along.” Theo grabs my hands. There’s no lightness to his voice, only conviction. “Please don’t feel threatened.”
He kisses my cheek.
I believe him, in this moment, but it’s what can happen in the future that chokes me a little. I’m not going to say anything, though. Being paranoid can’t possibly take me anywhere good.
I kiss his cheek.
“Was that supposed to be a fight?” Wade asks. He doesn’t even bother to look up from his phone, but I appreciate his being here to lighten the mood. “Not enough blood.”
We walk in silence for a bit.
“Griff?” Theo says finally.
“Yeah?”
“Two important things going forward.”
“What’s up?”
“One: We only order condoms online from here on out. Two: We’re definitely never using those condoms your father bought us.”
TODAY
Thursday, November 24th, 2016
I thought nothing could beat the weirdness of last year’s Thanksgiving. You were supposed to fly back to New York to bounce between our families’ dinners. It was our tradition. Instead, you stayed out in California and joined Jackson’s family for the night. Your parents were bummed, Denise was bummed, Wade was bummed, I was bummed; we were all really freaking bummed because it was the first time we were going to see you since August. But we didn’t give you shit for it because you said you really needed to concentrate on homework—specifically your animation, the one about the warrior fishermen catching dragon eggs in a volcano, which you ultimately abandoned anyway.
My entire Thanksgiving was spent at my aunt’s apartment, wondering if you were liking Jackson’s family, why you were becoming so obsessed with Jackson himself. It wasn’t a comfortable headspace. Suffocating, actually, but you were alive and still the endgame. I’d go back in time for those problems.
My aunt’s apartment is hell-hot like usual. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rosie.”
I’ll never forget the first time you met Rosie, confusing her for a slimmer version of my mother, who was heavier at the time, congratulating her on all her lost weight, which everyone found funny, even Mom. Rosie may be half a decade older than my mom, but she’s been consistently going to the gym, and I think I can even feel some abs coming in as we hug.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Griffin,” she says, squeezing me. She tries to look me in the eye but I completely detach, so she greets my parents, giving my mom a kiss. Their sisterhood has always made me want a sibling. Grieving would probably feel a little less lonely if I could turn to someone my own age, maybe a little older and wiser and scarred from battles I’m fighting for the first time. Maybe I wouldn’t have done the things I’ve done.
The kitchen smells like cornbread and gravy (for the mashed potatoes you obsessed over); there’s turkey, stuffing, mac’n’cheese I won’t ever touch, yellow rice, and then I’m hit with the sweetness of the cranberry sauce. I throw off my jacket, but the kitchen is still baking me alive because I’m in your hoodie, so I make my way out into the living room. My little cousins charge me, trying to climb my legs. I don’t have smiles for them. I can barely even get their names straight because I see them so rarely. They live upstate and their names all begin with R, an insane tradition that is eventually going to lead to kids named Rasputin or Raiden from Mortal Kombat. I soldier through the hugs and sympathies from my older cousins, but my grandma is the one who really wears me out.
“Griffin, come sit,” she requests, patting the air because there’s nowhere beside her I can actually sit. I crouch, letting her take my hand with both of hers.
She turns ninety this December. I lost you at eighteen. She lived a life as a military mechanic, a manager at a pharmacy, a great-grandmother, a wife to a man I never met and later to a man I never liked. You lived a life as a genius, an honors student with a promising future, a first love to me, and then a boyfriend to Jackson. She lived a lot in her life, but you got cut off before we could set things right.
“How is your eye doing?” Grandma asks. She’s probably remembering that time my classmate Jolene accidentally elbowed me in the eye—in sixth grade. There’s dementia for you. My cousins sometimes crack jokes because nothing’s funnier to them than someone’s mind abandoning them and taking on a life of its own.
“My eye is good, Grandma,” I say. “Much better. How are you doing? How’s Primo?” Her brown-bellied, yellow canary got sick a little while ago.
“Have you prayed today?”
“I prayed this morning,” I lie. Lying about prayer would’ve felt a lot more sinful if I ever believed in God, but well, those thoughts are better suited for someone with reasons to believe in the miracle of resurrection.
I glance at Davis, the ten-year-old soccer-obsessed cousin who was grossed out when he caught us kissing. He’s hogging the TV Grandma could be using to watch one of her shows. Only then can I go in a corner and power down. I see her empty glass, another exit strategy. “Do you want more water?”
“I already have water. Where is Theo? I want to watch one of his movies.”
Grandma is really fond of your animations. I think her favorite is the forty-second clip of the spider chasing that one red ant. When it reaches its posse, together they form that super ant that scares the spider away. It’s possible she just really admired the flowers you put in the ba
ckground. I could probably pull up some of your animations for her, the ones I have on my phone—except “Griffin on the Left,” that’s for my eyes only—but I don’t have it in me to watch the videos myself. I need my phone, anyway, to hear your voice.
“Theo can’t make it,” I say. I’m sure my mom or aunt told her you died. She’s forgotten already, but I’m going to let it go instead of repeating it back to her. I like that she thinks you’re alive. “I’m going to get you more water, Grandma.”
I kick Davis off the TV, task him with getting his great-grandmother some more water, and I retreat into Rosie’s room, where I hide underneath the coats on her bed.
Putting a song on repeat used to drive you crazy. I could never shake certain lyrics or beats out of my head until I listened to the song for a week straight, sometimes two. You hated the sound of your own voice recorded even more, and I’m sorry you have to hear it again as I play your last voice mail on repeat: “Hey, Griff, sorry I missed your call. I was out and my phone was off . . . you sound like you’re walking the plank. If The Walking Dead pirates didn’t already chase you off, call me back and let me know you’re okay. Bye, man.”
I really like this message because there is no mention of Jackson, even though he was probably the reason you were out. Also because you called me Griff, not Griffin—like you got used to doing whenever Jackson was around.
I press play again.
I’m on my thirty-eighth listening this session when someone pats my ankles. I hadn’t even noticed they were sticking out over the edge of the bed. I’m tempted to just kick the hand away, but I come out from underneath the coats and see my dad.
“Dinner is ready. Thanksgiving dinner, which comes once a year. Don’t bank on seeing cornbread again for another year.”
What an awful pitch for Thanksgiving—the fuck do I care about cornbread? Has he completely forgotten the reason I’m hiding from the family I’m usually so excited to see?
But I get up and head out into the living room. Pretty much everyone already has their food on a plate, standing in a circle against the walls while the kids are on the floor sitting cross-legged or on their knees. Right: prayer first, then food. My mom has prepared me a plate because apparently when someone’s grieving, they revert back to an age where they have to hold someone’s hand to cross the street, ask permission to stay over at a friend’s house, probably require a nightlight, and can’t serve themselves dinner. I thank her before I have a condom-over-mouth-worthy outburst, and step over Reynaldo—I think—to stand between the busted stereo and a potted plant in desperate need of water.
Rosie throws a towel over her shoulder and claps, like we’re about to huddle together and she’s going to coach us through our dinner. “Who wants to lead us in prayer?” She turns to her three grown kids: Richie, the eldest, who was always too in his head over work to ever connect with you; Ronnie, who didn’t bring the latest love of his life to dinner this year; and Remy, who’s always been my least favorite. Not because he’s the third kid or how his name doesn’t quite fit with his brothers’, but because he used to talk shit about us behind your back, which I never told you about because his antigay nonsense is his nonsense.
None of them volunteer. My dad takes a step forward.
Rosie claps. “Whoa, first-timer. Take it away, Gregor.”
The turkey leg I’m sure Dad pushed women and children out of the way for almost rolls off his plate when he gestures out to the family, inviting us to hold hands. But we’re all holding food, some of us drinks. He realizes his error, chuckling. Remy is to my right, and he surely wasn’t going to hold my hand anyway. His son, Ralph—an old man’s name—is to my left, so this is all for the best.
“Dear God, thank you for bringing our family together for another year of good food and good company, but mainly good food . . .” He pauses, actually pauses expecting laughter. Grandma, my mom, Rosie, and a couple of my older cousins indulge him with a chuckle, but none of the younger ones do; the ego-soothing instinct isn’t quite programmed in them just yet. “A friendly face our family has grown to know well over the years is absent tonight, unfortunately. We all—Griffin especially—miss him dearly, and will continue praying for his family.”
I might freak out or throw up or throw up and freak out, Theo.
Dad pauses and takes a deep breath. “God, we ask you to keep our family safe for another year, and thank you for our blessings. Amen.”
In the choruses of “amen,” I sink against the wall, resting my arm on the rim of the pot. Whatever food I thought I was going to be able to manage before will not be happening. I think again of your family, especially Denise. I can’t even imagine what it must look like over there, what it must be like to be a family that others are specifically—and pointlessly—praying for on Thanksgiving. And then there’s Jackson, possibly tacked on at their table, camping out in their home. I don’t think it’s parasitic, but even I’ve kept my distance. They have enough wounds without tending to someone else’s pain, too.
“Griffin, Griffin,” Grandma calls me from across the room, her voice just loud enough to reach me, despite my cousins’ nearby conversation about football. “Where is Theo? I cooked the mashed potatoes.”
She didn’t cook the mashed potatoes; Rosie used her recipe. And you really do love her recipe, but you were also hooked on potatoes in general. I never understood how you could eat an entire diner dinner of mashed potatoes, one baked potato, and French fries with a random green apple on the side. But you did it. You did it every time.
“Theo can’t make it, Grandma,” I say. “I’ll let him know he missed out on your mashed potatoes.”
“You’ll let him know?” Remy asks. “Oh brother.”
“Don’t,” Rosie warns.
Grandma is trying to ask me a question, but the younger cousins are shushing her; the little instigators want to see something go down. When I try getting up, Dad braces me and keeps me on the floor while Mom grabs my hand, squeezing it. Remy sniffs. “Come on, already. He dated the guy for what, a year?”
“I’ve known him for seven years,” I answer through my teeth, scratching the hell out of my free palm because I’m so nervous about the person he’s dragging out of me.
“You’re too obsessed. Get over him and do something for yourself.” Remy’s tone isn’t even confrontational. It’s as if he’s just simply stating this, like we’re the kind of friends who swap advice.
I rise, pushing my dad’s hand away, but he keeps a hold on me. “I’m not going to hit him,” I lie, shaking him and my mom off. Remy is six years older than me and I give a grand total of zero shits. I know you’re not about me getting into fights, and not just because I can’t fight, but you’re not here to calm me down or hold me back. “You don’t get it, you don’t—” I turn to everyone in the room, searching for someone who does get it, but no one here has been through this. “Everything I did for him I did for me, too, because it made me happy to see him happy. That’s not obsession, you dickhead, it’s love.”
He’s embarrassed, his cheeks flushed. Rosie looks pretty ashamed herself for creating such an asshole.
“Except he was dating someone else,” Remy says. “Get over it. He did.”
Theo, you’re about to have some company, and I’m sorry it’s not someone more worthy of you.
I lunge at the bastard—I hear the gasps of my mom and Rosie, some cheers from some younger cousins, screams from others—and my dad catches me before I can snuff him, dragging me back toward the kitchen while Remy laughs.
“We’re going home, Griffin, it’s going to be okay,” Dad says, no longer manhandling me because I’m pissed but hugging me because I’m crying.
Safe to say next Thanksgiving will be spent at home, or maybe at whatever college accepts a guy who plans on doing zero work for the rest of his senior year.
My parents are sitting in front of the living room TV
, eating leftovers—does it count as leftovers if it’s food they never got to dig into in the first place?—and I’m back in my room. I’m stretched across my bed when my phone rings. I’m expecting it to be Wade, but it’s your mom. The last time she called was to tell me you died.
It’s close to eleven, which makes me even more nervous to pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Ellen. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. How was your—” I’ll pass on asking about dinner. It’s probably one of the few nightmares she stands a chance at putting behind her. “How are you doing?”
“It’s impossible, Griffin. I am constantly . . . It’s lovely hearing your voice,” she says. “I’m getting ready to try and get some rest, actually. But I wanted to check in and see if you would be okay with me giving you Jackson’s number. He wanted to call you but I thought it would be better for you to reach out if you felt up to it.”
I almost ask her why Jackson wants to talk to me, but she’s already wasted enough time being a middleman. “That’s okay,” I say. “Is he up?”
“He’s wide-awake. West Coast time,” Ellen answers before a long pause. I’m wondering if she’s nervous about what will happen if Jackson and I talk.
“I’ll give him a call and let you get some rest. If there’s anything I can do, like watch Denise or go grocery shopping for you, I’m more than happy to,” I say.
“Thanks, Griffin. You’re sweet. I’ll let you know. Have a good night.”
“Good night.”
I hang up, and Ellen texts me Jackson’s info.
I stare at the seven numbers following Jackson’s California area code. I press call before reasoning can beat loneliness. This, this moment right here, is the sudden switch from same-old-same-old to crazy intensity. I sit up and press my hand to my heart, counting with its rhythm. “One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two . . .
