Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

“We’re all just people,” Luke continued, gesturing to all the color around us. “Doing our people thing. You know? Everybody poops. And I got sick of feeling like I couldn’t ever move, so—to finally get to my point here—that’s what got me proposing meetups with a stranger on an app, all of five days after I turned eighteen. No I didn’t think it through; no I’m not a smart person; yes, I feel over my head right now. No offense, it’s nothing to do with you; but this was a mistake on my end—add it to the list, right? Throw it right on there. There are so many examples of why it’s better for me to just not do these things, and I shouldn’t have … and I’m aware none of this helps you. But I’m sorry.”

  The water in front of us trickled and hummed.

  I’d been spending this night treating Luke like an unknowable box—a faceless gray square. And the longer I lingered on his words, the more they unlocked a new impulse in me: the urge to unmask myself the way he just did. To let him know how alike he and I were—both feeling like prisoners of our own circumstances. Each of us itching to make the life change we knew needed to happen, but too scared to leave the safety of the status quo. So instead, there we both sat … kicking ourselves for pinning our hopes on an unplanned night, face-to-face with the empty result. Unmarked pennies in an unchanged fountain.

  I thought about how we all retreated to our own worlds: Luke to the library, me to the Studio, Dad to his cabin. But as peaceful as these places were, we were all alone in them. Luke had been alone his whole life and wanted to let others in. Dad had been to other continents and just wanted to shut everyone out. And me … I just wanted someone to rule my world with.

  And as Luke and I sat facing the empty library, I pictured two thrones instead of two cushions, and gates instead of doors, and for just a second, I felt unconquerable.

  Tell him.

  I couldn’t. The words burned inside me, but they wouldn’t come out. There was no way to bring it up, even though I was sure he wouldn’t mind if I just blurted it out.

  Luke leaned back, propping his sneakers on the edge of the fountain. I did the same.

  “Dare me to stick my feet in,” he finally said.

  I did.

  “Well.” He slipped off his shoes, then his socks. “Since you dared me …”

  He wiggled his toes, pretended to gasp, then dipped them into the fountain water. He tapped one of the pennies with his big toe, saying, “Boop.”

  He dared me to next, and even though my brain was starting to abdicate my body’s motions to autopilot, I played along and joined him.

  “Can you imagine if we did this during the day?” he asked. He looked right at me when he laughed, like he was trying to get me to join in. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and asked, “Do you ever get thoughts like that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Intrusive thoughts, I think they’re called? Like when you’re sitting in an exam and you think, ‘What if I just screamed really loud right now?’”

  I grimaced, then nodded. “Do you?”

  “All the time.”

  Grabbing my wrists.

  Stop.

  Grabbing his wrists.

  STOP.

  “What about screwed-up intrusive thoughts?” I asked, more softly.

  His puzzled expression made me look away, dirty and ashamed all over.

  “Hey. You alright?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. The two of us leaned back, sinking into the couch with our heads turned inward. We sat there, face to face—nearly nose to nose. Breathing each other’s air. I could barely make out his eyes in the glow of the light, but I could see the rest of his face—his reassuring smile—clearly. Every cell in my brain was roaring at me to be on the defensive: Remember to keep your guard up! But just like Lily, Luke was making me forget what that angry voice sounded like. Everything about him was disarming—his earnest expression, his harmless demeanor. Raw vulnerability. I didn’t know much about him, but I knew I’d never met someone more easy to talk to.

  And I needed to talk to someone.

  Luke poked me in the shoulder. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “You have no idea. So much.”

  “Well, like what?”

  I looked from the lights,

  to him,

  to the lights,

  to him.

  And I asked, “Can I tell you about something that happened to me?”

  “Is that something you want to do?”

  “Not really. But I think I should anyway.”

  Luke listened.

  I don’t remember exactly what words of comfort he offered once I finished, but I remember they were generic and kind. He asked me if I wanted to keep talking, and I told him yes, but I was exhausted and my parents would be expecting me home, so we should call it a night.

  The drive home was quiet, but comfortable—like he understood that I wasn’t up for any more deep conversations at the moment. So we just put on some more music—“Should Have Known Better” by Sufjan Stevens—and he made small talk about how much it was going to suck getting up for school tomorrow.

  As we approached the neighborhood, he said, “So. Should we talk about what we’re, like … where our heads are at?”

  “We don’t have to,” I said. “Not if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable talking about this. Personally. I mean …” He stared at the road, selecting his words. “Like, we should talk about it, right? You don’t really know me; I don’t know you, and … I don’t want to make this awkward. But like, in terms of when we see each other next, if we see each other next… . What’s the plan, Stan?”

  “My name is Owen,” I said in a mock-angry voice.

  “Hey, you know …” He shrugged. “I had a great time tonight, and I just—it would be a very me thing to ruin it at the literal eleventh hour.”

  “You’re not going to do that.”

  We pulled into the neighborhood.

  “Well.” He tapped the steering wheel. “I think taking it slow is the important thing. It sounds like we both have stuff we need to get a handle on, so maybe we … take care of that first? I work on being more of a person of action; you work on getting out of your relationship, then we figure out how to go from there?”

  I stiffened.

  “What is it?”

  I kept my eyes on the playground as we passed it. “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m not … going to get out of my relationship.”

  I felt the car slow as it approached my street. Luke put it in park and turned to me.

  “Um,” he said, in a slightly softer voice, “why?”

  “It’s like I told you, there’s no choice.”

  “But … after what she did?”

  “You’re not hearing me; like, I don’t have a choice. I’m stuck.”

  “Okay.” He paused. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to be a homewrecker because I like, want you for myself or whatever, because that’s not it—”

  “Dude—”

  “Are you safe? That’s what I’m getting at.”

  I scoffed at the dashboard. “She’s my girlfriend, not a criminal.”

  “Actually, she’s both.”

  “I’m good.” I felt his eyes on me, so I repeated “I’m good” with more force. He didn’t respond.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’m tired now, and I need to get home, but I’d like to talk to you again. Can we just leave it at that and see each other later? I’ll give you my number, here. We can text.”

  I could tell he was in that same mode he was in earlier tonight in the bathroom—unsure. Quietly doing his own calculations. But he put in my number, then held out his arms for a hug. “Until next time, friend. It’s been a night.”

  I said it back to him as we hugged. Then I said into his shoulder, “I really can’t tell you how much I needed this.” “Same exact boat.”

  And we just looked at each other as we broke apart, both silently saying, I’ve been there, and I know that n
o words can express this. So we both have to properly trust that we’re thinking the same things and don’t need to say anything at all. And we were. So we didn’t.

  I feebly raised a hand.

  “Bi-five,” I said.

  And now I sit here in the Studio hours later, still remembering how his smile filled out as he high-fived me back. I keep re-reading the conversation above—the part where I told him I was going to stay with Lily—and I’m already kicking myself. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I, after this whole entire night, still have that thought and why did I share it?

  I hate my own head sometimes. Of all the things the incident assault took from me, this seems like the cruelest: the inability to trust this person in front of me, despite them giving me every reason to and no reason not to. I want to know what Luke is like; I want to lie with him and listen to him ramble about music and ambition and all these things he has thoughts on; and I’m so angry that it’s tinged with this suspicion. A dread at what’s under the surface; the fear of flying too close to the sun and waiting for the day it all turns to dust.

  All of it gets put to rest tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m going to make a plan to conquer this; to learn to trust again and start to rebuild. But until then, I’m just left sitting here, coming off the high of tonight. Remembering the last sounds of it … me shouting for Luke to never tell a soul what I confessed to him; and him promising, in a shaky voice, that he wouldn’t.

  THE MEN MADE OF WAR

  ONE

  I LEARN ABOUT THE GRAY ROCK TECHNIQUE THROUGH an online forum. The most common topic is for people who want to get out of their relationship but aren’t able to break up with their partner. The Gray Rock technique is where you make yourself as uninteresting as possible—you don’t respond more than you need to; you don’t express yourself any more than is necessary to keep the peace. It takes a while, but if it goes on long enough, you become so undesirable that your partner will end the relationship themselves. Theoretically.

  I stay in Gray Rock mode for the rest of July.

  A week into August—exactly one month after the group said goodbye—Lily comes over to give me the key and instructions for gerbil-sitting. She joins me in my room, where boxes are starting to fill up with my belongings.

  “Just text me if you have any questions,” she says. “I got you peach ice cream as a thank-you—I know that’s your favorite. It’ll be in the freezer, so, help yourself.”

  Alright, I tell her. Thanks.

  “Oh, I meant to ask! Did you get your housing assignment yet? Which dorm hall are you in?”

  Patuxent, I murmur.

  “Ugh—I’m all the other way on the other end of campus. I’ll have to kidnap you a lot.” She looks at her watch. “I should finish packing. Want to video chat tonight? Assuming my grandparents get signal.”

  Sure. If I say no, she’ll ask why not.

  Lily puts her hands on my shoulders, trying to meet my eyes. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been off lately. Is it just all the …” She gestures to the boxes. “Emotions?”

  I nod, smiling enough to sell it.

  This is the crux of Gray Rocking—under no circumstances should you take the bait to try to fix things. It’s a position I never understood until I was in it: that it’s easier to play dead. Because if you try to speak up, or explain why you’re not fine, you get another helping of all the shit from before. The pushback. The lectures about why you’re wrong and need to be the one apologizing.

  Not only is it insulting to have to ask for more, but it’s doubly painful when they explain to you why you’re wrong for wanting it. It’s an unsolicited reminder of how small your voice is and how stuck you are.

  No, it’s so much easier to bury it. It hurts less, ruins your day less, if you just hang your head and accept this as the norm and work with what you’ve got from there.

  It’s the fixing that’s tough. The fixing is so tough it’s just plain not worth the fix.

  I take my driver’s test the next morning and pass with a perfect score. Mom encourages me to take the car out, but there’s nowhere to go.

  TWO

  THE HOUSE HAS NEVER BEEN SO QUIET.

  Mom and I spend the entire last two weeks of summer doing the purple cramps routine every morning. It doesn’t feel like I’ve earned it, but it’s obvious she’s trying to spend as much time as she can with me. Given the circumstances, I’ll admit it’s a mood booster. Mom has always understood me perfectly—she knows what topics I like to discuss, which distractions are helpful.

  She and I treat my last evening at home casually. We eat pizza as though it isn’t the last meal I’ll have at the table until Thanksgiving. We watch TV in the den as though I won’t be living somewhere else by this time tomorrow.

  I leave to do my last gerbil-sitting at Lily’s house a little after it gets dark. (She’s getting back tonight, but it’ll be late.) On top of the pet stuff, she’s asked me to water the “leaf children”—aka the plants in her room.

  I’ve been in Lily’s bedroom a hundred times, of course, but almost never without her there. It’s tidier than usual. All her stuff is packed into boxes the same way mine is. I turn to look at the wall closest to her headboard, which is her version of a memory wall. There are a few photos—most of us, a few of her and her mom—but below that, she’s turned the wall into her own personal diary, etched in with permanent marker.

  I look at an entry from sophomore year that I helped her write—

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  And another—

  Let’s see … sleepover, then breakfast with the group. Good day? I think so.

  And another—

  No matter what happens, I will always keep moving forward … seeking to learn, teach, inspire, and give back. Because of my friends, I’m a better person. Because of them, I will help create a better world.

  And another—

  A day of adventures, an endless windy stream … –July 2

  And the biggest one, toward the foot of the bed—

  Anyone confused? I know I am.

  I draw closer to the wall, entranced.

  “Lily.” I say it into the empty air. Just her name. “Lily.”

  Then I look further down and see a picture frame tucked between her mattress and the wall. I realize I recognize it—a piece of notebook paper is framed inside.

  Mountains wander among their filthy corduroy pineapples.

  It’s the original. Not some phone picture or photocopy, but the original notebook page from that day when we were fourteen.

  I stare at her wall, at every etch and curve of the handwriting. I touch my finger to the surface. I’m desperate to glean something; to get a shred of insight about what goes on inside that head of hers when she sees me, talks to me, listens to me.

  (Look at this wall.)

  I think of that vicious cycle of making up, vowing to do better, then seeing it dissolve all over again … knowing that things are torched, but handcuffed to the hope that it can still be made to work—that a Hail Mary will make things right. You keep convincing yourself that you need to get rid of this person, and then that goddamn cycle comes around, and somehow you get roped back in—by some really good night among all the ugliness, or a beautiful memory wall among all the heartache. And all the while you’re certain that no one else can ever know what it’s like to be stuck this way. Locked in the cage of your own life.

  (LOOK AT US!)

  I want to kick myself for letting myself end up here. I’d hear about toxic people when I was younger, and I was sure I’d be able to sniff out their bullshit from a mile away. Just watch out for the vapid, self-centered assholes who act full of themselves; the popular pricks who only pretend to give a shit about others and spend every minute obsessed with their own status. Watch out for the dickhead who only texts you when it’s convenient, or the partner who’s embarrassed to be seen with you in public.

  No one says, “Watch out for the kindest person you’ve ever met.” No one says, “Wa
tch out for the girl who wore sunglasses to Homecoming with you.” No one warns you about the friend who frames your magnet poetry.

  God, why would they?

  THREE

  I DON’T TAKE LILY’S THANK-YOU ICE CREAM FROM her house.

  Instead I drive to the frozen yogurt place down the road and get a peach cone from there. I worry that Mom will miss me, but she sends a text, telling me to enjoy my “last night of freedom” and pointing out that we’ve already spent a solid amount of time together.

  I sit on the curb in the parking lot and eat.

  My phone buzzes with the nightly call from Lily a few minutes later. For once, I silence it instead of answering. The screen goes blank, and I bask in the summer air as I feel the weight shift off my shoulders a little.

  A foot taps the curb beside me.

  At first I jump, certain that it’s her. But then my eyes trace up to the shirt—a baby blue polo with the library logo on it.

  “Sorry,” says Luke, hands raised. “Scaring you is the thing I was trying to not do.”

  I blink.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I walk here after work sometimes,” Luke says. He points, and I see the library peeking through the trees on the other side of the road.

  Goddamn Town with Two of Nothing.

  Luke heads into the shop. At first I think that’s the last I’ve seen of him, but he emerges with a mini-sundae a few minutes later and approaches again.

  “Hey,” he says, tilting his head with an awkward grimace. “It’s cool if not, but can I join you?”

  I shrug, then nod. He seats himself on the curb beside me, and we both rotate so we can see each other better. Then he sighs, like he knows this may be a loaded statement, and says, “It’s good to see you.”

  No answer.

  “I figured you’d have left for college by now,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh, wow.” He taps his cup with his spoon. “How’re you feeling about that?” No answer.