Even on the Darkest Night

by Allie Martin

  “Be careful when you look at me like that, Evan Jordans, or you might have a song written about you,” I tease.

  “I’m okay with that.” She moves hair off my forehead, and her fingertips light a fire across my skin, like one of her shooting stars.

  She guides me up to sitting and kisses me again so deeply I have to stop it. I did promise to be a gentleman.

  I shift, and she leans, still straddling my hips.

  “We only have a few hours left together, and you still haven’t told me everything about you.”

  “I think you have all the most important details.”

  I reach up to tuck a chunk of her hair behind her ear and guide her down to me until her lips are hovering above mine.

  “I don't think I do.”

  Saturday, April 20 • 11:55 AM

  Evan

  Resting my head against the cool glass of the airplane window, I yawn as the airport staff scurries below going about their daily routines. They’re completely oblivious to how much has changed in the world. The universe is different. I’m different.

  I can still feel Jordan’s arms around me as I told him my entire life story. Everything I can remember, and he especially thought the story of James and the boob grab was hilarious. I can still smell his spicy scent as I tucked into his neck while he in turn told me everything about himself and his family—growing up in Philly, switching schools as his dad went to prison, about not remembering his mom. He told me a lot about Annie, except the details I didn’t want to know.

  We talked (and kissed) until Nat woke up. He took me for breakfast after Nat insisted we drop her off at the hotel so she could get my bags for me. Thanks to my best friend, who is in her own pain, I got an extra hour with him and breakfast delivery.

  (Side note: I plan on spending the whole plane ride home planning how I’m going to make it up to her and help her get over Aaron.)

  Jordan didn’t want to do goodbye so we fake-broke-up in front of airport security and laughed the whole time. I let him break up with me. Told him to break my heart, which made me think of the hotel when Nat said it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be broken hearted over Jordan. She's right. It sucked, but I smiled the whole way through.

  He gave me a small grin, with hands shoved in his pockets. Before turning and walking away he leaned in to kiss me on the cheek and whispered, “I wish you the universe, Evan Jordans.” The breath from those words still lingers on my skin.

  Nat nudges my arm from her spot next to me on the plane. “You’re doing it again. Stop glowing and call your dad. I told him you’d call before we took off.”

  I stick out my tongue and slide my phone from my purse.

  The phone rings softly in my ear until there’s a click and a quick, “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dad.” I shift the phone.

  “Hey, Sweetie,” Dad says, his voice picking up an octave or two. “How are you? How was your night? I called the hotel this morning about your medication, but Nat answered.” I glance over at my best friend who grins a self-satisfied grin. She’s a genius for thinking to go to the hotel first thing.

  It’s strange talking to Dad after everything that happened. His voice doesn’t sound different, but the way I hear him is different. The way my heart squeezes a little tighter than it usually does. The way his words travel lightly over my conscience (which is weird because I should feel really guilty right now) is different.

  “I’m good,” I reply. “Just tired.” My face flushes deeply as Nat snickers next to me. I feel Mom’s scowl from across the aisle. She’s still a thousand degrees of angry and part of me doesn’t blame her. I’ll have to make it up to her, too. I really don’t want to hate her anymore. I want to let go, and I think I can. Someday. Especially after talking about it with Jordan and reliving the whole mess again.

  There’s a beep sound, indicating I received a text, and my whole body flutters.

  “I’m on the plane now, Dad. I’ll see you in a few hours, kay?”

  “Okay, Evan. Have a safe trip.” Dad’s words are slower, and there’s something floating under the murky surface of his tone. It’s almost as if he senses something different. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  It’s silent for a few seconds. Dad never says goodbye because it’s too official—the same reason why I never tell him how I feel. I need to let it go. Because the faster I fall, the faster I’ll land, and if I can count on anyone to catch me, it’s Dad. While I am busy pushing everything and everyone out of my life, Dad has always been unmovable. Right next me. Unwavering in his love.

  “Dad?” I say, my voice shaking.

  “Yes?”

  I take a deep breath. “I love you.”

  There’s a sharp inhale and more silence.

  “Dad?” I knew he’d make a big deal about it. Get all upset and blubbery. But I’m shocked when he laughs. It’s a sound of relief, so loud and so happy that it would stump even Jordan. It’s a sound that has no word.

  “I love you, too, Evan. So much.”

  I hang up the phone and rest my head back against the seat.

  Beep. My phone sounds again and a stewardess shoots a stern glare at me. No phones on the airplane.

  I flip over the device, and pure happiness immediately spreads through my entire being.

  Two messages. A photo and a text.

  The photo is of him with his arm in front of his face, showing the Cassiopeia constellation I drew.

  I look at the picture until the stewardess actually comes over to tell me to shut off my phone. Quickly I check the second message (also from Jordan) and close my eyes before I reply and power down my phone.

  Nat gives me a wink that says she saw the message. She links her arm through mine, patting my hand. I notice the fingers on her left hand are bare, and all that’s left of Aaron is a small tan line from where the little promise ring once called home. It’s going to hit her hard when we get home, but selfishly I’m happy she stood up to him. I’m happy she’s not settling. I’m happy I get my best friend all to myself for the summer. That tan line on her finger will fade, those promises will be replaced by new ones. The lines Aaron made on her heart (like the ones Annie made on Jordan’s), won’t go away, but hopefully they can fade so that only people who know the truth of her heart could possibly know they were there.

  “You look tired, kiddo,” Robbie says as Mom still scowls. “You girls had a late one last night?”

  Nat and I laugh, which makes my meathead future step-father confused.

  “You could say that.” Nat elbows me, and Robbie frowns even deeper.

  “Well, I hope it was worth it.” Robbie’s earnest expression tells me he has no idea we snuck out.

  “It was, Robbie.”

  It totally was.

  Epilogue

  Jordan: Even on the Darkest Night

  Evan: the Stars Around Us Burn...

  December 23 • 1:45 PM

  The first time I truly hate my brother is the moment we put him in the ground. I curse him with frozen breath as the cold dirt sticks under my black painted nails and slides from my fingers. The earth hits the top of the smooth mahogany coffin like machine gun fire, each speck blowing tiny, irreparable bullet holes through my exposed heart while all of our family and friends watch.

  Tears cling to my mascara-free lashes as the grey sky turns them to frozen memories I can’t shake.

  I look at no one, especially Jeremy, whose honey colored gaze hasn't left me once today.

  I speak to no one as I step from the hole in the rain-slicked ground to my stoic father and despairing mother who put their arms around me like they're afraid I'll run.

  I want to run—run and run and never turn back, feel the burn in my chest and lungs taking over my emotions, the fire consuming me from the inside. I’ve never felt more than I do right now, and I’m cracking apart.

  I thought I knew what pain was. I’d felt the burn of a torn muscle, the sting of cut flesh, the empty desperation of unrequited love. That�
��s what I thought pain was.

  Physical pain is nothing compared to burying my best friend. The confused anguish flooding me is more than I ever thought one body could tolerate. I’m suffocating, choking. I shove the pieces of my emotions in a box, clamp it with a vice, and slowly, slowly, wind the handle. The splintered boards surrounding my hole-filled heart begin to close and seal.

  As I watch the dirt cover my brother’s coffin I decide to throw my flaming box of shattered emotions in to be buried underground with him.

  Merry Christmas, big brother.

  PART ONE

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:42pm

  i no u love her, dude. u don't have to lie.

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 9:42pm

  I never lied. I’ve never denied it.

  You made it very clear you'd

  crush my balls if I touched her.

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:43pm

  lol, yeah i did. but i take it back.

  i always thought u'd be the worst thing 4 her.

  that she deserved better than u...

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 9:43pm

  Why the sudden heart to heart?

  I don't really want to talk about this...

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:43pm

  no one will ever be good enough for her.

  even u. at least i trust u to take care of her.

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 9:46pm

  What are you saying?

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:46pm

  do u love her?

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:53pm

  dude, answer me. no bullshit

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 9:54pm

  Yeah, man. I love her.

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:54pm

  for real?

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 9:54pm

  For real.

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 9:57pm

  then take care of her, k?

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 10:00pm

  promise me u'll take care of her...

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 10:01pm

  Seriously?

  Jonathan: Sat, December 17 10:01pm

  promise me.

  Jeremy: Sat, December 17 10:03pm

  okay. Shit. I promise...

  June 12 • 12:15 PM

  My hands tighten around the smooth leather of the steering wheel of the old Camaro, and I let my head fall against the headrest. After months of sitting idle in our backyard, the car still holds his heavy scent of cologne, car grease, and a hint of cigarette smoke. My brother loved to work on this car as much as I love to build furniture. Often we’d work side by side, me carving, him tinkering. Sawdust and grease and bright sunny days...

  I come here to sit in the silence of his absence, running his promises through my head.

  “You and me, and the open road.” His grin was as wide as all the trouble he ever got into. “We’re gunna do it, Nik. It’ll be epic.”

  Pinching my eyes closed is the only way to stop the flood of broken memories.

  A door slams in the distance, and I flinch, hands sliding from the steering wheel of my brother’s car to the pile of papers in my lap—sheets of various sizes, covered in notes.

  Newspaper clippings. My obsession.

  “Nicole?” Mom’s voice filters like sunshine through the open window, and my heart thuds heavy in my chest. I scramble to shove the papers together, cramming them in the glove box. Her reflection appears in the side mirror, her arms tightened around her stomach, her hair down around her shoulders, head tilted in that what on earth are you doing way.

  My hands tremble. I can’t get caught with these stories again.

  “Just a second,” I call out as one slip of paper falls to the passenger side floor. I slam the glove box closed and quickly shove the stray paper under the seat.

  “We have to get going, sweetie. You’ll be late for your appointment.” She’s right outside the window, and I swing the door open to meet her.

  Something small falls from my lap, and Mom beats me to it. Her light eyebrows furrow as she shakes the lighter in the air.

  “Where did you get this from?” She teeters on the line between concern and frustration, a tone I know well. “You know you can’t have lighters.”

  “I know.”

  Mom sighs the same sigh of resignation she always does when I refuse to talk and slips the lighter in her pocket. “Do you have any more of these hidden?”

  “No,” I lie. I have them all over.

  “Well, let’s get going, okay? We can’t be late this time. Dr. LaSalle is very busy, and I have to pay whether you show up or not.”

  The accusation in her voice is obvious, and it always brings up two distinct feelings: annoyance that I have to sit with a psychiatrist and talk about things that aren’t a big deal anyway, and guilt that my parents are paying for someone to help me and I ditch more often than I show.

  “We’re leaving in five minutes, okay?” Mom smiles and pats my cheek before disappearing into the house.

  I sink into the driver’s seat of the Camaro and fish around for the spare paper I shoved under the seat. My fingers touch the rough edges, but it’s not one paper. It’s two.

  One is mine. One is not.

  I shove mine in the glove box and read the other again and again; each time my breathing quickens and my eyes blur with tears.

  His. His writing. His...

  Life List

  Tell Aly I love her

  Drive the coast with Nik

  My fingers curl around the paper, tangling my heart in the faint blue lines.

  1:30 PM

  “Nicole?” A voice breaks through my hazy thoughts. “Are you even listening?”

  Mom pulls at my shoulders as I slide my butt back in the uncomfortable, but beautifully carved, hardback chair positioned exactly in the middle of Dr. LaSalle’s office. You’d think a psychiatrist would have more comfortable chairs and not put his patients on display directly in the center of the room. I'm probably the least messed up person he sees, and I feel a panicky paranoia swallowing me with them both staring at me.

  I shake my head, trying to get the image of Jon’s handwriting out of my head. Who only has two things on a Life List? He couldn’t even find a third thing. Nothing but the ink smudges of a tapping pen.

  The box I keep the pieces of my heart in bends and warps at the idea my brother didn’t feel he had anything in life. His sadness mixes with my own, and I shake it off like sawdust in my hair.

  LaSalle sits on the other side of a desk I can tell is made out of real wood and not that pressed board crap. The magnificent desk is solid oak with a lacquer finish. He waxes it. Well, he probably doesn’t. By his three-hundred-an-hour business suit and take-more-of-these-pills Rolex, he doesn’t do anything but sit there and push a pen around on a pad of paper. I also don’t understand how doctors have the worst signatures ever. Rushed. Scribbled half-heartedly without fully paying attention. I hate this guy, his stupid signature, and his smug, self-important rat-face.

  “I asked how this new prescription was helping your moods and if you noticed any interference with your migraine medication,” LaSalle says, placing his hands together on his desk and leaning forward. “Are you feeling a little more stable? A little more even?”

  I glance away, hiding behind a curtain of hair. The smell of sawdust lingers from my morning of carving a coffee tabletop, and fills me with a sense of earthy calm—not happiness, or ease, or any of that. The scent of sawdust returns me to the familiar emptiness I’ve lived in for the last five months. Everything else is pushed outside of me, which is my calm.

  “Mostly it makes me thirsty.” I grab a thick strand of yellow hair and pull it across my face, inhaling my wood shop and wishing I was there building something and not here being broken down by the stares of people who act like they know me better than I do.

  Weekly visits are mandatory, but I skipped the last two, hoping I could ditch the whole last month of appointments u
nnoticed. But I did get noticed, and Mom decided to chaperon me, keeping me under her broken stare.

  Mom’s a great mom and she loves me—both my parents do—and we aren’t some fall-apart-in-anguish type family you read about in books or see in movies. We’re solid. Dad's gone for work a lot, but when he’s around he clears his schedule to hang out. I swear he only wants to be sure I don’t start getting tattoos and smoking crack—or being alone in my bedroom with a boy, which to him might be worse than tattoos and crack—but he always makes time for me.

  “How are you doing with the newspaper stories?” This is the question LaSalle always asks. The reason I’m in here.

  “What do you mean how am I doing?” My confidence deflates, along with my shoulders.

  “Are you still obsessed with stories of organ donations?”

  “I’m not obsessed.” I think of all the papers shoved in Jon’s glove box. Maybe I’m a little obsessed.

  “Are you still trying to find the recipients of Jonathan’s organs?” LaSalle leans over his desk, as if being closer to me will make it easier to tell if I’m lying.

  “I find the stories interesting,” I avoid answering directly, making an effort to keep my body relaxed. Six of Jon’s organs had been donated, and I tried for weeks to convince Mom and Dad to try to find out where they went. Mom cried, and Dad said it was up to Mom. That’s when I took research into my own hands. I searched every publicly documented donation in North America—essays and brochures and newspaper clippings... searching for clues, desperately trying to find Jon somewhere out there. Any sign of him.

  “That’s understandable, Nicole, but with everything else happening with you right now, I see this combination of behaviors as unhealthy. These actions might be holding back your healing.”

  “Combination of behaviors?” I lean forward this time, challenging him, and he slumps his heavy frame in his chair.

  “The isolation, the newspaper stories...the burning?” LaSalle taps his pen on the desk, and I cringe. He has to be denting the wood. There’s not a glass or plastic sheet protecting the grain. “Are you still burning your furniture, too?”

  I shake my head, letting my hair fall in a curtain to shield my face. Mom nudges me, and I slink into my chair, pushing away my hair.