“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled that half smile. “Cool.”
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have flunked this year like I told you to. That way when I start high school next year, we’d have been going to the same school.” What I didn’t say was that I was terrified of him starting college in the fall, even if he was only going to be at Seafare Community College. I was sure he’d start there and make new friends and realize how weird it was to hang out with the Kid, who was only a kid. I knew I’d see less and less of him, until one day he wouldn’t show and I’d be left all by myself. I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t be so bad, because things were getting better and better every day, and maybe one day I wouldn’t have to go see Eddie anymore (even if part of the adoption process involved mandatory therapy), and I could be normal. I could be like everyone else, and these weird thoughts, these dark thoughts that crossed my mind every now and then that whispered things like they always leave and one day even Bear will leave you too would stop crossing my mind.
One day I wouldn’t need the bathtub anymore. One day there’d be no earthquakes and all would be well. I would be normal and the memory of my mother would be just that: a memory.
That was what I told myself. That was what I tried to make myself believe.
But this was Dom. This was my Dom. He could read me almost as well as Bear. Maybe even better. He saw right through my words to the things I didn’t say. He sat down next to me on the bed and patted my knee. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.
I couldn’t look at him. “No one can know that.”
“Maybe. But I do.”
I wanted to believe him. And maybe part of me even did. But a bigger part, an unwelcome part (isn’t that always the way?), knew about the Julie McKennas of the world. It knew that people said things they didn’t mean. It knew they did things that hurt others. It (I) knew that people left. They said they wouldn’t. They said they couldn’t. But they did. They usually did.
I wanted to believe him. So very badly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”
But Dom was clever, and he knew the things unsaid. “Tyson. Look at me.”
I didn’t want to because my breathing was becoming slightly labored and I knew the bed was starting to shake. It felt like an ocean was near. And yet, somehow, I sat up. Slid next to him. Looked up at him as he slipped his arm over my shoulder and pulled me close.
“I promise,” he said. “Where you go, I go. Friends until we’re old and gray.”
“Beginning to end,” I murmured. “Day after day.”
“It’s inevitable,” he said.
And I wished I could believe him. I wished with all that I had. And when you’re eleven, you’re on the cusp between still believing wishing worked if you wanted something hard enough and understanding the world is teeth and sharp edges. I wished. I did. I promise you with all that I have that I did.
But I knew the teeth. The sharp edges. And they were bigger than wishing. I was only eleven, but I was the product of my upbringing too.
Maybe that’s why I was able to be the one to leave. Maybe I’d been looking for a reason and latched on to the first one that came, no matter how hard it was. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that it’s easier to leave someone before they leave you. Because eventually, everyone leaves.
It’s inevitable.
“Sure, Dom,” I said, and we left it at that.
I’M NOT surprised when we end up on that stretch of beach I swear only my family knows about. Clouds are coming in, and the water looks choppy, but there’s no rain. At least not yet.
Dominic turns off the car, and I hear the wind outside blowing through the sea grass, a sound that reminds me so much of my childhood that I have to blink the burn away. The only other sound is the ticking of the cooling engine.
I want to be the first to speak, but I don’t know what to say. How are you? seems trite. I’m sorry seems too little too late. Did you miss me? Too self-serving.
I say nothing.
He finally sighs and says, “You been back here yet?”
“No.” That’s a lie. The first day we rolled into town.
“The little cross Anna made is still there.”
“Oh?” I don’t know what else to say to that. After we spread Mrs. P’s ashes into the sea (only to have them blown back in our faces—Mrs. P’s idea of a joke, even after she was gone), Anna had gotten the idea to put up a cross in addition to the marker at the cemetery. The stone marker could be for her friends. The little cross was for her family.