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Lydia wasn't the first person Jackson gave a key to his house. He'd been eleven years old when his mom took him to the local Home Depot and had them make a duplicate of their front door key for Danny. They'd just started middle school, which was closer to Jackson's house than their elementary school had been, and Mrs. Whittemore decided that Jackson was mature enough to walk home after school and let himself into the house while she took on more responsibilities at her firm. She apparently didn't think Jackson was mature enough, however, to be trusted not to lose his keys and lock himself out of the house. And so, instead of buying a hollow garden decoration or slipping a key under the welcome mat, she made an extra for Danny. Danny was more trustworthy than a hollow rock, and more welcome than a mat.
Jackson hadn't wanted to make a big deal about giving Danny the key. He just shuffled up to Danny as they started off on their walk to school and shoved it into his hand. His mom had glued a rubber keyholder on the top with pictures of Pokémon printed on it, which was even more embarrassing because they hadn't been into Pokémon since, like, fourth grade. But when Danny took the key, he smiled so big his dimples looked like canyons. "Does this mean I get to come over in the middle of the night and eat all your string cheese?"
Jackson punched him in the shoulder. "You better not, man," he said. But he was smiling, too, under reddening cheeks.
By the time Jackson and Danny were fourteen, Jackson’s parents had replaced their front door with something more ostentatiously expensive, with translucent crystal windows and a solid oak body. Jackson got a new set of keys to go with the new set of locks, and he didn’t think anything of it until the day he found himself sitting next to Danny on Danny’s bedroom floor, playing Assassins Creed II. Or, rather, Jackson was playing, and Danny was watching, offering sarcastic and occasionally helpful commentary. They’d stopped playing competitive games years ago, when Danny had said, calmly and matter-of-factly, “It’s not fun playing with you when I have to lose on purpose just so you won’t flip out.” In his heart Jackson knew that Danny was right, but if anyone asked he told them Danny had stopped playing because he was tired of Jackson kicking his ass all the time.
Danny’s commentary was a little snarkier than usual that day, a little sharper, the words bitten off like pills he couldn’t quite swallow correctly. Jackson tried to ignore it, figuring Danny was just having a bad day, but after yet another condescending remark – “Go left, moron, it’s right over there!” – Jackson pushed pause, turned his head, and snapped, “Dude, what is your problem?”
Danny’s hands were clenched in fists at his sides, and he sat rigid against the wooden drawers tucked under his bed, knees drawn up to his chest. “So, um, I’m gay.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re throwing off my groove for, bro?” He shook his head and picked up the controller, unpausing the game. “You know it’s all good with me. Come on, let’s beat this thing.”
Jackson turned his attention to the game, trying to pretend that Danny’s admission was just as inconsequential as he’d made it out to be, that it wasn’t going to change Danny’s life or change their friendship or make Jackson wonder even more about the things he’d been wondering about secretly for years. But he couldn’t help darting his eyes to the left, making sure Danny was taking everything ok. That’s when he saw Danny’s hands relax, and something fall out of his left fist, dropping with a faint plop on the carpeted floor. Jackson squinted to make out the mystery object: a key with a scratched and faded Pokémon holder. The hard, jagged indentation left behind in Danny’s palm told Jackson he’d been squeezing it for a long time.
That evening, Jackson told his mom he’d lost his key and needed her to get him a new one. She lectured him for a few minutes about responsibility, but she went back to Home Depot and had one made all the same. The next day, at lacrosse practice, Jackson slipped the key into Danny’s equipment bag, attached to an old Pikachu keychain. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even leave a note, but he knew Danny would see in the key all the things Jackson could never hope to express.
Two years later, Jackson sits on the edge of his own bed, staring down at the claws he can extend and retract from the ends of his fingers, thinking about all the blood he’s washed away from those hands over the course of the last few weeks. It takes him almost an hour to work up the courage to call Danny, but when he finally does, Danny is there in minutes, letting himself into the house with the key he’ll always have, and Jackson has never been more relieved.