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The rain is coming down hard, like bullets on the pavement. Pair that with the blaring music from the CD player on the dresser and James has successfully drowned out his own thoughts. That’s a good thing, with the state his thoughts have been in as of late.
He slams the empty beer can down on the nightstand and shuts his eyes, leaning his head back on the pillow and getting lost in the resounding sound of drums and electric guitar.
After a moment he leans over and grabs his phone, finding the time. 6:15. He swears it was noon an hour ago.
He clicks into his calls, staring hard at the top name.
Jack (4)
He presses it, holding the phone up to his ear. Fifth time’s a charm, he thinks bitterly. His head’s pounding from the alcohol, and his stomach is churning from . . . well, that must be the alcohol too.
There’s no way Jack doesn’t see the calls. Especially since he hasn’t answered a single one in the past month.
There was a text. Three weeks ago.
I’m busy. Talk soon.
Soon. That was a fucking lie.
It rings and it rings and James didn’t have any hope in the first place but he’s still pissed when that faux cheery voice comes through with the message he’s memorized by now.
“Hey, it’s Jack. Leave a message and I’ll get back—”
He hangs up.
The CD’s ended, leaving nothing but the rain pouring outside.
If he closes his eyes, he can hear him; Jack laughing.
You don’t like rock music!
I have never said that.
Tell me you listen to it when I’m not around.
I do!
I don’t believe you!
That was four months ago. Four months ago. Before everything.
How the hell does that go to this? How does eight years of being joined at the hip turn to almost 3,000 miles between them and day after day of unanswered calls.
And James didn’t even fucking do anything.
He doesn’t understand any more than he did when he first saw the boxes.
He realizes he’s fisting the sheet, hard. He lets go, pressing his hand to his temple instead. It feels like someone let a rubber bouncy ball lose in his skull. He’s got to have Advil somewhere.
He pushes himself off the bed and stumbles over to his dresser, opening the top drawer and rummaging through loose change and dirty socks. He finds a bottle and twists it open, cursing when he finds it empty.
He throws it back inside and shuts it, pulling open the next drawer. He pushes aside wrinkled shirts, pausing at the sight of red fabric. He stares at it for a long time before pulling it out.
Jack’s old baseball hoodie. The one James would steal just to get a rise out of him (and because he liked how it smelled).
He balls it up and walks over to the bathroom, hand hovering over the trash. He squeezes it tight, willing himself to just drop it; to care as little about Jack as he seems to care about him.
“Fuck.”
He kicks the trash can, the metal hitting the tile with a loud clang. He walks back to the bedroom and shoves the sweatshirt back into the dresser, slamming the drawer shut.
He goes back to the bathroom, stepping over the spilled trash and opening the medicine cabinet. There behind the mouthwash. He grabs the bottle and shakes it. Thank god.
He pops two pills in his mouth, taking them dry. Jack thinks he’s insane for that, always saying he could never.
He realizes he’s squeezing the pill bottle tight, thinking about Jack.
He sets it down hard, shutting the cabinet and staring at his face in the mirror. He looks like he’s aged years in the three months since he left. He’s so old for twenty three.
That first month had been full of blind hope and ignorant optimism. A puppy dog waiting by the phone, tail wagging every time it rang. Jack would call him twice a week. The calls were short, but enough for him to cling to.
Things would be alright. Jack just needed some space after everything. What the two of them have . . . space could never break that.
Then the second month came, and the calls went to once a week. Shorter, too. And James wrote it off as him being busy. He took extra shifts at work. He could be busy too. (But he answered every call, dropping everything to pick up.)
And then the third month arrived, and James had to start calling himself. Jack picked up once, and then never again.
He thinks Jack must’ve taken his right lung and tucked it between the button up shirts in his carry on, because James hasn’t been able to breathe right ever since he left.
And a fear has begun to knot itself around his spine, whispering its words of dread in his ear.
Jack’s not coming back home.
He squeezes his eyes shut. No. He can’t think like that. He can’t. This isn’t forever. Jack’s working through his shit. This is good for him. And when he’s ready, he’ll be back. And James will be waiting for him.
He stalks to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing the last beer, pulling it open and chugging the whole thing right there.
Jack hates beer.
Jack’s not here.
He bites his lip, teeth digging deep enough to draw blood. It’s better than crying—and he refuses to cry.
God, he needs another drink.
James thinks any reasonable person would never even consider driving drunk after what happened. After the crash and the man put in the ground.
Well, James thinks any reasonable person would never even consider driving drunk.
But James isn’t a reasonable person. Especially not now.
Besides, he isn’t drunk. All he’s had is beer, and he is perfectly fine. He can see. He can think straight. He’s fine.
Well, his hands are shaking, but he can’t tell if that’s from the drinking or the memory of the impact; the memory of blinking his eyes open and turning to see Jack’s unconscious body, blood dripping from his forehead.
He squeezes the wheel tighter.
Sometimes in dreams and downward spirals things play out differently. Jack doesn’t stir awake; the cut doesn’t stop bleeding.
They were lucky.
He lost him anyway.
It’s funny, all James wanted to do afterwards was keep Jack close. All Jack wanted to do was leave.
He turns up the volume of the radio, so loud he can feel his eardrums throbbing. It’s better than thinking about things that do him no good; thinking about the fact that he’s lost everything.
He makes a sharp turn into the parking lot of the bar, pulling into a spot and pushing his hair back, taking a deep breath.
He gets out of the car, rain—softer than before but still drizzling—soaking into his jeans and plastering his hair to his face. Stepping into the bar, the smell of alcohol and sweat invades his nostrils.
(He’s thinking about Jack, deep in one of the booths in the back working through a basket of fries and going on about his teachers. He’s thinking about tapping his feet under the table.)
He walks up to the bar and orders a drink, fumbling with his wallet and showing his ID. Putting it away, he collapses onto one of the stools. He doesn’t need a booth anymore.
(He’s thinking about being eighteen years old, the two of them flashing fake IDs. He’s thinking about Jack’s shaking hands and his nervous rambling once they got in.)
They slide him his drink. He squeezes the glass tight and downs it quicker than he probably should, pressing his eyes shut and willing the alcohol to take its toll on him.
Not enough.
He orders another one.
Maybe if he drinks enough he’ll forget it all.
(He knows even if he drank his own name away, Jack would still be sitting there stuck in his head. There’s more Jack than him in his own body.)
The only thing keeping James tethered is the glass in his hands. Without it, he’d surely be floating away, out of his seat and into the mess of noise and lights around him.
He swears Jack’s talking beside him, something about the Red Sox and a player they traded. Something about the World Series. He’s not quite sure, but he nods along to seem engaged.
“James!”
The voice is loud enough to slice through his bubble, halting Jack’s baseball talk and pressing salt into the wound of his aching head.
He turns, eyes adjusting to focus on the figure behind him.
“Long time no see.”
James blinks. His brain lags, taking a long moment to catch up and put a memory to the face.
Edward, maybe? Eddie? Ethan? He was on the basketball team with them in high school.
“What’s up, man?”
James throws back the rest of his drink, licking his lips for any remaining trace.
“Hello?”
“Yeah.” James’ vision blurs a little. “Hey.”
“How’ve you been?”
He brings the glass back up to his mouth, attempting to get the last drips out from the bottom.
“Fucking . . . great.”
He turns back around, and this guy takes that as an invitation to step forward, leaning his arm on the bartop.
“How’s Jack?” He takes a short sip of his beer. “Assuming you two are still joined at the hip.”
Jack. He was just here, wasn’t he?
James starts laughing.
“What?”
He doesn’t know. He keeps laughing; nothing’s funny.
“You two break up?”
James stops. He slowly turns his head, staring and trying to focus on this guy’s face. He grinds his teeth.
“What?” There’s a bite to it.
Now he laughs. “Come on. It’s not like you tried to hide it.”
James squeezes the glass. Something about that voice is digging its nails under his skin.
“We all knew.”
Distantly, James is thinking about basketball. The year after Jack quit, when he’d show up at the games. He’s thinking about kissing him in the parking lot.
“The fags of Harrison High.”
That word slingshots into James’ pounding head, slamming against the walls of his skull.
He turns, staring hard at the vaguely blurry face beside him.
“The hell did you . . . just say?”
That laugh again. Fucking nails on a chalkboard.
“Jeez, sorry, man”
James shuts his eyes tight, his head leaning to the side a bit. He feels oddly absent, distant. He feels like he’s hovering just outside his body.
(Jack dropping his hand, Jack pushing him away, Jack flinching at someone’s voice near them, Jack telling him to stop, not here, not now, not here, not at school.)
“It used to be a big joke.”
James’ brain is foggy with hurt and whiskey, and the next thing he knows his knuckles are stinging with the pain from colliding with the guy’s jaw.
He stumbles to his feet, blind with anguish and oblivious to anything but his fist, swinging again and again. He’s aware of the slight pain from a hit to his face, from the guy fighting back. But it doesn’t stop him.
He keeps going until arms are grabbing him, pulling him away. He’s breathing hard, seeing stars. His knuckles are throbbing and distantly he wonders what Jack’s going to think of him.
He’ll be disappointed.
He’s always disappointed.
He’s vaguely aware of someone sitting him down in a chair, of loud voices—some directed towards him. But his head is underwater.
He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, licking his lips and tasting the metallic bitterness of blood.
When he looks up at the ceiling, his vision sways and James knows, deep in his head, that he should’ve stopped three drinks ago.
Someone grabs his arm and he jerks away.
“Let go ‘a me.”
“Sir, I need you to come with us.”
He grimaces, trying to let his eyes focus. The flashing lights outside are irritating his eyes.
“You called the fucking cops,” he slurs. God-fucking-damn it.
“Let’s go.”
The cop pulls James to his feet, his grip on his bicep tight. He stumbles up, resisting the urge to tear his arm away and kick this asshole’s knee cap in.
“I did nothing . . . wrong,” he argues as the guy harshly pulls his hands behind his back, the cool metal digging into his wrists. “Fucking bastard.”
He may be wasted but he’s innately smart enough not to fight too hard against the cop pushing him through the bar. He’s clearly not smart enough, though, to keep his mouth shut.
“Where is he? Huh? . . . he started it.”
Where’s the fucker that ruined his night?
Or.
Where’s Jack? He’ll fix things. He always fixes things.
(He’ll look at him with those eyes, though. The same ones every teacher and all of his foster parents have looked at him with. Like he’s a pitiful dog who chewed up its fifth pair of shoes. Bad boy.)
His foot sinks into a puddle, muddy water soaking into his sneaker.
They put a hand on his shoulder, shoving him down and into the backseat of the car.
“I need my phone,” he calls loudly, kicking his leg against the back of the passenger seat. He stretches his hand and tries to reach into his pocket, but his fingertips just brush against denim. “Son of a bitch!”
“I’d calm down if I were you, son,” one of the cops says.
“I don’t care what the hell you think, Porky,” he spits. He leans his head back hard against the leather seat; his headache’s returned with a vengeance. “I know my rights . . . I get a call.”
They don’t say anything. Hot fury pulses through his veins.
He kicks the seat again. “I know you fuckers hear me!”
The cops sigh. “You will get a call once you get to the station.”
James slides down in the seat, breathing hard. He looks up at the window, streetlights glistening on the rain and poking the bear of his headache. His stomach’s churning . . . has he eaten anything? He doesn’t know. His thoughts are all over the place like the clothes strewn around his room.
The car stops and James’ stomach lurches.
“Come on.”
The cop opens the door, grabbing him and pulling him out of the car. He sways on his feet, and next thing he knows he’s bent over, vomiting onto the asphalt.
“Shit,” the cop groans, his rough hand on James’ shoulder the only thing keeping him from toppling over.
He grunts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a deep breath. He needs water, or a toothbrush of something. The aftertaste is bitter in his mouth; it makes him gag.
His head spins as the hand drags him through the door and into the building.
“The phone,” he says hard but drowsy, a wave of fatigue washing over him. “I need my call.”
The cop ignores him, pulling him past the front desk.
He continues to argue, slurring his sharp and useless insults and orders as they uncuff him and set him up for his mugshot. He doesn’t stop when they take his things (he actually gets more forceful when they take his phone) or when they lock him in the holding cell.
He bangs his hands on the metal, his legs feeling weak beneath him. He’s shaking, and he has to step back, collapsing down onto the bench. Rather than banging, he starts yelling now.
“I know you fuckers can hear me!”
He leans his head back against the wall, the ceiling spinning above him.
After a moment, the sound of someone’s feet clacking on the tile causes him to lift his head. He looks up at the cop standing on the other side of the metal.
“Are you going to behave yourself?” he asks.
“I don’t know, am I?” James spits.
He’s unamused. “Yes, if you want that call you keep yelling about.”
James shakes his head, feeling like it’s a little too heavy for his neck. “I get it anyway. ‘S my right.”
The cop sighs, unlocking the door to the cell. “Let’s go.”
James stands up a little too fast, swaying on his feet and stumbling behind the cop. He leads him to a desk, gesturing to the phone sitting on it.
“There you go.”
James doesn’t pay him any mind, directing his focus to the phone and picking it up. He pulls the receiver to his ear and shuts his eyes, poring over his memories in search of the number. He knows it. He doesn’t know his own, but he knows this one.
He puts it in and listens as it rings, putting a hand on the desk and leaning against it. He has to close his eyes, his eyelids too heavy not to.
It keeps ringing. Shit, shit, shit. Please. Just this once. James can forget every other missed call as long as he answers now.
And then it clicks.
Someone breathes heavy on the other line.
“Hello?”
James feels his heart jolt. He knows that voice better than he knows his own. He’s been playing it on a loop in his head to make sure he doesn’t forget it. He’s heard it a million times at the end of every unanswered call.
“Jack,” he says, suddenly losing his train of thought. What was he doing?
There’s some sort of movement on the other end. “James?”
He perks up, hearing his name on his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Jack, I don’t know what—”
It clicks.
He hung up.
James pulls the phone from his ear, staring at it in utter confusion.
He hung up.
Utter confusion turns to deep hurt.
He hung up.
Deep hurt turns to hot anger.
He hung up.
“What happened?” the cop asks.
James slams the phone down, squeezing his fist tight, digging his nails into his palm.
“He hung up?” And there’s some vague amusement in his voice that lights a furious fire in his chest. Who does this guy think he is? It makes James want to punch him in the face (two in one night) or burn this whole fucking place down.
Jack hung up.
“Well, that’s it,” the cop says. But James doesn’t move. He’s glaring at the phone. (He’s waiting for it to ring, Jack calling back. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to.)
“Let’s go.” He puts a hand on James’ back and he shoves him off.
“He’ll call back.”
“What, you’re going to wait here all night?” he asks, almost mockingly. It takes everything in him not to pounce, instead storming back to the fucking cell and sitting on the fucking bench as the cop locks the fucking door.
He hung up.
James doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear rolls down to his lips, leaving the salty taste on his tongue. He aggressively rubs his eyes. He’s fucking crying.
Why would Jack hang up? He doesn’t understand. James didn’t do anything! What did he do? He hasn’t even had the chance to ask.
If James is the Earth then Jack’s the sun. If he’s the moon then Jack’s the Earth. He’s spent the last eight years revolving around him.
And then Jack left.
Where does that leave him?
He hung up. Jack, who’s back he’s always had. He called because he doesn’t know what to do. Because he needs help.
And Jack hung up.
He chokes on a sob, and he can’t stop it now. It would hurt less if they cut off his arm. He’d feel more whole without it than he does without Jack.
He’ll call back. Something happened, his phone died. He’ll call back any minute now and they’ll come and get him. He’ll apologize, say he’ll figure things out. Even from all the way in LA. He’ll figure it out, because James would figure things out for him.
He’ll call back.
He has to.
Because what is he going to do if he doesn’t?
He doesn’t know. He never thought he’d have to think of anything but him and Jack. Jack and him.
He was never supposed to leave.
He was never supposed to hang up.
His knuckles are still throbbing and his head aches and he can’t stop sobbing like he’s fucking eight years old.
No. Because he didn’t even cry like this after his parents died.
Jack’s not dead.
He might as well be.
The noise of keys in the cell door is what stirs James awake. As consciousness returns to him, it all comes back and he groans. (Drink and another drink and another drink and punching and more punching and yelling and a phone call and sobbing himself to sleep.)
His head’s throbbing. His nose feels stuffed. His chest feels tight.
He opens his eyes, letting his head roll over to stare at the now open door. A new cop is standing there.
“Let’s go.”
“What?” he mumbles, groggy.
“You’ve been bailed out.”
Jack, he thinks. He figured things out. He came through after all. He hasn’t given up on him.
He pushes himself up to his feet, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself before stepping out. With the way his stomach’s churning, he’s sure there’s more vomiting in his future. He needs a glass of water, but he’s too out of it to ask.
He looks around, as if Jack’s going to be standing there. He knows he won’t be. That doesn’t make sense.
But then he sees her.
She’s not looking at him, standing near the front door. He feels like he’s seeing things, because this doesn’t make sense either.
But then they’re handing him a bag with his things and gesturing for him to leave. Gesturing for him to go over to her.
To Juliet.
How long has it been since he’s seen her? Six months, at least. Probably more. She texted him after the crash.
She looks up as he walks over, meeting his eyes. She looks so uncomfortably sad, James has to wonder how bad he looks.
“Juliet?” he asks, his voice coming out raw and raspy. It makes his throat sting.
God, she looks like she’s going to cry. And then she takes a step forward and pulls him into a tight hug. His arms hang awkwardly at his side, inhaling the smell of her shampoo. Lavender. It’s the same one she’s used since they were fifteen.
“James,” she says softly.
“How’d you know I was here?”
She lets go of him, shaking her head. “Someone was at the bar. Saw what happened, texted me. I didn’t see it until this morning.” She rubs her hand down his shoulder, gesturing behind her with her head. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t argue, following her outside. He squints at the sun, scowling and pressing his hand against his head. She gets the car open and he climbs into the passenger seat.
Silently, she gets in and starts it up, pulling out of the lot.
“Juliet,” he says.
She sighs. “James, what is wrong with you?”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. God, he wishes he did. Maybe it would explain why he’s so fucked up. Why Jack couldn’t take him anymore.
“I don’t know,” he says, and his voice cracks. He doesn’t know if she knows, though he’s sure she does, so he adds, “Jack’s gone.”
She nods. “I know.”
“Jack’s gone,” he says again, quieter, because he’s never said it out loud and it rips through him like a knife through flesh.
“You should’ve called me,” she says, and she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “If you were . . . you’re struggling.”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t need this. He’s fucking grieving (someone who’s still alive, let the record show) and he doesn’t need her charity and her pity and her help. He doesn’t need her to dig into him like she’s always been able to.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine!”
He can’t look at her, staring out at the almost empty road.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks, because he’s realized this isn’t the way to his apartment.
“My place,” she says, offering no explanation. There’s silence, not even music from the radio, and then she speaks up again.
“I have your back, remember?”
He looks at her. He remembers. Fifteen years old lying in her backyard staring at the faint stars. A pinky promise he’d called stupid but gladly agreed to.
She says again. “You should’ve called me.”
“I don’t know your number. Off the top of my head.” He doesn’t tell her he called Jack. He doesn’t want to think about that, lest the hole in his heart gets torn wider.
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. I mean . . . before this. You never even talked to me after the crash.”
He scratches at the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t been thinking about her at all, to be honest. And he knows that’s wrong. It’s all been Jack, Jack, Jack.
But it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? He was her best friend and Jack was his.
“You need help.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
He shakes his head. “I just need Advil. And a fucking glass of water.”
She sighs, and gets off on an exit.
“Jack texted me.”
James’ head shoots up, looking at her. “What?”
She’s working her bottom lip between her teeth, turning it white. “I don’t think he wanted me to tell you. After he left, he . . . he texted me. Saying to keep an eye on you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
She looks at him, sad like you look at a crying kid or an oblivious dog you know’s about to die.
“He was worried about you,” she says. “Is worried about you.”
His throat’s tight. “Bullshit.” If he was really worried he’d answer any of his calls.
“It’s not.”
“He doesn’t care about me.” And saying that, and believing it true, is the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. He feels it in the marrow of his bones and the cartilage in his ears and the tip of his nose and the joints in his knees and elbows and toes and fingers.
“He loves you,” Juliet says.
James is tired. He won’t argue anymore. But if Jack loved him he wouldn’t have left him behind. He would answer the phone.
“Why’re you here?” he asks. It’s early in the morning. She could be sleeping. He doesn’t know her like he used to. He doesn’t know if someone’s waiting for her at home.
He doesn’t deserve her sacrifices. He doesn’t deserve her help.
“Because I love you.”
No one can love him. They’re all lying, or just lying to themselves. Jack, her. He’s a fucked up mess and always has been. What is there to love?
The silence settles between them like dust after a storm, disturbed but now calm. He scratches at the denim of his jeans, and then at the car door. He wishes she’d put on the goddamn radio so he didn’t have to sit here coughing out the dust.
She pulls into a parking lot for some condos.
He wonders what’s wrong with him, that he hasn’t let himself stay close to her. Once he spent every night next door at her house. Once he knew her like you know your usual grocery store, knowing where to find every item and how to navigate the cart to get out of there the fastest. Once he knew her better than himself. Once he knew her almost as well as he knew Jack.
Now he knows nobody.
“Let’s go,” she says softly, turning off the car and getting out.
When he stands up he feels the nausea turn in his stomach. He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to vomit here beside her nice car in her nice parking lot. He’s made enough of a mess as it is.
He follows her across the lot to her place, letting his head fucking pound. It’s fine. It’s his fault. He deserves it.
She unlocks the door and leads him inside. It’s nice. A lot nicer than his place, but that’s expected. It’s clean too. She didn’t even expect company and it’s clean.
“You got a boyfriend,” he asks gruffly.
“No,” she says, slipping her shoes off. He does the same. She turns to him, still sporting those sad eyes he can’t stand. “Go sit on the couch. I’ll get you some water.”
He almost argues, but asks himself why. She’s being nice to him. She’s being too nice to him. He used to sit on her couch all the time. He used to sit on her bed. He doesn’t have to fight against everything.
He walks over and sits down; stares at himself in the TV. Even that vague reflection looks like hell.
Something about this feels like he’s intruding. He is, he thinks, but she’s the one who drove him here. It feels like he’s intruding except this whole place feels so distinctly Juliet, and it may have been forever since they last spoke but that still feels wholly familiar.
She walks into the living room, handing him a glass of water and two Advils.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, grabbing them. He’s never appreciated water as much as he does right now, chugging it down, letting it soothe his raw throat. He just hopes those pills are as effective for his head.
She takes the glass once he’s done and sets it down on the TV stand.
“Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head. “God, no.”
“Alright.”
He feels like a zoo animal, sitting there while she stares at him. Suddenly, he’s self conscious, thinking about his overgrown stubble and too long hair and probably bruised face.
“You can take me home now, Juliet.”
She shakes her head. “My room’s over there. You need rest, and I want you to—”
“I’m not sleeping in your bed.” He’s sure it’s made up all pretty, with nice sheets. He’s disgusting. He’s a mess. He smells of vomit and alcohol and jail.
“Yes you are, James.”
“Juliet—”
“Tell me you’ve been sleeping,” she says, a look in her eyes that’s somehow both gentle and challenging. He bites his tongue and she sighs. “Right. Go sleep, James. And later I’ll make you something to eat and we can talk.”
He doesn’t want to talk. He knows what that means.
He doesn’t need her help. He’s fine. He’s fine.
But he’s also tired. Really fucking exhausted. And he thinks even if he tried to argue it would do nothing at all.
“Okay,” he forfeits, sighing and standing up. He lets her lead him down the hall to her bedroom, lets her open the door and take him inside. He wasn’t completely right. The sheets are nice, floral, but the bed’s not really made.
“Here you go,” she says. She waits for him to look at her and then adds, “Just . . . I’m here if you need me.”
Why is she doing this, he wonders, looking at her pretty face and her soft curls. Maybe they were friends—best friends—once upon a time but not anymore. She doesn’t need to do this. She doesn’t need to care about him. Not anymore.
But she is doing it. And she does care about him.
He doesn’t understand.
She reaches out and touches his arm for a brief moment, smiles, and then turns and walks out, shutting the door. He’s alone.
He walks over to the bed. His eyes catch on the frame on the nightstand, her in her graduation cap and gown with Rachel. He feels the faintest smile creep onto his face.
He misses her.
She’s right there.
She didn’t even ask and she showed up to help him. He called Jack and he hung up on him.
He hung up.
It makes him feel sick, or maybe that’s just the hangover.
He could tell himself the missed calls meant nothing. Jack’s busy. Jack needs time. Jack’s phone broke and he got a new number. But he answered. He answered. He heard James’ voice. And he hung up. He hung up. He hung up.
Does he even feel guilty? Is he wondering what he left James to deal with or is he walking around with a clear conscience?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he knows him anymore.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and trying not to let that gut wrenching thought wrench his gut. But it does. He’s fighting so hard not to vomit.
He hates him. He hates Jack.
He’s lying. He doesn’t hate him. He could never hate him, no matter what he did.
He lies down in the bed—in Juliet’s bed. It smells like her. It makes him feel fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen again. He shuts his eyes and for a moment can pretend he is. For a moment he can pretend Juliet’s standing across the room switching the CD and in a couple of minutes he’ll walk the couple of steps back to his house and he’ll go to bed and call Jack and whisper until he’s too tired to keep moving his mouth.
But then he opens his eyes and the room’s not the same and he’s twenty three years old and Jack wouldn’t answer anyway.
He already sobbed himself to sleep last night. He won’t do it again.
He pulls the blankets up to his chest and rolls over on his side, shutting his eyes tight. He’s going to sleep. He’s going to sleep because he’s tired and because Juliet’s letting him lie in her bed and because she wants him to.
He’s going to sleep because he’s sure that Jack is sleeping soundly in the city of angels and it’s not fair that he’s been tearing himself open every night while Jack forgets about everything they once had. It’s not fair.
So he’ll sleep and when he wakes up he’ll talk to Juliet and when she takes him home he’s going to throw out that stupid fucking sweatshirt because Jack isn’t the only one who gets to forget.
James can erase him too.
(He doesn’t want to. He wants to hold onto every piece of Jack that remains, hoping it can fill the hole inside of him. He wants to make a million copies and pretend it’s enough.)
But he can do it. He can do it. He can do it.
To start, he can sleep. So, he does.
He wakes up to Juliet’s peanut butter and jellies and it doesn’t help with the whole nostalgia thing. But she remembered they’re his favorite and that’s enough to make his chest feel all soft and tender.
But pb&js turn to talking which turns to Juliet saying she’s worried about him and didn’t realize how bad he was handling things and that she misses him and that she wants him to go to fucking therapy—which is fucking insane; he’s not seeing a shrink. But when he tells her that she launches into a tangent about stigmatization around therapy and how helpful it is and how he needs help, more help than she can give him.
He doesn’t need help, hers or a shrink’s or anyone fucking else’s.
(He’s drowning. The surface is getting farther away every moment and his lungs are on fire and he’s forgetting what it feels like to breathe.)
He finishes his sandwich and asks her to drive him back to the bar so he can get his car. She insists on taking him home, saying she’ll take a taxi to the bar and then drive his car to his place. But that’s stupid and they both know it, so she gives in and agrees to just take him to his car.
He makes small talk, asks her about Rachel and about med school and her family’s dog Snickers, who apparently died almost a year ago. It makes something ache beneath his ribs, because he can’t remember the last time he saw him and he wishes he could have been there for her when it happened.
He wishes he was a better friend. He wishes he was a better person. He wishes he was better.
When they pull into the parking lot and get out, she wraps him in a tight hug, right there outside the car in front of the bar. It’s suffocating, and then he exhales deeply and realizes it’s quite warm and comforting and nice.
“I’ll call you later,” she tells him.
“Okay.”
“If you don’t answer I’m going to your apartment.”
“What if I’m showering or something.”
She smiles, shaking her head. She puts her hand on his arm, gives it a squeeze and says, “I love you. Okay?”
“Okay.” His mouth feels dry and he wants to say it back but he can’t. Once it would fall out so easily. Now it’s jammed in the back of his throat.
“Okay.” She smiles at him, and he realizes she’s waiting for him to leave first. So he nods and turns and gets in his car and thinks about screeching and screaming and blood and the impact and then he puts the key in and starts the car.
He drives away, leaving her standing there beside his car with that too-soft smile.
Too patient, too kind, too loving. All the things he doesn’t deserve.
He gets back to his place and goes inside and the first thing he does is open the bathroom door and kneel down on the tile and vomit into the toilet. His hair falls into his face and he holds it back with his hand, sitting back up and shutting his eyes. He coughs, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.
Next, he strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor and telling himself he’ll burn them later. He gets in the shower and stands there under the scalding hot water for probably an hour, letting it burn off the grime of the bar and the jail; trying to scrub off the layers of regret and anger and grief. But some things you can’t get off. Some things stick to you forever, like glitter in your hair and sand in the creases of your skin.
When he’s out, methodically tying the towel around his waist and stepping into his room to get clothes, he opens the dresser drawer and stops at the sight of red.
This time he doesn’t hesitate when he throws it in the trash.
That night he shoots up in bed, sticky with sweat, tied up in the sheets. He licks his lips and tastes the salt; knows he’s crying. He replays it over and over again, the second difference between Jack laughing and the car getting hit; he can smell the blood and smoke and fuel all mixing together in the air. He pauses on the first image of Jack’s seemingly lifeless body, head hanging down, blood rolling down his face.
Sleeping, earlier, in Juliet’s bed was easier than it’s been since Jack’s smell was still in his sheets. Before it faded. Before he had to wash them.
He thinks it was her shampoo and her perfume, stuck on the pillowcases and the comforter. It was familiar.
Isn’t it sad he can’t sleep without the idea of someone surrounding him?
Isn’t it sad he can’t sleep?
But he tries. He lies back down and shuts his eyes and tries to fall back asleep.
His phone sits untouched on the nightstand for the first time in weeks.
Jack wouldn’t answer anyway.
They see each other at least once a week. They talk on the phone more. Sometimes they don’t do anything at all but watch reruns in silence.
James doesn’t say it but he likes not being alone anymore. James doesn’t say it but he likes being with her. James doesn’t say it but he’s remembering how it feels to love her.
She signs him up for therapy and they fight about it in her kitchen. He’s getting better, just by getting out of the house for more than work. Just by spending time with her. He hasn’t called Jack in weeks. He threw out his sweatshirt. (He kept the rest of his shit.) He’s getting better.
Juliet says he is, and that she’s proud of him. She says it doesn’t change the fact that he needs help. It doesn’t change anything that happened.
Of course it doesn’t. Of course it fucking doesn’t. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig. You can flip a shitty house, paint over water damage and put in cheap countertops. But it’s still a shit house. It’ll still fall apart in a couple of months.
He drives home and drinks everything he has left in his apartment. He cries and he calls Jack for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t answer and James vomits in the toilet again.
A shit house is still a shit house. A pig with lipstick is still a pig.
When Juliet drops him off at his first appointment he goes inside and walks right back out. He smokes through a pack of cigarettes, plays with the lighter, pops in one of the mints he stole from the front desk, and smiles when he gets back in her car.
He does this four times before she finds out, before they fight again.
He does this four times before he goes to the bar a few blocks from his place and drinks until he can’t tell his hands from his feet and he calls Jack again. He’s probably blocked him by now.
The next time Juliet’s sitting on his couch he reminds himself that Jack’s not here, Juliet is. He reminds himself that only one of those people doesn’t answer his calls.
But it’s also the person he wishes would the most.
One night he sits at the foot of the bed playing Jack’s CDs and flipping through an old photo album from when they were in high school.
It’s like slicing his wrists open, watching the blood gush and run down his arm like racing raindrops on a window. It hurts. There’s a sick satisfaction in it.
There’s one of him and Juliet in her backyard. He’s smiling wide at the camera but she’s looking at him, mouth open in a laugh. There’s a lot of those.
There’s more of him and Jack. Him and Jack outside a baseball game, him and Jack in uniform at a basketball game, him and Jack in Juliet’s backyard, him and Jack at the the cafe they used to go to, him and Jack on Halloween, him and Jack him and Jack him and Jack.
Him kissing Jack’s cheek, arms around him. They’re not looking at the camera. He doesn’t think he ever knew this photo existed.
He flicks on his lighter and he pulls the picture out and he puts the edge of it in the flame. It catches, and he sits there mesmerized by the burning image, watching it slowly get eaten away.
Jack’s gone and he walks over and puts it in the sink, putting out the fire.
He shuts the book and kicks it under the bed, setting the lighter back on the nightstand. He stops the CD and shoves it in his dresser drawer.
Jack doesn’t listen to James’ music. Jack doesn’t stare at old photos of him and James. Jack doesn’t think about him and James. Jack doesn’t answer his phone.
And if Jack’s determined to wipe him clean from his existence, James can do the same.
He doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t want to.
He takes the CD out of the dresser and throws it in the trash. Puts the wet quarter of a photo in there too.
He wants to get better. He wants to be better.
He wishes getting better didn’t hurt so fucking much.
She doesn’t make him go to therapy anymore, at least not right now. But she makes him talk to her, and sometimes he thinks that may be worse.
Makes him. He knows he could leave if he wanted to. (He doesn’t want to leave.)
Rachel comes to visit and they all hang out. James realizes for a while there he forgot what being human felt like. He realizes being human is kind of nice and he doesn’t want to lose that again.
There’s a part of him that hates Jack for doing what he did to him, leaving with no explanation; leaving James to rot and wonder what he did wrong. There’s a part of him that hates Jack.
But no part of him really hates Jack. Every fiber of his being is a fiber tied together with love for him. The closest thing to hate is grief. The closest thing to hate is anger. And sometimes love is grief and anger and that’s just life. That’s just being human.
One day Juliet comes over and helps him clean his place. She doesn’t make him throw out Jack’s things, doesn’t ask. So he doesn’t. He likes having them around. He likes being able to pretend things haven’t changed.
He thinks that’s okay. He thinks that’s reasonable, considering everything that’s happened.
He’s on her couch one night watching Seinfeld when she laughs and he looks over and feels something deep in his gut. Feels something once familiar but now foreign. Feels something he once felt looking at Jack when he grinned.
He looks at her, laughing with flyaway curls framing her face and too-blue eyes and can’t help himself, leaning over and pressing his mouth to hers.
He kisses Juliet for the first time since high school and doesn’t think about Jack again until he pulls away.
Nothing changes between them at first. He didn’t expect it too. He doesn’t expect her to want him like that. He doesn’t even understand why she likes him in the way she does. He’s not even sure he wants her like that.
He knows his heart is still 3,000 miles away from where it belongs.
He gets dinner with Claire. He doesn’t ask about Jack and she doesn’t bring him up. He was the only thing they had in common once. But he enjoys himself. It’s fun.
He stalks people on Instagram. UCLA med students, people who may have photos with Jack. He never finds any. He’s shocked to find himself relieved every time.
He wakes up sweaty and distraught smelling smoke. He goes back to sleep.
He wears Jack’s old band t-shirts. He washes them. They don’t smell like Jack anymore. They’re just shirts.
He cries. He wipes his eyes and pretends it never happened.
Juliet and him go to the library and to farmer markets and they read and play scrabble and watch old reruns on TV. One night they’re with their books on the couch when she puts a hand on his chest and kisses him. He kisses back and they end up in a tangle on the couch; almost falling off, the books long forgotten. She touches him and he remembers how it feels to be loved.
He touches her and he remembers how it feels to love.
On Jack’s birthday he puts on one of his CDs and eats half a cake on his bedroom floor.
He calls him. He doesn't pick up.
Sometimes he wishes there was a headstone or a grave or something. But Jack’s not dead.
He might as well be.
Juliet and him go to open houses as a joke, make silly comments about the square footage and the open layout and the cheap tile.
And then one day it’s not a joke anymore.
They get an apartment. Juliet puts up curtains and drags him to flea markets for decor. He agrees with everything she says.
He moves his things in. (Jack’s come with, but he thinks of those as his these days.) It’s nice to get out of that place where he could feel him in the walls.
It’s not his place anymore. It’s theirs. It’s not his bed anymore. It’s theirs. The sheets smell like her and she smells like her and he sleeps better than he has since his bed held Jack’s imprint. They leave books on each other’s nightstands and press together with slick skin and soft moans.
He wakes up crying and she rubs his back and kisses his head until he falls back asleep. It doesn’t happen as much now anyway.
He starts writing again. He used to in high school, but long since stopped. Juliet asks to read it and he refuses. It’s crap anyway.
Despite how clear it is, he doesn’t realize the main character is a knock off Jack until he reads over the first chapter.
It’s been a year since Jack left. James knows. He’s hyper aware of the date. There’s a small part of him that imagines their doorbell ringing and Jack standing there when he opens up.
He doesn’t know what he’d say. The thought doesn’t make him as elated as it once would.
Him and Juliet go out for dinner. They don’t talk about it.
They get ice cream and Juliet spills hers on the ground so he lets her have half of his. She tells him some story that makes him laugh harder than he ever has. She’s wearing a yellow sundress that makes her look bright as ever and when they get home he’s slipping the straps off her shoulder before they even get the door locked.
Lying against her chest that night he realizes that he’s happy.
Jack’s not here. Jack’s not back.
But he’s happy. He’s so happy.
He still loves Jack. But he loves Juliet. He loves her so much. He loves her in every breath he takes and every pump of his heart.
(He’s happy.)
Once he never thought he’d be anything close to okay again. Once he never thought he’d be whole without Jack; without the thing that made up the bulk of him.
Juliet fills in the space good as ever. Juliet makes up the bulk of him now.
(He’s happy.)
Once he felt himself unlovable. But maybe that wasn’t his fault. Because he tells himself Jack loved him, but with Juliet he knows.
He smiles and leans closer into her and loses himself in the smell of her hair.
He’s happy.
He’s really fucking happy.
And maybe your heart can belong to more than one person. Because Jack took a piece with him on that plane but Juliet has the rest.
And that’s okay. He has enough for the both of them.
He has enough for Juliet. And that’s what matters. She’s what matters.
James doesn’t feel guilty about that anymore. Jack’s the one who left. He didn’t have to, but he did.
James is allowed to think about himself, too. He’s allowed to think about her. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants to do.
He’s allowed to love both of them.