History Is All You Left Me by Adam Silvera
I hope you’ll also forgive me for lying. I’m doing it for you.
We’re in row fourteen and I’m seat number one. Good row number, okay seat number. But this panic attack has been crawling my way since we arrived at the airport. I didn’t count on all the lines and the brief flight delay. I try buckling my seatbelt, but it’s different than car seatbelts, and Jackson assists me without asking, which startles me for a second because he’s so close to my dick. But within seconds he’s done and I’m fastened in; I can’t help but feel as if he’s trapped me here, like a straitjacket.
“How are you doing?” Jackson asks.
I shake my head and twist my ring finger, the trick you taught me.
Jackson reaches into his backpack and pulls out a copy of last month’s Entertainment Weekly. “This’ll help you take your mind off of it.”
I go straight for the movie reviews, but in no time a flight attendant calls for our attention and delivers all sorts of safety instructions about where to find oxygen masks and how to locate exit doors. Jackson is reading his own magazine, which annoys me a little because he’s responsible for me on this flight. “Do you have this memorized?”
He answers me by quoting the flight attendant and mimicking her movements. “I’ve flown a few times,” Jackson says. “We’re going to be okay.”
Within minutes the plane is moving down the runway and it feels like driving down the highway. Except cars don’t pick up speed the way this planes does; cars never make me so nervous that I grab the door handle the way I’m gripping the armrest. Cars don’t shake violently like this. Cars definitely don’t lift at the front and take off into the air.
Jackson’s hand rests on top of mine, hesitantly. I don’t pull away, and his hand expands, holding mine. “How are you feeling?”
The plane swerves left and I’m certain this is it; we’re going to crash. I look out the window during this shift and it’s sad how this plane didn’t even get high enough to make the people in the freezing city below seem small, like ants in the snow. The plane finds its center. The captain announces our flight will be a little over five hours and that attendants will be around shortly with refreshments.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” Jackson says, releasing my hand.
My heart is still thumping. “Were you ever scared to fly?”
“It’s probably better for me to answer this after we land.”
“We’re already up in the air. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen,” I say.
“You’re not going to parachute out of here?” Jackson asks.
“I have no idea how to get out of this seatbelt. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I still get really nervous, and I’m not sure when that will stop,” he admits. “It’s weird, because my dad is a pilot. Or maybe that’s the reason. I’m always a little on edge. This may sound selfish or horrible, but the only time I felt sort of ready for any tragedy was when I was with Theo.”
“Was he brave on planes?”
I’m asking Jackson to tell me something about you I don’t know while I’m flying. What a day, huh?
“Theo was funny. He’s the reason I buy magazines for flights instead of watching a movie or something. He would go through all the features, stuff like ‘Who Wore It Best?’ and would owe himself a dollar every time he was able to guess the right actor or actress for the celebrity crossword puzzles.”
I might cry. This isn’t a bad cry. This isn’t one of my I-never-got-to-do-this-with-you cries, I swear. It’s one of my I-might-have-a-laugh-attack-if-I-keep-thinking-of-this cries, which are good. I’m hit with a realization: the Theo you were with him isn’t the Theo you were with me, and maybe that’s okay. I’ve been so desperate to know who you were becoming, I never stopped to think about how everything that made you my favorite person could’ve changed. Maybe you didn’t outgrow me; you just became someone else. It doesn’t make me want to know the new you any less, but it makes me feel a little less worthless.
“That’s really funny,” I say, picturing you hovering over crossword puzzles the same way you did jigsaw puzzles, except with a few bucks fanned out before you and rewarding-slash-deducting from yourself every time you got something right. “So being with Theo is the only time you felt safe?”
“Not safe. Comforted. Knowing I’d be able to hold Theo’s hand or hug him if anything happened, comforted me. I knew I wouldn’t be leaving Theo behind if I died alone.”
It’s screwed up, but it makes sense. “Then Theo drowned in front of you.” The words just pop out of my mouth. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and it shocks him too. He tenses up and tucks his hands between his legs, squeezing them tight, like he’s locking them away. Even as we’re on our way to celebrate how you lived and to visit the beach where you died, we haven’t crossed this line yet.
You left us alone. Your death made us each a piece in this awkward puzzle that doesn’t completely come together, but it’s enough to make out the image: two boys in love with someone who is never coming back.
I shouldn’t have brought this up. It was a shitty thing to say to Jackson. He has to live with how he wasn’t able to save you. I was lucky enough to be spared that tragedy.
We’re pretty quiet for the next five hours. I even get a couple of brief naps in. When the plane slows and dips down, I jerk upright, tensing. Then the pilot announces we’ve begun our descent and to make sure our seatbelts are on. Jackson side-eyes me and laughs.
“Don’t forget: we’re supposed to be going down at this part,” Jackson says.
“If I hate this I’m walking home.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I bravely look out the window as the plane slows and lowers—in little drops I wish were smoother, but who cares as long as we land. Once we’re lower than the clouds, I see a city washed in sunlight. I can even make out a beach in the distance. The plane safely touches down on the landing strip and bullets toward the airport with incredible speed, roaring. I’m thrown forward a little. And then it’s over. We’re gently rolling toward the gate.
“You flew!” Jackson says.
“I flew,” I breathe.
My life has changed. I can’t take back my first flight any more than I can take back losing my virginity to you, any more than I can take back the things I would love to undo. Possibilities are wheeling through my mind rapidly. If I can fly here for you, where will I go for me?
It’s almost fifty degrees in California this morning—I’ve gone back in time by three hours—so I roll down my window because I welcome anything above New York’s twenty degrees (with a wind chill that makes it feel like ten). I’m on the left in the cab, as I should be, taking in the sights—mainly other cars—as we exit the freeway and enter Santa Monica.
I have one missed call from my mom and a couple of texts from both of my parents, asking me how the homework is coming along and how I’m doing. I feel a wave of nauseating dread, even though I knew all along what would happen.
“Let me get this over with,” I tell Jackson.
“Good luck.”
I almost ask him to put on headphones so he doesn’t have to hear my mom’s deafening scream when she learns I’m three thousand miles away.
I swipe the number.
“One second, Griffin,” Mom answers, and she tells whoever she’s with that she needs a minute. “Sorry. There you go. How are you doing?”
“I have to tell you something, and you’re going to be really upset,” I say.
“What’s going on . . . Griffin, please tell me that you’re not in California,” Mom says. Her voice is calmer than I expected. But there’s also an edge that’s totally unfamiliar.
“I’m in California,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to be out of there, and I’ll do whatever you want when I get back, therapy and whatever else, but
“You are coming home today!”
There she is, the mom I know; the mom you knew, too.
“Do not leave that airport,” she goes on. “Stay there—”
“I’m coming home on Wednesday morning,” I interrupt. “I’ll give you all the flight details.”
“That’s not happening. I’m flying out there and—”
“Fine. Fly out here. But I’m still not leaving until Wednesday. Tomorrow Jackson and I are celebrating Theo’s life,” I say. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ll send you Jackson’s mom’s phone number along with my flight info. You can call her.”
Jackson texts me his mom’s number.
“How will I know I’m talking to Jackson’s mom?” she cries. “It could be some woman on the streets you paid twenty dollars. How can I possibly trust you anymore? Have you called your father yet? Wait. He didn’t know, did he?”
“No, I called you first.”
“You lied to us.” She sounds so disappointed. “You tricked us.”
“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, but I had to—”
“I’m at work right now,” she interrupts. “Send me Jackson’s mom’s number and pick up when I call you.” Finally her voice softens. “Are you okay? How was the flight?”
“I’m okay. I didn’t freak out. Jackson took care of me.”
Mom breathes into the phone. “Pick up when I call you next.”
“Okay. I love you, Mom.”
There’s an excruciating pause. “I love you, too.” She hangs up.
“Yikes.” I avoid Jackson’s eyes as I send in a flurry all of the relevant information to both my parents. My dad texts me a minute later, asking for both of Jackson’s parents’ addresses, which Jackson types out for him.
Jackson hands me back my phone. He offers a tentative grin. “Well, how are you liking California?”
I laugh. “Not the best twenty minutes of my life, but not the worst, either,” I say.
“Let’s improve that. What do you want to do today?”
I look out the window and hope I don’t get sent home. Jackson’s parents could tip the scale in that direction. “I don’t know. Your call.”
When I imagined myself moving to California, I always thought the first thing you and I would do together would be hitting up the beach. It’s an obvious thing to do, but it’s such a one-eighty from what we’re used to back in New York. But that was in an alternate universe. I don’t have any direction of my own out here in this one.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi drops us off on a street corner. The air feels different, buoyant, like I can float on a breeze that smells like ocean and seaweed. I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. I missed the sun, but I’m already wishing I had sunglasses. Instead I shield my eyes with your bunched up hoodie.
Jackson pays the cab driver and points down the block at a light orange one-story house between two sand-colored houses. Considering it’s the only house with a ramp and railings leading to the front door, it’s what I would’ve guessed it was. The house looks worn and a little battered, like it’s weathered a fierce storm, but I love it. I can sense history pulsating from it.
“Is this your childhood home?” I ask.
Jackson shakes his head. “When my parents split, everything else did too. My dad got his apartment in Culver City, and Mom stayed here in Santa Monica. Mom’s feels like the closest to home, but I really miss where I grew up. It would’ve been cool to show you and Theo that house, but this one’s not so bad.”
Yeah, having a house is definitely not so bad. Not to mention the free flights he gets from a father who could probably easily afford every trip if he had to. I’m not about to call him out on any of that, of course—especially since you told me you did already. You were around him so much that bursts of Jackson’s privilege never bothered you. You cracked a couple of jokes Jackson never found too much truth in, but it reached a boiling point when he wanted you to skip work to hang out with him. “Some of us need jobs to afford the museum,” you told him, and a fight broke out. The fight wasn’t enough to break you up, though.
Jackson finds his keys inside his backpack and unlocks the front door.
“Mom, we’re here!” He looks around, crouching over expectantly, and fast little footsteps come charging our way. With a name like Chloe, I expected her to be a really beautiful golden retriever, but she’s a black collie. Her tail wags as she gets her ass scratched by Jackson.
“I’m in the kitchen!” comes his mom’s voice.
I step toward Chloe and she runs out from underneath Jackson’s hand and backs away from us.
“You’re too tall to walk up on her like that. Get down here with me,” Jackson says.
I crouch beside Jackson. He makes kissing sounds and says Chloe’s name in this funny voice that sounds like a stoned Mickey Mouse. I guess Chloe trusts Mickey Mouse on pot, because she comes over and lets us both pet her. In addition to the ass scratch, Chloe likes being pet roughly on her head.
Jackson throws his stuff on the couch and I do the same. The place feels very spare, not as elaborate as I was expecting. Maybe there isn’t so much history, after all. Or maybe it’s history that they don’t want to show off. I understand that now. They’ve been living here long enough that they should have more furniture, shouldn’t they?
I follow Jackson into the kitchen, where his mother is sitting at the dining-room table in her wheelchair. Ms. Lane is typing one-handed while she holds up a piece of mail. I’ve never seen pictures of his father, but Jackson is a younger version of his mother, no doubt. He bends over and kisses her on the cheek, then hugs her.
“I’m happy you’re home,” Ms. Lane says, hugging Jackson so hard she drops her piece of mail.
I rush over and pick it up for her, handing it to her when they part. “Hi. I’m Griffin.”
She smiles up at me warmly. “It’s great to meet you, Griffin. Thank you so much for hosting Jackson. I know it meant so much to him to be with friends,” Ms. Lane says. Then she shakes her phone and her face grows somber. “There’s a bounty out for your head, by the way.” She turns to her son. “You could’ve warned me that your guest was a runaway.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson says. “You’re still okay with him staying, right?”
“Give your mother a call,” Ms. Lane says to me, sounding weary and resigned. “She’s coming around to the idea as long as you both stay here and not the dorm.”
Relief floods through me. That was the final hurdle. I know a shitstorm of trouble is still waiting for me when I get back, but I’m clear to be in California until Wednesday, for you, with Jackson. “Okay. Will do.”
“My condolences, by the way,” Ms. Lane adds. “I understand you and Theo were very close.”
“Thank you.”
She nods. “Have a seat.”
I wonder where you sat whenever you visited. I go for the seat to the left of Jackson, obviously.
“How was flying, Griffin? First time, right?”
I glance between them. “Jackson kept me sane.” I haven’t met someone’s parents at this level of face time since yours, and it feels really weird. “I think it’ll take a few more flights before I really get used to it, but it wasn’t the worst thing. Going home to that weather is going to really suck.”
“Ah, if I could go anywhere right now, it would be New York during the winter. I miss coats and walking down the street and my toes numbing because of the slush. Traveling has been admittedly frustrating since the accident. Rolling through the streets of New York would be difficult.”
I don’t ask about the accident that landed her in the wheelchair, even though she seems like she’d be open to talking about it. Jackson never told me. It still feels like her story to offer and not one I should ask just because I’m curious. It’s a lot like when people at school were asking
“I like your setup here,” I say. “Your house is awesome, too.”
“It’s home,” Ms. Lane says.
I want to study Jackson’s reaction, but I don’t want to give him away in case he hasn’t talked about this discomfort with his mother. I would be a little surprised since they seem so close, but you and I were close and that didn’t stop me from withholding stuff to protect your heart. Maybe that’s what’s happening here.
She turns to me. “I hope I’m not out of line, but Jackson mentioned you’re also taking a break from school at the moment. Something happened at school?”
It spills out of me. I’m not sure why, maybe because it’s so exhausting to bottle it all up, but I tell Ms. Lane everything. I let her know about all about my compulsions, their rules, and how they rule me. I let her know about the freak-out where I bolted from the library and got home and threw off my uniform and banished it to my closet. I let her know about how my parents want me to commit to therapy outside of my guidance counselor. I let her know how helpful her son has been for my recovery.
Ms. Lane smiles briefly, proud of the son she raised, of the boy you loved—even if she doesn’t approve of how he handled my surprise visit. She wheels over to the refrigerator and pulls out a strawberry birthday cake shaped like the letter J. Jackson is smiling so wide, kind of kidlike, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over how surprising it is to see happiness in someone who’s lost someone they love.
Ms. Lane bursts into “Happy Birthday” by herself, but I jump in midway—again, surprising—and what’s even more surprising is when Jackson jumps in and sings happy birthday in his own honor. We’re all laughing by the end . . . and man, Theo, I really wish you were here to add your voice to the chorus.
The latest shocking thing to happen in this universe, the one I live in, not one you created: I’m walking into Jackson Wright’s bedroom with my bag, to stay the night. I’m tempted to ask him everything you’ve ever done in this room, like where you studied if you ever studied here, or if you ever sat on the ledge of his window when you talked on the phone, like you did in my room. But that could lead to something too intimate, something that will cross a line.