How do you paint a picture of who someone is in their entirety with nothing but words?
Where do you start?
It’s impossible, really, especially when you’re describing someone like Havi. Someone so complex. So flawed and multifaceted, yet also such a perfect version of himself. How doyou succinctly describe a friend who was family for most of your life before turning out to be the worst thing that ever happened to you?
“He’s…” I take a breath, splutter, and start again. “You know how when you’re a kid, you play with whoever—your neighbor, your mom’s best friend’s kid, the kid you sit next to in math—it doesn’t really matter what they’re like, or if you even like them, all that matters is that you’re thrown into close proximity with them.” He nods and masticates thoughtfully. “Well, Havi wasn’t like that. He was the first friend I ever had where I chose him and he chose me because we actually liked each other. He was a weird little kid. Very loud. Very outspoken. Very sure of himself. He had thoughts and ideas about everything, and he shared them whether his opinions were asked for or not. He was always getting sent out of class for being disruptive, but the school guidance counselor and the principal had a soft spot for him, so he never really got into serious trouble.” I can’t help smiling at the memory. Havi ran rings around lots of people, not just adults, but kids too. He got away with murder. “He’s a lot, but he doesn’t care, and he never tries to be less. When we were kids, everyone made exceptions for him because he was like, incorrigible and cute, and really sweet when he needed to be. I dunno. It’s hard to explain. Right from the start, I just got him, and he got me. We became friends the day we met and never looked back.”
“He sounds really cool,” says Connor.
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s an asshole when he wants to be, but he’s also the best. Or at least, he was the best. I-I don’t know what he is anymore…” I take a big breath to steady myself. I feel strange talking about Havi. My head is spinning, and my ears are ringing, as though the smoke detector is still going off.
“What do you mean?” says Connor.
I realize with a jolt where I am and who I’m talking to. Something hard and solid in my chest cracks. Pure pain rushes in, or out, of the crack. I can’t tell which.
“We had a really big fight last year,” I reply robotically. “An awful fight. The worst fight we ever had…and he, he’s never spoken to me again. Not a word. Not a call, not a text, nothing.”
Connor’s eyes widen in concern. Blue-green pools lap at my ankles, approaching and retreating, creating a safe space for me to speak. I hate it. “Nothing?”
“Nope,” I say with a modicum of satisfaction because Connor is exuding a level of sympathy and disbelief that is entirely appropriate to the situation. “We were friends for fifteen years, and he just vanished from my life.”
Connor’s jaw drops and he blinks hard. “He ghosted you?”
I laugh dryly, not because it’s funny, but because Havi would find it funny. The crack from before splits open wider. It’s intolerable. Unsurvivable. The pain is so acute, my teeth ache.
“Like I said,” I say, breathing deeply and willing the numbness to return, “I love him, but he can be a real dick sometimes.”
By the time dinner is over, the feeling has passed. The day is over. The weekend is done. It dawns on me that I have to go to work in the housing department tomorrow, and that brings on a severe case of Sunday blues. Seeing Connor happy and talking about Havi has made me feel strange in a bad way. I feel empty where food should be, and full where numbness usually lives. On top of that, it feels wrong to be here, and the horrible homesick feeling I had when Anna left yesterday is back, and this time, it’s worse.
It’s one of the things I hate about whatever it is I’ve got. The numbness is constant almost all the time. Most of the time, I’m the shape of a person with nothing inside, but when I’m not, if I feel something, good or bad, for even a second, the weight of it is crushing.
It’s like a punishment for feeling anything.
I help Connor load the dishwasher, but I find it hard to keep up with the conversation.
“I’m beat,” I say. “Might turn in early.”
20
Lennon
Isleptlikeshit,and I feel like shit. I probably look like shit too, polycotton and dad-core shirts are so not my vibe, but in a way, it seems appropriate. So wrong it’s right. The synthetic material of the pants makes a faintvvvsst vvvsstsound as I walk to the kitchen.
I hate it.
To drown it out, I pray Connor is out and I’ll have the kitchen to myself. Naturally, as this is my own personalized version of hell, he isn’t, and I don’t.
“Morning,” he says cheerily.
It’s hard to say for sure, but it looks like he might be in a better mood than usual. Fuck me.
“Good sunrise?” I ask.
“The best.” His smile is slow and knowing. It’s one of those smiles that mainly affects his eyes. For a millisecond, they grab hold of me and pin me in place, pouring good things into my soul.
I blink and snap out of it.
He watches me as he takes his tablets, soft eyes following me as I fix my breakfast. He doesn’t look at me, he looks into me. He sees me. He sees my pain and doesn’t look away from it. He sees it so deep and so clearly that I have no choice but to explain myself.
