What if he dies and you never know?He’s not going to die.But he could, he could have a heart attack or get shot tomorrow while walking to school, someone out to get trans people and they see him—THAT’S NOT REAL, IT’S NOT—blood everywhere, his body on the ground outside the school as I walk up, a crowd gathered around and I push through to see him lying there, broken and gone—IT’S NOT HAPPENING, THAT’S NOT REAL—fall to my knees crying, his face cold and still, I never got to tell him how I felt—
“Stop,” I groan out loud, turning over and pushing my face into the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” I chant the word over and over until it loses all meaning but I keep going because if I don’t, the thoughts will start and I can’t do this.
I can’t do this anymore.
The next morning, I sit at the table, backpack at my feet, waiting for Dad to pick me up for our hike. I’m exhausted, but I’m ready to get out of the city for the day, into the forest, where my thoughts will finally leave me alone.
I hope.
I fiddle with my phone, swiping back and forth between apps and my texts, absentmindedly rereading my thread with Forrest. Seeing it makes me calmer, almost as if Forrest is in the room with me.
It’s five minutes past the time Dad is supposed to be here, and I flip to our conversation, even though there’s no new messages, just his last text to me:Great, pick you up Sunday at 10.
He’ll text me. Any minute now. He’s just running late.
I reread my texts with Forrest again, smiling at the memes we sent back and forth the other day.
It’s fifteen minutes past, and Dad hasn’t texted.He’s done with you.No. I’m not doing this today. I squeeze my left arm, nails digging into my skin. The house is quiet, Mom relaxing in her room, Shar in the garage.
Thirty minutes past. I sit staring at the phone, at my texts with Dad, and finally tap out a message:Where are you?
“Sweetie?” I look up to find Mom in the kitchen, frowning at me. “What are you still doing here? Wasn’t your dad supposed to pick you up, like...” She checks the clock on the stove. “Forty minutes ago?”
I nod.
“What happened? Is he running late?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“He hasn’t contacted you?” Her frown deepens, her voice rising slightly. She’s getting angry, and I don’t want her to, I don’t want them to fight—
“It’s fine!” I say, getting up and grabbing my pack. “He probably just overslept. Or forgot. I’m going to...” I trail off, gesturing at the back of the house, and rush past her.
Earl Grey darts out as I come into my room, and I shut the door. Brekky is dozing in the middle of my bed. Dad probably did oversleep. That’s it. That’s all it is, and he’ll text me later, and he’ll apologize, for real this time, and we’ll be OK, everything will be OK.
My phone pings, and I almost drop it as I pull it out of my pocket.
Hey kiddo, I’m really sorry. Something happened. I can’t get there today. I’ll make it up to you later.
Something happened. I stare at the phone. What does that mean? Is he OK? I’m on a city street, suddenly, watching Dad pull out from his apartment and a car careens around the corner, out of nowhere, smashing into the back of Dad’s Corvette and it goes flying into a telephone pole, his head whipping onto the wheel and then back and he slumps to the side, blood streaming down his face, and he’s in a hospital, texting me now, telling me something happened, but he’s got a concussion, a really bad one, so bad that in two hours he’ll collapse and I’ll never see him again—
Something mushrooms inside me, dark and spidery:He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and I’ll never see him again. He’s going to die, and I haven’t even told him I love him.
I grab my phone and call him. The phone rings once, twice, three times, and goes to voicemail. “Wazzzuuuuup! You’ve reached Kyle—” I hang up and call again. Voicemail. I hang up and call again. Voicemail.
He’s going to die,chants a voice in my head.He’s going to die. He’s going to die. He’s going to—
The phone rings. It’s Dad. I pick it up.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
“Hey!” His voice is jovial, a little louder than normal. “Sid. I’m fine. It’s all good. Something came up last minute.”
I blow out a breath. He’s OK. He’s alive. It worked. The sets I do—I called him three times, and he called me back.He was all right, because I checked on him. “I thought ...from what you said ...I was worried.”
“You were worried about me? Aw, kiddo, it’s all good. I just, uh...” He trails off. I can hear voices in the background now, muffled, like he’s in a room somewhere with a bunch of people.
“Where are you?” I ask.
