We find a spot on the grass near the back of the crowd, far enough from families with screaming toddlers but close enough to have a good view. I spread out the blanket I grabbed from Ben’s car, and we settle down to wait.
Except Ben sits stiffly beside me, checking his phone every few minutes. You’d think he’s waiting for a business call.
“Put that away,” I command, snatching it from his hands.
“Hey!”
“You can have it back after the show.” I tuck it into my back pocket. “This is why you need me. Left to your own devices, you’d probably bring flashcards to watch fireworks.”
“I might have,” he admits sheepishly.
I laugh, the sound carrying across the grass. “You’re hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m serious! When did you become so… so…” I gesture vaguely at him.
“So what?”
“So afraid of actually living your life.”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. He’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the families around us. A little girl nearby chases fireflies with a mason jar, her delighted giggles floating through the air.
“I’m not afraid,” he says finally. “I’m focused.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A big one.”
I study his profile in the dim light. Even relaxed, there’s tension in the set of his shoulders. Like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
It makes me feel terrible for him. Sorry.
“You know what I think?” I ask.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I think you’re scared that if you stop pushing yourself for even a second, you’ll lose everything you’ve worked for.”
He turns to look at me, and I’m surprised by the raw honesty in his expression. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“No,” I say softly. “Because the best things in life aren’t things you can lose by taking a night off.”
Before he can respond, I fall back onto the blanket to stare up at the darkening sky. After a moment, he lies down beside me, and the tension in his shoulders finally starts to ease as we wait in comfortable silence.
I can’t stay quiet for long, though. I never could.
“Tell me something,” I say, turning my head to look at him.
“Like what?”
“Something real. Something that isn’t about school or college or impressing your parents.”
He is quiet for so long, I think he might not answer. Then: “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just… stopped.”
“Stopped what?”
“All of it. The pressure, the constant need to be perfect.” He lets out a shaky breath. “Sometimes I lie awake at night and imagine what it would be like to be a normal teenager.”
