And he didn’t laugh at me. Maybe one day Shane will consider me a friend. I hope.
Until then, I’ll just hold on to this.
5
Shane
January 1999
The last time Isaw Ethan, the very last time, he was sitting on the washing machine downstairs beside the rec room in the Sawyer’s house.
The blue jeans he wore were ripped at the knees and unzipped, and the black-and-red Depeche Mode tee he’d found at a Goodwill was pulled up, revealing a patch of hair around his naval. His chocolaty hair was a mess, and his gray, sad-puppy eyes were gazing at me with admiration, with desire, and with something else I’ve never wanted to fully acknowledge.
They’re not looking at me that way now.
They’re looking at me with the coldness and stiffness of steel, narrowed close to fury, watching me scramble to wipe the tears off my face, watching me adjust my coat, my gloves, my hair as if I need to look presentable for royalty or some shit.
It’s nerves. It’s the anxiety. It’s the fact that Ethan, this Ethan, the one in front of me right now, doesn’t match the one that I lastsaw. It’s my mind experiencing some kind of glitch as it seeks some familiarity.
The chocolaty hair isn’t chocolaty. It’s vanilla. It’s a honey-blond vanilla, framing his angelic Grecian prince face. And those gray eyes, aside from the anger I see within them, aren’t the same because they’re lined with black. Around his neck is a chain, like a bike chain, with a silver and gold lock joining the two ends. His hand reaches up to rub at light-brown stubble on his chin, and I notice there’s chipped black polish on his nails. In fact, he’s dressed head to toe in black, and I get the sense it’s not because he’s still in mourning. I get the sense this is how he is now. He’s exactly like how anyone from Port Leyden would imagine someone who’s been living in New York City would be—jaded. Cynical.
Dark.
And he’s still skinny, but it’s a different kind of skinny. A bulkier kind of skinny that could just be the thick winter coat he’s got on, but still. It surprises me. He isn’t much taller, though. In fact, he’s still shorter than me by a couple of inches, short enough to where he has to look up at me a little.
And right now, that’s all he’s doing. Looking at me; his face a mask.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
A few minutes pass, and I expect him to ask me what the fuck I’m doing here. Make some kind of remark, some kind of exclamation, but he just stands there, staring, and it’s unnerving.
So, I speak first, and when I do, it’s pathetic, my voice hoarse and shaking. “What’s up, Ethan?”
One corner of his mouth twitches. He reaches into the pocket of his black coat and takes out a pair of black gloves.
“I, um,” I begin, nerves making my throat close and clog any words. “I don’t know, um, if you heard…or…”
He begins putting on one of the gloves and stops to stare at me again.
I take a breath. “I heard you—I heard about the…road trip, and I just, I wanted to—I just thought I’d—”
“Melody Henson called me,” he says flatly in a voice that’s definitely deeper and richer than I remember. He puts the gloves on. “Last night.”
“Oh.”
I’m surprised, but I’m not. She probably got really wasted after I left and started dialing people.
Ethan zips up his coat. It seems loud in here. A loud ass zipper, and that’s something I notice. How quiet it is in here. How this house used to be alive with noise, and it isn’t now. Somewhere in the house, there is atick-tock, tick-tockand I remember that old grandfather clock Ethan and Everett weren’t allowed to play around because it was so old. I feel like all that’s missing is theJeopardy!theme song.
“Ethan?” Rick reappears and Ethan turns to him. “Getting ready to go?”
“Will you tell Mom?” Ethan says.
Rick nods solemnly, and I start to wonder if Sheila is really taking a nap.
Rick looks over at me. “Look out for him, will you, Shane? Make sure he drives safe?” His voice cracks on those last couple of words.
