“That’s it?” Jackson’s eyebrows rise. “You two used to be best friends.”
Used to be.Past tense. A whole childhood wrapped up in three words.
“That was a long time ago,” I say quietly.
“Ryan.” Jackson’s eyes soften. “Are you ever going to have a real conversation with him?”
His question floats in the air. I focus on the screen, watching an advertisement for some action movie I’ll never see.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s been years, Jackson. We’re different people now. What if we can’t pick up where we left off?”
“I think you can.” His voice is gentle but insistent. “The guy clearly wants to reconnect. Every time he sees you on campus, he tries. But you bolt like someone set your ass on fire.” Jackson has always had a knack for reading people. It’s what makes him such a good quarterback—and an even better friend. “You just have to give him the chance.”
The lights dim. Sweeping shots of the lunar surface appear on screen, and my leg bounces uncontrollably. Jackson places his large hand on my thigh and gently squeezes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. He knows what this means to me.
It’s one of the many things I love about Jackson. He doesn’t try to fix things or offer empty platitudes. He simply exists as a fixed point in my orbit when everything else spins out of control.
We met freshman year when the housing department’s algorithm paired a football player and an astronomy major as roommates. I’d expected him to request a transfer after the first week. Instead, he became my best friend and now leaves Post-it notes with terrible space puns on my desk whenever he notices I’m having a rough day.
Why did the sun go to school?To get brighter!
The documentary’s narrator explains the moon’s formation, and I lean forward slightly. “Four and a half billion years ago, a Mars-sized object called Theia collided with Earth. The debris coalesced into our moon. Birth from destruction. Creation from chaos.”
Mom would have loved this. She’d have bought popcorn with too much butter and whispered commentary that was far more entertaining than the actual script. “Look at that crater,” she’d say. “That’s where the moon mice live. They throw the best parties.”
The scene shifts to time-lapse footage of the moon’s phases. New to full and back again. Constant. Predictable. Nothing like friendships that dissolve when one family moves away.
Or mothers who promise to watch the next eclipse with you but don’t make it to spring.
Or feelings that refuse to fade, no matter how many years pass or how many times you tell yourself you’re over it.
The narrator drones on about tidal forces, but my mind drifts to Oliver’s face in the living room. He said my name with joy, as if the years hadn’t created a chasm between us that has become too wide to cross.
Ten years ago
Rain hammersagainst the basement windows in a percussion I find soothing. It’s been coming down since dawn, and according to Oliver’s mom, it won’t let up until tomorrow.
I shift on the cold concrete floor of Oliver’s basement, tucking my legs under me, feeling the elastic of my navy socks dig into my calves. My fingers brush the collar of my button-down, checking that second button that I’d carefully unfastened this morning after a full minute of deliberation in front of my bedroom mirror. Oliver lies opposite me, legs kicking lazily in theair behind him, the worn fabric of hisGhostbusterslogo bunching up to reveal a small birthmark above his waistband. A tiny brown island on pale skin that disappears and reappears with each shift of his weight. Between us sits a half-finished Lego spaceship, abandoned as Oliver rambles on about his neighbor’s hockey-playing cat.
“—and then Mr. Whiskers sat on the puck. I’m talking, full butt, and wouldn’t move.”
“Cats don’t play hockey,” I say.
“Mr. Whiskers does.” Oliver rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “What do you do for fun? Besides sitting perfectly still and looking worried?”
I blink. “I don’t look worried.”
“Dude, I’ll get my mom’s compact if you don’t believe me.”
We’ve been neighbors for three months, tentative friends for maybe six weeks. And for some peculiar reason, Oliver has made it his mission to drag me out of my house at every opportunity. Meanwhile, I’ve perfected the art of acting like his invitations are an inconvenience rather than the highlight of my week.
“I study astronomy,” I mumble the confession into my collar, my voice drowned beneath the rainstorm.
“You mean, stars and stuff?”
“Stars, planets, moons, nebulae, galaxies.” I pick at the hem of my shorts. “My mom got me a telescope for my birthday a few years ago. It’s not professional grade, but the aperture is decent for—” I stop myself. This is usually the part where people’s eyes glaze over, and they change the subject.
But Oliver has pushed himself upright, the Lego piece he’d been fiddling with clattering to the floor. He leans forward, the space between us suddenly smaller. His lips part slightly, the corners twitching upward in what isn’t quite a smile yet.
