“Toss me that purple one,” I order him.
He does with a raised brow.
I’m not about to tell him that’s Denny’s pillow.
Maybe because that’s more of the red-pill shit.
“Jo was… kind. And she read between the lines a lot. She seemed to know what was what without making you feel like a douche about it.”
“Explain.”
I drag D’s pillow into my chest. “If I had a bad day at school, there’d be fresh cookies when I got home. She seemed to know. I think she was a grade-A eavesdropper, too, because she always knew who we had problems with and had a habit of saying just enough to get us to talk.”
Pecan nods. “Remember that time Jenny Spencer was bullying Denny and neither of us noticed?”
“Mom did.” I grimace at the memory. “She went to Mel, D’s mom, and they went to the principal together because Mel’s shit at that kind of stuff. This one time before that happened, Denny was being poked by this douche canoe in class?—”
“Oh, yeah. The one who kept telling her she was an elephant?” He coughs into his hand: “Whose nose we broke.”
“Yeah. Timothy Robertson. Anyway, Mel went in and ended up screaming down the house, which got them nowhere. So, Mom went that time. Jenny was in detention until the end of the year because Mel kept her cool and they managed to talk about what was happening.” I bury my face in the pillow. “I miss her. I miss her like it’s this weight on my chest that’s stopping me from breathing.
“Why can’t I call her and tell her how happy I am with D? Why can’t she be the one I go to for Thanksgiving? Why isn’t?—”
“Why isn’t, what, Zach?” Callan prods gently.
“Why’shealive and she isn’t?” I look up at them. My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest. “Why did life take her and not my dad? He’s so much older than she was and he doesn’t even give a fuck about anything that’s not hockey related.”
“He’s a douche,” Pecan agrees in an aside to Callan.
“Like, I didn’t want either of them to die, but why’s he still fine when he’s almost thirty years older than she was but she’sgone? Why did she have to suffer so bad? Why was I relieved that she wasn’t in so much pain when she died? Why did I have to feel like that? Who feelslike that? Who’s relieved when their heart’s being ripped out?” I scrunch up my face to hide the fact I want to scream.
Because screaming’s allowed.
Crying isn’t.
“Come on, Zach. We’re not going to say anything if you let it out,” Pecan rasps, sniffling too. “Look, I’m crying, man. You don’t always have to be the star player. The guy who’s going places. Who’s gonna take it all the way. You’re allowed to just be a kid, you know? A kid who lost his rock.”
That does it. That breaks the dam.
I sit there.
With my two friends.
And I just let it the fuck out.
And as much as it makes me feel better, as much as it relieves this burning ache inside of me, it doesn’t go anywhere for long.
How can it?
She’s still gone.
I still can’t call her.
She’s still never gonna know about D and me or anything like that.
But they’re there when I finally shatter.
Neither of them judge me.
