“Home for a week and is incapable of entertaining herself,” he mutters and switches his tune to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters.”
There’s a retort itching to come out. Something crude and sure to make him uncomfortable, but I don’t put a voice to it. Instead, I watch him play, the somber melody only adding to the real reason I’ve stuck around all week.
After running through the first chorus, he places his guitar back on its stand, spins in his chair, and wakes up his computer. I would never admit it, but I’m kind of hoping he’s logging in to play a game. Maybeone I can play with him.That’show bored I am. That’s how worried I was about him. How worried Istillam.
“Have you told Jules you’re thinking about spending the summer backpacking through Italy?”
I groan and roll over on my back. “No.”
I remember the last time I told her I was leaving. It was March our junior year. She was excited about the flowers poking out of the late winter snow. Spring flowers always make her smile. It was a Sunday, and we had just finished lunch at her house. Grilled cheese with bacon and tomato soup. She was asking me about why I hadn’t signed up for softball, and I blurted out that I was leaving.
A two week leadership camp in Portugal, a two month internship in Greece, then France for the entirety of our academic year. She was stunned silent for a beat and fired off a million questions. When did I apply? How did I decide which countries to go to? How was I going to pay for it? How long had I been keeping it a secret?
Once she ran out of questions, she pulled me in for a hug and told me how excited she was for me. I’ll never forget the look on her face. Masked disappointment shrouded by forced smiles and encouragement.
Mason hums as if he expected as much. “So I’m guessing you haven’t told her you plan to study abroad your last two years of school, either.”
I don’t answer because, no, I absolutely have not. Mainly because I know that flash of disappointment will become tenfold. I know she’ll tell me it’s okay, that I should go and be happy and have my adventures, just like she did the last time, but it’ll crush her on the inside.
Especially because I promised her I wouldn’t leave like that again.
I can hear Mason swivel again in his chair. “Alex.”
With another dramatic groan, I throw my arms over my face. “I know. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t want to talk about it. Next topic.”
Mason is quiet for a long time. Too long. But I remain unmoving, hoping for him to turn back to his computer or to pick up his guitar and surprise me with “Hot Cross Buns.”
Instead, he says, “When I die, don’t let them have my computer.”
My entire body goes rigid. It’s not the first time he’s brought up his untimely death, but that doesn’t make hearing him say it any easier. Especially after the scare he just gave us. “Why, is there porn on there?”
“Worse. Unfinished D&D campaigns.” Despite the morbidconversation, a smile tugs at my lips. “Seriously, though. My phone, too. I want you to take them.”
I cover my ears. It’s clear he really wants to have this discussion, despite my attempt at joking it off. Unfortunately for him, I do not. “I’m not talking about this, either.”
He gently pulls one of my hands away from my ears and peers down at me. “We’ve got to talk about it sometime.”
I pull my arm from his grasp and sit up. “We sure donot.”
He gives me a look I don’t like. Knowing. Pity. Acceptance. Then he fuckingsmiles. Like we aren’t talking about what he wants me to do if hedies. “The passwords will be inside—”
I cover my ears again and shut my eyes, too. “Don’t need to know.”
“You can’t avoid this, Al,” he says, loud enough for me to hear through my humming.
I don’t want to be in his room anymore. “Sure I can.” I scramble to change the topic, to get away, to avoid something that haunts me at all hours of the day. “Want to order pizza?” I ask when I get to our shared bathroom. I half expect him to follow me, to force me to sit and talk about contingency plans and instructions on things I’m allowed to give away and where he wants his ashes spread and something about his savings account. All topics he’s broached before but now feel even more ominous.
I’m relieved when he calls out, “Put pineapple on my half,” and lets me run away.
“You realize that breaking away from the group was a horrible idea,” Mason says dryly, as if I didn’t just almost derail his entire campaign.
“Eh.”
“And,” Mason presses on after a deep breath, “while they hide behind the crates in the alley, you slip inside the bakery, only to find the owner dead and a troll crouched behind the counter, ready to pounce. Do you—”
“That’s so dumb,” I interrupt, unable to hold back a bark of laughter. “Why would there be a troll hiding inside the town bakery? It doesn’t make sense.”
Mason’s sigh is loud through my headset. Even though he’s in his bedroom and I’m in mine, I can practically see him pinch the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”
