Page 24 of The Art of Drowning

If I happened to run into Callum, then that was a price I was willing to pay. The months after summer ended had felt like a special kind of agony. Life went back to normal, but now there was like a timer in the back of my head, warning me that next year would be different. Next year, Callum would be in college and Sam and I would still be here. I couldn’t very well hang out here if no one else was home. It would be too odd. Too intrusive. It didn’t matter that Sam’s mom had given me my own key and a code for the alarm.

Sam never questioned why I didn’t want to hang out at my house. He’d been there once after he asked about it a few dozen times. So I showed him the ice house, as I called it. It was attractive enough, like from the pages of a catalog. It didn’t even look like anyone lived there. Mom had a housekeeper come in a couple times a week to keep everything shiny and polished. There was no evidence that I existed. No pictures on the wall. No grades on the fridge. No shoes in a row by the door. No, that was too pedestrian. Mom had a special cabinet by the door where people had to put their shoes so they wouldn’t clutter up her entryway.

My room was the only one untouched by my mom’s minimalist aesthetic. I fucking hated that word. My room was clean, neat as a pin, or she’d allow the housekeeper inside. This was our compromise. On the surface, it looked like a normal, boring room. Navy walls. A set of bedding that was white, which I hated, that contrasted against the dark walls.

Mom didn’t know about my closet. The room had a walk-in closet that I’d turned into my own little oasis for when I had to be here. There was a beanbag chair in the corner that I slept in sometimes. A low bookshelf stacked with books. A lot of fantasy. Some sci-fi. Anything not based in reality.

I’d decorated the space with black lights and posters that would give my mom a coronary if she ever opened the closet door, but she never did. That was our deal. If I kept my space clean, she stayed out of it. Even my closet was tidy as fuck. Everything lined up. Everything neatly hung or folded.

Sam came over exactly once, and after a withering look from my mother for simply daring to exist where he could be seen and heard, he never wanted to come back. Sometimes I dreamed about what it would be like for Sam’s parents to be my parents. But I didn’t dream of that anymore. Not since the idea of Callum being my brother made me queasy. If he was my brother, it would be wrong to think of him the way I did.

I knew things would change eventually, but I wasn’t prepared for it to start so soon.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” I was stretched out on Sam’s bed, a bed that was also practically mine. If my newfound sexual crisis had extended to include all the guys I looked at, it might be awkward to share a bed with Sam. But he was like a brother to me. He was family. There was zero attraction to him. I’d been more physically affected by a slice of toast than I was by Sam.

“It’s only for a few nights.” Sam had taken a sudden interest in magic, illusions in particular. His grandparents had offered to take him for a short trip to see a show in person. School was out for winter break and Christmas was still a week away, so they were going to take Sam to Vegas to see a show and bring him back in time to spend the holiday with the rest of the family.

And me.

I’d been ordered by Sam and his parents that I was to stay here for winter break. That being alone on Christmas wasn’t something they were going to tolerate. This wasn’t the first year they’d insisted, but it was the first year when I didn’t even pretend to fight them on it. Pride be damned. I’d have a few days alone with Callum.

“You’re still leaving. That’s eternally unfair.”

“You could have come.”

I raised an eyebrow at Sam. “No, dude. I’m fine. I’m just harassing you.”

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

“Waste away to nothing, probably.” I shuffled over to the center of the bed and starfished, splaying my arms and legs out to the sides. “I’ll be a bed hog.”

“You’re already a bed hog. You should just let my parents give you your own room, dude. You basically live here.”

“Yeah, but then I’d actually live here.”

“And?”

And I had no idea. It seemed wrong to just move in and never leave. People who were still in high school weren’t supposed to have that kind of decision-making capability. They weren’t supposed to have a choice on where they lived. I knew in my bones that my parents only cared if I lived or died because my death would look bad and the funeral would be distracting. But if I found out that they didn’t care if I left home before even graduating high school, it might have broken me completely. I knew I was unimportant to them. I didn’t need confirmation.

“And nothing. Don’t be weird. You can’t just tell your parents to make me my own room in their house.”

Sam shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He zipped his suitcase shut just as his mom appeared in the doorway.

“Oh good. You’re ready to go. We need to leave for the airport and then I have to get to work.” Sam’s mom glanced at me. “Hi, sweetheart. There’s fresh coffee downstairs, and I left some egg bites in the oven to keep warm if you want.”

“That sounds good, thank you.” I had long ago learned not to argue with her. It was easier to just eat the food and not make shit awkward by arguing about it. I pushed myself up off the bed and stood as Sam grabbed his suitcase. He stepped close and gave me a one-armed hug, which I returned, trying to hide my excitement over his impending departure.

“See you in a few days, man.”

“I’ll be here.”

“You better be.” Sam laughed and I walked them to the door. His mom patted my arm and reminded me to eat something and then they were gone and the house was almost silent. They had a clock by the entryway, an analog one with giant hands that ticked away each second in the most aggressive manner. But you only noticed it on the rare occasion the house was quiet.

I begged myself to be normal, to not run up the stairs and launch myself at Callum. I couldn’t be weird about this. I wanted to spend time with him, but I didn’t want to make it obvious. I needed a plan, and I couldn’t think on an empty stomach.

I went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and grabbed the tray of egg bites out of the oven. The metal was still hot and I dropped the pan on the counter a little harder than I’d intended, making a loud clatter that had me wincing.

The house went back to being silent after. The silences here were different than the silences at my parents’ house. The silences here were warm, like they were waiting for sound and life and laughter. The silence at home was tomblike and oppressive. It felt forbidden to make noise there.