Page 64

“I just hope it’s not at the police station this time.” Greer squeezed him back and followed Carter over to her car. Jack waited until they’d pulled away before slouching to the living room. He threw himself down on the sofa beside Dale, the leather cool on his skin. As much as he feared for the outcome of whatever mayhem Eli was currently causing, he couldn’t help but worry for Greer. She was already so consumed by caring for her ailing husband; the last thing she needed was another loved one in jeopardy.

He took a breath to examine his heart. As much as it broke for Greer in that moment, and as heavy as it was with love for her, it felt different somehow. A new sort of love. And as he allowed that love to settle across him, it was met with a breath of relief, as though he could finally put down the torch he’d carried all these years and stretch. What they had now was something they could carry together, and at this new stage of afterlife, he decided he preferred that.

Time crawled slowly through the late spring air that evening. It barely seemed to acknowledge the natural speed of its passing, determined instead to drag out every second, every minute, like an analog clock dipped in molasses. Jack kept trying Eli’s phone but was only ever met with his tinny voice on the other end telling him to leave a message after the beep.

Greer called around midnight. They’d searched everywhere she could think of and come up empty. She needed to get home. Curtis had an appointment early the next morning. Jack knew she wouldn’t sleep that night.

Between attempted phone calls, Jack scrolled through his phone and bounced around news channels on the TV in case Eli’s fate ended up covered there, the prospect grim but too plausible not to follow up.

By two a.m., Jack’s stolen age crept over him in a wave of exhaustion. His new circadian rhythm had him in bed before ten p.m. most nights and up at roughly the crack of dawn. He shuffled to the kitchen and retrieved a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, dropping one down his shirt every time he felt himself drifting.

For his part, Dale tried to keep Jack occupied with conversation that was at once dry and inane, which only made the drowsiness worse despite the thoughtful gesture. He couldn’t be sure quite when it happened, but at some point Jack must have drifted off in spite of himself, leaving him lost to slumber until a sharp knock on the door pulled him back into consciousness. Jack ran a hand over his wrinkled face, disoriented. He took in his surroundings: not Margaret’s bedroom but the living room below, TV on, phone in his hand, Dale on the arm of the sofa. He was down here for a reason, he remembered. Eli.

Another bang at the door. His glowing phone screen told him it was after four in the morning. Eli had been picking the lock to Margaret’s house for weeks now; he had no reason to knock. Jack’s stomach plummeted. Was this a police officer at his door? Someone with news about Eli? News too heavy to send through a text?

Jack peeled himself from the couch and hurried his aching body into the foyer, flipping the lock and opening the door with as much force as his old muscles carried. There, on the doorstep. Not a cop. Not a grief-stricken Greer. Not a Carter with head bowed and hands in his pockets. Eli.

The hollows under his eyes were purple, the eyes themselves wide, his face drawn and sunken in, in a way it hadn’t been only hours ago. Jack had seen him like this once before, and suddenly he knew exactly where Eli had been, what reckless thing he’d been up to. And it was so much worse than anything Jack could have dreamed up.

39

Wrong

July 2009

There were still three packed cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of Jack’s room. One had the word “kitchen” scribbled across it in black Sharpie; the other two were unmarked. He’d get to them eventually, he told himself. Even if unpacking them would mean there was really no turning back. A frenetic bass rattled the wall he shared with one of his three new roommates, vibrating in his skull as he lay in bed. This wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured his last months as a teenager, but it would have to do.

Someone knocked on his door. “Bro, somebody’s here to see you,” came the voice of one of the other guys sharing the apartment. Mike, maybe? Or Tom? Or the one with the dirty sock collection? They all kind of blurred together in a swirl of graphic T-shirts and questionable hygiene.

Jack hauled himself out of bed and opened the door to see the sock guy retreating down the hall toward his own room. On a sigh, Jack made his way to the apartment door. Sock guy had left it open, and in its arch stood Eli. Or at least Jack was pretty sure it was Eli. The young man in front of him was devoid of color, crescent moons of indigo beneath bloodshot eyes, cheeks sunken into hollows.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said on a gasp. Then he noticed the trickle of blood dripping in steady droplets onto Eli’s sneaker. Jack followed the flow with his eyes, finding a stream pooling on Eli’s left index finger from an angry gash on his palm. “What the hell did you do?”

Eli continued to stare at Jack with an empty gaze, as though he wasn’t fully in his body. Jack wrapped gentle fingers around Eli’s scrawny wrist and guided him carefully into a living room furnished by a forest green futon in front of a television propped on empty milk crates. Jack eased Eli onto the futon and disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a full roll of toilet paper. He grabbed Eli’s bloody hand and pressed a wad of toilet paper against it, adding more and more layers until the makeshift bandage was too thick for the blood to seep through. He’d dealt with You Again injuries before: scraped knees from jumping out of low windows, black eyes from scrapping, even a broken bone or two. But this injury was different. The cut was too clean, too deliberate. This had been a choice.

“Eli, what happened?” Jack slid onto the futon beside his friend, but Eli’s gaze was still so far away Jack felt as though he’d need a plane ticket to find him.

He gave Eli a nudge with his shoulder. Nothing.

“Dude,” he tried, a wave of panic rising from the acid in his stomach. He should call somebody. He should call Greer. But Greer had barely spoken to him since she got married. Did he still have their mom’s number? He could check his phone, but it was nearly midnight and the odds of getting ahold of her seemed slim. No, Jack had to bring Eli back to earth himself.

He gave Eli’s thigh a hard pinch, but while it elicited a wince, Eli’s gaze remained locked on the middle distance. This called for desperate measures. Jack left Eli on the futon and knocked on sock guy’s bedroom door. It took two tries to get an answer and four to get his cooperation, but eventually Jack returned to the living room with his mission accomplished. He plopped back onto the futon, the movement bouncing Eli but still failing to rouse him. That was fine. Jack had a bigger weapon now. He unzipped the lid of a hefty reusable bag stuffed with old gym socks and waved it under Eli’s nose like smelling salts. Eli’s eyes began to water, and after only a few wafts, he sputtered and pushed the bag away.

“Fuck,” he wheezed.

Jack lowered the bag, exhaling a breath of relief. Whatever happened, whatever awful, horrible thing Eli had done to put himself in that catatonic state, he was back now, and that was all that mattered. At least until the relief eased, and then Jack needed answers.

“Okay, what the hell?” he demanded as Eli’s cheeks regained a small wash of color.

Eli just shook his head.

“Dude, come on. You can’t show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night acting like a zombie and bleeding all over my futon and not tell me why.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I tried.”

There was very little Eli could get up to that he wouldn’t believe, but saying as much would only hurt Eli’s feelings, and Jack wasn’t about to be the reason he went catatonic again.

“When have I ever not believed you before?” he said instead.