Anime’s not my thing.
Plus, Brian and I
might be doing something.”
“Might?”
“Yeah. We talked earlier
and he said maybe
we’d do something later.
That he’d call me.”
“Lee.”
“What?”
“Come with us.
Or call Brian and invite him,
but don’t sit home and wait
for his call.
He’s not worth
ruining your night over.”
“I’m not.
I won’t.”
But I was
and probably would be.
All right, it’s your call.
Movie’s not until nine,
so call me if you change your mind.
We’ll even pick you up.
And Parker says he’ll pay for you.”
“Okay. Thanks.
Talk to you later.”
6:00
Nothing.
7:00
Nothing.
8:00
Nothing.
8:15
I could’ve probably
still asked Parker and Joy to pick me up.
8:30
I could’ve still
called a cab and gotten to the movie in time.
9:00
I decided I didn’t want to see that anime shit anyway.
I’ve been trying to sleep for hours.
I’ve seen the minute hand
go around and around many times.
I flip over on my stomach,
bury my face in the pillow
and cry.
I think about screaming,
but I bet the sound
only gets muffled in the movies,
not in real life.
I settle for kicking my legs up and down,
letting them bang against my mattress
like a fish trying to swim out of water—
but I’m getting nowhere.
I flip over to my back,
then get out of bed.
I turn on the bathroom light
and it burns my eyes.
I squint and look in the mirror.
Pimples dot my forehead.
I go for the whiteheads first.
I pop and squeeze until there is blood.
Then I move on to my cheeks and chin.
I don’t know how long
I’ve been standing there,
but my legs are stiff and hurt.
My face is blotchy.
It’s obvious
that I’ve made my skin worse,
but I feel like I was productive.
Like I just did
something.
I go back to my room
and look at the clock.
It’s been forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of not thinking
about Brian.
Not wondering what life
will be like without him,
even though I never really knew
what life was like
with him.
I get back into bed.
The only sound I can hear
are the crickets.
But then there’s a sound
at my window.
I know it’s probably just a branch,
but still I get up to look.
There is nothing besides
the streetlamp casting a glow
in the spot where Brian stood
a few weeks ago.
On that night, I had heard
the sound of pebbles
smacking against glass.
I got out of bed
and looked out my window.
There, underneath the streetlamp,
was Brian.
I could see him grinning,
even from two stories up.
I pushed open my window
and whispered as loudly as I could,
“Are you crazy?”
“Yes. Come down.”
And I did.
As I walked across the wet grass
and into the street,
Brian looked me over
in my boxers and thin tank top.
“You’re not wearing a bra.”
“It’s hot. And I was sleeping.”
He pulled me toward him,
his hands firm on my lower back.
His kiss was warm and wet
and tasted like beer.
I pulled back.
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
But then I saw a forty-ounce beer at his feet.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“But I wanted to see you…
to tell you…”
But he stopped.
He always stopped.
I waited for a moment,
but nothing else came.
“I’m going back to bed.”
As I walked away,
Brian didn’t try to stop me.
I quietly closed the front door
and went up the stairs.
I brushed off my feet
before getting back into bed
and wondered
how I was going to fall asleep now.
My body was tense
with energy, frustration.
I curled my toes,
stretched out my legs,
balled my hands into tight fists,
lengthened my arms,
raised my shoulders to my ears,
squeezed my eyes shut,
then released
with one long exhale.
Just as I was wondering
if Brian was still out there,
I heard a bottle shatter
against the pavement.
I guess that was my answer.
For the next five days
Brian didn’t call
to apologize.
He didn’t send me
an email,
an IM,
or a text.
He didn’t do anything.
He never did
anything.
It doesn’t make sense
that today is a typical summer morning.
The sky is cloudless.
Kids are riding their bikes.
People are gardening.
But today is not an ordinary day.
It is the day after Brian’s funeral.
The sky should be black.
Lightning should knife
through the air.
There should be blasts of thunder.
Rain should fall in bullets
and shatter windshields.
“Hey. It’s Marissa.
I’m wondering
how you’re feeling
and what you’re up to today.
I know things have been weird between us,
but I’m here for you.
Talk to you soon.”
I hit the DELETE button
and do not call her back.
I leave the house
to go for a walk around the bay.
I used to do this a lot.
Sometimes it was just to get air,
but mostly it was to find Brian.
Usually, this tactic didn’t work
and I would come home disappointed,
but there were a few times
that I did find him.
Those times, I always thought,
Why didn’t you call me?
I live a few blocks away.
I could have hung out with you.
Why would you rather be alone
than be with me?
Now as I walk through the neighborhood,
I see Brian on the hill by the bay,
hunched over a notebook, drawing.
I see him on the basketball court—
the very place he died—
taking shots.
It was only about a month ago
that I found Brian right here.
He spots me,
lifts up his shirt
and wipes the sweat from his face,
revealing his smooth stomach
and the trail of dark hair
that disappears into his shorts.
I try not to stare.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just needed
to get out of the house.”
But that’s not really true.
“Yeah. My house
was feeling kinda tight too.
My dad’s home.”
I know better than to say anything.
I wait, giving Brian room to continue.
“Wanna play?” he asks.
“I’m not any good.
And besides,
I’m wearing flip-flops.”
“It’s okay.
Just take them off.”
I walk over to the edge of the court
and put my flip-flops on the grass.
I carefully walk back across the warm concrete,
being sure to look for broken glass.
“Can you dribble?” he asks
as he passes me the ball.
Thank God I catch it.
I would have felt like such an ass.
“Okay, not bad,” he says.
“Can you shoot?”
I take a shot.
It’s not great,
but at least it comes close
and hits the backboard.
Brian runs after the ball
and passes it back to me.
“Try again. But this time
follow through with your wrist.”
“Okay, coach.”
When I try again,
I make the shot.
“Nice,” he says
as he catches the ball.
I take a few more shots.
Each time, Brian gives me tips
and encouragement.
I make enough of the shots
to be pretty pleased with myself.
“I think it’s time
for some one-on-one.”
“Seriously?”
Brian plays basketball
nearly every day.
“I don’t know.
That couldn’t be much fun for you.”
“It’s okay.
I’ll take my chances.”
Brian passes me the ball
and I start dribbling,
making my way toward the basket.
Brian comes at me
and reaches for the ball.
It’s obvious he isn’t trying his hardest.
When I turn my back to him,
he leans over me—
almost like we’re spooning
while shuffling back and forth.
My back is pressed against him.
I can feel how warm he is.
I can feel the sweat on his arms.
But Brian seems to get bored
with not trying
because he finally reaches around
and steals the ball.
In one smooth move,
he pivots, shoots the ball,
and makes the basket.
“Show-off,”
I say with a smile.
When the memory fades,
so does my smile.
I am alone
on this court.
The second night after Brian’s funeral
is like the first.
On my stomach.
On my side.
On my back.
Curled up in a ball.
Diagonally.
My feet at the head of the bed.
Blanket on.
Blanket off.
TV on.
TV off.
Music on.
Music off.
I cannot sleep.
I cannot stop
this waking nightmare.
I want to dream.
I want to dream of Brian.
I put my pillow over my face,
take a deep breath,
and try to smell Brian.
I imagine him in my room,
talking,
walking,
smiling,
laughing,
lying next to me,
kissing me,
touching me.
I watch as the shadows
move quietly across my walls,
just like he used to move
across my room.
I look at them, searching
for his shape.
Will he come to me?
Will I hear his voice
one more time?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I imagine his face, his body.
I am trying to will him
into appearing,
but he doesn’t.
All those talk-show psychics
make it seem like this should be easier.
People all over the place
are connecting with the dead.
Why can’t I?
Maybe Brian
doesn’t want to visit me.
Maybe I
am not important enough.
Or maybe, right now,
Brian is hovering over
his parents or close friends,
giving them comfort.
Maybe he’s so busy with them
that he’s forgotten about me.
Or maybe it’s just not my turn
yet.
Part Two
I had a dream last night
driving on an overpass.
The driver took a turn way too fast
and lost control of the car.
We jumped the guardrail
and soared through the air,
hundreds of feet above the ground.
I knew we were going to die.
I thought about calling my mom
to tell her I loved her,
but there was no time.
Then the taxi became a convertible,
and Marissa fell out of the car.
I caught her sleeve for a second,
but I couldn’t hold her.
I watched her fall
and fall, then hit
the street below.
It was all happening in slow motion.
I knew
I was about to die,
and I couldn’t do anything
but watch the pavement
get closer
and closer.
It takes a lot of harassing texts,
but Parker and Joy convince me
to leave the house
and watch the Fourth of July fireworks
down by the bay.
Parker and Joy
are like an old married couple.
They finish each other’s sentences
and bicker all the time.
Except one big difference
is that Parker is gay,
and Joy falls in love
with every guy she meets.
When we all meet up,
Joy looks adorable.
She’s wearing a vintage dress
and her red hair is twisted into two little buns.
Parker’s wearing longish jean shorts
and, as usual, he’s got on a funny T-shirt.
This one says BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.
I look down at my own outfit.
There’s nothing cute
about my dirty jeans and plain white tank.
It’s pretty much a miracle
that I’m out of my house
and not in my pj’s.
We pick a spot on the seawall
that can’t be seen from the road,
and dangle our legs over the edge,
waiting for the show to start.
Joy tells us about the new guy
she’s been talking to.
Parker tells us about the trip
he’s going to take with his family
to the Grand Canyon.
Their lives are moving forward.
Mine is stagnant.
The first fireworks blast knocks
these thoughts from my head.
For a moment, the black sky is lit up
with a shower of sparks
and we are all temporarily cast in red.
All I can think of is blood.
Brian’s heart bursting.
Tears well up in my eyes
and I’m glad
that Parker and Joy
are looking at the fireworks
and not at me.
When the tears pool over,
I wipe them away,
then take a sip of warm beer.
If Brian were alive,
what would he be doing tonight?
Would he be here
with his arm around my shoulder?
As we watched the fireworks,
would he kiss my neck
and whisper to me
that I smelled good?
Or would he be somewhere else,
watching with his friends,
and getting drunk or stoned?
The second scenario sounds about right.
And the not so funny thing is:
I’d be doing the same thing then
as I am now—
missing him.
IHSS is caused by abnormal growth
of the cells in the heart muscle.
In a sense, Brian’s heart
grew too big.
I wish that I had gotten the chance
to experience how big Brian’s heart
could be.
I wonder what it would have felt like
to have a relationship with Brian
where I wasn’t always questioning
and worrying,
and feeling so alone.
It’s been six days
since Brian’s funeral.
Six days of watching TV,
but never the news.
Six days of sleeping all day
and then not sleeping at night.
Six days of not eating.
Six days of avoiding my mom.
Six days of unanswered
emails, and texts, and voicemails.
The exception was Independence Day,
and that passed quickly.