Pain. So much freaking pain. The worst I’ve had so far.
It doesn’t feel like before. It’s not a searing or a throbbing pain but a type of surge that takes over every inch of my body. My bones, my muscles, my cells, even my hair and nails feel like they hurt. It feels like every cell is being ripped apart.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’m lying on a cool floor. The cold feels nice against my warm skin, and when I force myself up to my hands and knees, I can tell I’m drenched in sweat. My stomach heaves, twice actually, but no vomit comes up, and for that, I’m thankful.
My body feels like lead as I stand, and I’m lucky that there’s a counter for me to grab on to when I slip. The walls are a beige color, and there’s a painting of a sailboat looking back at me. It takes all the energy I have to focus on it. Michael’s apartment. I’m in the right place, and I can only hope it’s the right time.
Someone says my name. The voice is muddled, like they are speaking through water and I’m at the bottom of the sea, but I can make out those two syllables. It’s a man’s voice, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. I’d know that touch anywhere.
Michael.
He helps me stand up and helps me walk to the couch, although it’s more like he’s carrying me. I focus my vision on him as best I can, but there are five different versions of him, all spinning around a center version. It takes all the energy I have to make the versions come into one.
And that says nothing of how my body feels like it’s not my own.
“I’m going to get you some water,” he says. I can make out that much. My head lobs back and rests against the couch.
Focus, Andre, I demand. Focus on why you’re here. Focus on the roughness of the couch. Focus on each drop of sweat that trickles down your body.
Focus on anything other than the pain.
Because if I focus on that, I’ll want to scream—and I probably will. Or cry, or even die.
Can someone die from pain? Who knows.
When Michael returns, my body is a little better. All, or at least most, of my cylinders are firing. I can make Michael out. His voice sounds clearer, and the concern on his face? That’s evident.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” he says back. He raises his hand and strokes my cheek. “First of all, before I say anything else, I want to say I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, but I need to say it. Second of all, what did you do.” It’s a question but spoken like a statement.
“How long have I been gone?”
He looks over at the clock. “Almost twenty-four hours exactly. Long enough for me to calm down and understand how stupid I was.”
I take a slow drink of water, and the cool liquid feels like heaven against my burning throat. It takes effort to drink—something I’ve never experienced before—and it makes me envious of each time that breathing, talking, thinking came easily to me.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say once I put the water down. “I said things I shouldn’t have said too.”
He grins—that adorable, charming lopsided grin. “So we’re both idiots, then, huh?”
“I can agree to that.” I smile back.
His hand doesn’t move from my cheek, stroking it soothingly. It’s nice, I have to admit. It almost makes me forget why I’m here, why I came all this way, why I risked this.
But even as I look at Michael, all I can think about is Blake.
“Do you need more water?” Michael asks, seeing that I’ve finished it. “Or do you want something else, something harder?”
“Probably not the best idea.”
“No…” A beat passes. “Probably not.”
He doesn’t move from his position kneeling in front of me, but slowly, he pulls back his hand. “You never answered my question.”
No, I didn’t. Is it because I don’t want to? Is it because I’m afraid that, once I do, it’ll all be real, and I can’t take it back? As I sit here in the past with Michael, I can imagine a future. No, not imagine. That future could still be a reality. A possibility we both can have, no matter how small the chance.
Once I do what I’m here to do, that door closes. But maybe, just maybe, that’s not a bad thing.
I pat the spot next to me on the couch. Slowly, Michael slides up and sits. There’s no space between us, my right leg and his left one touching. I think he needs that connection. I think, deep down, he knows something is coming. Something he’s not going to like.
Maybe that’ll make this easier.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say slowly. “No, that’s not right. There are some things I need to tell you.”
“Well, at least you didn’t start this conversation with ‘we need to talk.’” He grins nervously.
I force a smile on my face, but I’m not sure it’s convincing. I’m not really sure of anything right now. Am I making the right choice? Am I taking the easy way out? Is there another solution?
Maybe if I had more time. Maybe if there wasn’t so much at stake, I could find another solution. I could research, I could experiment, I could do so many different things.
But, if I’ve learned one thing from all of this, it’s that I’m not a scientist. No matter how much my parents want me to be one or how good I am at science or any of those logical reasons and pieces of evidence that point to it, that’s not who I am.
And it’s time for me to stop thinking like that and to start thinking the right way, the only way I should be thinking: Andre’s way.
“I want you to know I love you, Michael,” I say. I think that’s important to start with. “I love you so much. The few days—”
“Years,” he says, correcting me—again with that lopsided smile. Except this time, he nudges my leg with his own to remind me that he’s joking. I make sure to nudge back.
“Years,” I repeat. “The past few years have been amazing, Michael. Some of the best years I’ve ever had.”
“Me too,” he agrees. Slowly, he slides his hand across the space between us and intertwines his fingers with mine, squeezing them. The connection grounds me, and in that fraction of a second, everything else fades away, and only Michael sits in front of me.
I swallow the discomfort that feels like trying to swallow smoke or water, and I say the thing I’ve come here to say.
“This is the last time I can see you.”
The words, all nine of them, feel like bullets leaving my mouth. I watch as they strike Michael.
“What do you mean?” he asks. “You’re here with me right now. Are you still planning on going through with saving Dave? Even if you do, maybe we can still be with each other. Don’t you think there’s a way?”
“Maybe…but not for us.”
“Love is never simple,” he argues. “You have to fight for it, Dre. It’s not just going to present itself to you and be perfect all the time. It’s a struggle.”
“If I had a choice, I’d be with you. I need you to remember that. No matter what, even if you’re angry with me for the rest of your life, I need you to know that if it was just about how much…how much I love you, then I would stay.
“But that’s not the only factor here.” I raise my shirt a bit, showing him my scar. It’s red, and when I bring his hand over to touch it, his fingers recoil from the warmth.
“What…”
“Jumping is tearing me apart, Michael,” I admit. “I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But it is.”
Slowly, his fingers trace the jagged scar, with soft palpations. The flesh is sore, but I don’t make a sound or react. This might be the last time he touches me.
“How bad does it hurt?” he mutters.
Part of me thinks about lying, but the truth will set you free, right?
“A lot.” I don’t tell him that I don’t know what will happen when I jump back. This jump felt like I was being ripped between the past and the present. The next one…
I can’t think about that right now. It doesn’t help anyone to dwell on that. This moment is about Michael. It’s about me. It’s about saying goodbye.
“And this happens each time you jump?”
I nod. He’s putting two and two together. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. He’s understanding what this means for me. He’s weighing the pros and cons of selfishness, thinking about what will happen if he asks me to stay.
And I hope he doesn’t. But at the same time, I hope he does.
Because if he does, I’ll find a way to stay. I know I will, no matter how stupid it is.
“I want you to know that if there were any other way, I would stay,” I whisper, feeling my throat close, like it’s trying to keep me from continuing to say what I know I have to.
“I know,” he whispers, squeezing my hand in his. “I’m not mad.”
“You should be.”
“Why?” he asks. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself for me, Dre. What type of person would that make me? When you care about someone, you want what’s best for them. You want them to be safe and happy.”
“I am happy when I’m with you,” I argue.
“Oh, babe,” he whispers, stroking my cheek again. He presses his lips gently against my forehead. His lips stay pressed against my flesh, like he’s marking my skin with his touch. “Do me a favor,” he says when he pulls back. “Just one thing.”
“Anything,” I promise.
“Be happy. Find a way to be happy. Don’t stop living. Don’t wallow or stay in bed or whatever you boys do in the future. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” I swear. “But you have to promise to do the same. Keep up with your music. Write a book. All of those things. Live your life. Whatever form it takes.”
“Oh, I most definitely will,” he says confidently. “I mean, who knows, maybe in school you’ll be assigned to read my great American novel. See what you’re passing up on, Dre? The next…”
“Joan Didion?”
He grins and nods slowly. “Exactly.”
“I’m serious, Michael. You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll keep working hard,” I urge. “I’ve seen your—”
Michael holds his hand up. “If you’re going to say you’ve seen my future, I don’t want to know.”
“But—”
He shakes his head. “No, Andre. Seriously. That’s for me to find out, not for me to know. And who knows, maybe it won’t happen. The future isn’t set in stone, right? And I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be trying to change the past anyway, yeah?”
“Rule number three,” I recite.
“Exactly. So how about this? You let me walk my path. You’ll walk yours. And we’ll just enjoy this moment and not worry about the future. Deal?”
“Deal.”
This moment is all that matters. We don’t need anything else. Well, we need more time. But we can’t have that. This, though? This is good.
“We’ll see each other again, yeah?” I ask. “Even if you’re in your seventies. I’ll still visit you.”
“Oh God, no.” He laughs. “You are not going to visit me in a nursing home. I forbid it. Part of being happy is living your life, Dre. Not waiting until you can see me. You don’t need that. Keep our memories close. Cherish them. Let them fuel you to do whatever you want to do. But don’t let them fester. Memories shouldn’t be a poison.
“Here,” he says, getting up. “I’ll help you.” Michael walks over to his record player. He sifts through a dozen records before finding one and putting it on. Slowly, music fills the air as he comes back over. He sits and grabs my shoulder, guiding my head into his lap.
“Who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “From now on, it’s our album. And once the album is over, you’re going to leave, okay? Go and live your life like you promised. And I will do the same, okay?”
I can’t answer. I want to answer. I want to agree. But nothing comes out of my mouth. Because once I say “okay,” it’s true.
“Okay?” he repeats.
Finally the word forms. “Okay.”
Michael and I sit quietly. We listen to the music, let it flood our bodies. For the whole album, easily an hour long, neither of us speak. His fingers trace through my short ’fro. My fingers stroke his thigh.
And it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.
Until the record ends, and the air falls silent.
“Time to go,” he whispers, gently sitting me up. His fingers smooth my shirt, adjust my collar, and run through my hair one more time. I look at his face for the first time since he put my head down, and for the last time…
And I notice that he’s crying. Not loud, sobbing tears, but silent ones, soft trickles. Streaky lines on his face tell me he’s been crying for a while.
“Time to go,” I repeat.
Something tells me I should kiss him. That’s probably the right thing to do when you’re not going to see someone again.
But instead, we hug, wrapping ourselves around each other as tightly as possible.
“Before I go, I want to say one—”
“I know, Andre Cobb from Boston, I know,” he says before I can say it.
We stay in that position, just holding each other, for I don’t know how long. I don’t care either. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his skin against mine. His scent. His breathing. Anything and everything I can hold on to. I want to remember it, to cherish it, to never forget.
My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that I think I’m going to pass out. This doesn’t feel the way a jump feels; this feels different. This feels like an emotional high. Like joy and anger and hurt and fear all at once.
It feels good and bad and real and false and like something I want and something I want to stay as far away from as possible.
And it’s exactly what I need to push through the pain that erupts the moment I think about jumping back to the present. My present.
It’s what I need to go home. My home. My real home. My real life.
And to live it like Michael did: to the fullest.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
When I return, Blake is still on my bed.
That was, and most likely will be, the most important seventy-five minutes of my life.
I wonder if it will be the most important seventy-five seconds of his.
Blake looks up, smiling nervously. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”
I don’t think okay is the right word. There are so many other appropriate expressions to describe how I feel.
Broken.
Shattered.
Exhausted.
Defeated.
But none of those come out. Instead, I wrap my arms as tightly as I can around Blake, as if to test whether he’s real, and I cry—I cry so hard my whole body shakes.
And Blake? He just holds me, and he doesn’t say a word.