I SPENT the next three weeks at home. In my room. Still hiding myself away from everyone.
From the world.
And, I guess, hiding away from myself as well.
I knew what was going to happen once school started. It was obvious. There’d be people staring and trying not to stare. People asking questions. Talking about me. About Nate. About it. About what happened.
The few friends I had did try to call right after it happened. Or tried to text or messenger, but I just wasn’t responding. To anyone.
About a week after the Fourth, though, I did answer one text from someone I never expected to hear from.
Ziggy.
It was short and to the point.
You need to get out of the house. Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.
I did.
I didn’t feel like I really had a choice.
He rolled up, and within a minute of helping me get into his truck—I still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the crutches—he handed me a tightly rolled fatty that I gratefully took a couple of deep hits off before passing it back.
We drove in silence, each in our own world. It was nice to get out of the house, and even nicer not to have to talk or think about anything but the feeling of the smoke and the music entering my head.
Finally, he said something. “Sorry, man.” And that was enough. The look in his eyes said it all.
He drove over to the Freezie Treats where I used to work. We ordered gigantor slushies, icy cold and just what we needed after the joint. Especially after Ziggy poured some of the vodka he had in a paper bag stashed under his seat into each one.
More silence, and then he started talking, like it was something he’d been waiting to say to me for a while.
Something he’d been practicing in his head.
“Look, bud, I know it’s all on me. I’m the one who hooked you up with the IDs. No IDs, no trip to Houston. No trip to Houston, no club. No club, no shooting.
“I get that. I can do the math.”
There was a long pause from Ziggy as he looked out the windshield of the car and not at me. He took a big gulp of his drink.
“And… even though she says she doesn’t, I know Kristen blames me, even though she’s the one who asked me to get you guys the IDs. It’s cool, though. I get it. She has to blame someone, and it might as well be me.
“And if I was her, I wouldn’t want me around either, know what I mean?”
I did. And while part of me did kind of blame him or wanted to blame him, even though I knew that was totally unfair, and really didn’t want to be around him much either, the other part of me saw how miserable he was and felt terrible for him.
“Yeah, Ziggy, I know what you mean. But it’s cool… you didn’t make us take the IDs… we wanted them.
“We’re cool, Zig. Promise.”
The moment I said that, Ziggy relaxed, I mean really relaxed, for the first time since I’d gotten in the truck. Maybe for the first time since it happened.
I knew or at least think I knew that he needed to hear someone tell him that. But that wasn’t going to come from Kristen or anyone else in Nate’s family.
Which left it to me. It had to be from me. He needed to hear me tell him. He needed to hear me say that I didn’t blame him for what happened to Nate. Or to me. And as much as I wanted to, as much as I wanted to unload on him, I couldn’t.
I was far too busy blaming myself.
I started hanging out with Ziggy a few days a week. I’d get a text telling me that he was on his way, and I’d make my way downstairs to wait for him. We’d smoke a joint. We’d go to Freezie Treats and drink gigantor slushies with vodka. Then he’d drive me home, usually pushing a small package of excellent weed “for later” into my hand.
We barely said a word, but I was grateful for his company. And for the vodka. And the pot. And for the good painkillers he also silently pressed into my hand every once in a while, now that the doctor was cutting me off from anything that actually did me any good.
They all helped me to forget. Or if not to forget, to at least not think about it too much.
And giving them to me was his way of making himself feel better about what happened.
His way, I guess, of trying to help.
We were both a mess. But I appreciated his effort. I appreciated his being there and getting me out of the house. I appreciated the pot and all. I appreciated his silent company.
But most of all, I appreciated that he didn’t ask me anything. Ever. Not about Nate and being gay and what our relationship was or wasn’t.
And he never ever asked me anything about that night.
It was understood without saying a word. And it stayed not talked about.
Neither of us wanted to talk about it.
And that’s how my summer went: physical therapy twice a week, hiding out in my room, smoking pot and drinking with Ziggy.
Until school starting today, since it’s the end of August. And I am forced to return to what is commonly known as “real life.”
The time for hiding out had now come to an end.