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Evan
I wipe at my wet cheeks with my sweater sleeve, but my arm is so tense I can barely move it. I want to run after Jordan, but I can't move. If I let go of Nat I'll fall on my face. Sarah is standing on the other side of me now, and I finally realize that all of this happened in front of everyone. Maybe they didn’t look, but I know they heard.
"I..." I was going to say that I'm sorry for having a seizure, but I can't take my eyes off Jordan's back as he’s swallowed up by the darkness. The familiarity of the situation weakens my knees, but at the same time they twitch like they're ready to run. Run after him like I ran after Mom until I collapsed as her car disappeared into suburbia. To apologize for being me. For being broken.
My legs move me forward even though every single muscle on my body is sore. Nat grips my shoulder and points to the curb like I’m a dog who won’t sit.
"Let him go, EJ." Nat helps me down and Sarah takes my other hand so I go down slowly. It hurts. All of me hurts, inside and out. I think of those words written on the car window. Let go. Fresh tears run down my cheeks, and I know my face is swollen.
Sarah rubs my back. "He'll be back. If Jordan is anything, it's devoted to those he deems worthy."
My tongue feels sticky, my mouth dry, my brain like it's too big for my skull. "I’m not sure he thinks much of me right now."
Sarah purses her lips. "He'll be back."
Lane crouches down in front of me. "We need to get you to the hospital, Evan."
My head starts shaking wildly. "I'm not going to the hospital."
His head drops, and he runs his hands through his hair like Jordan. It's a gesture that really makes them brothers. "You ripped a stitch. You had a seizure. You should be observed, Evan. Especially with the ICD implant."
I glare at him. "I don't want to talk about the stupid pacemaker right now. What are my other options?"
"EJ, maybe he's right. Maybe we should go." Nat looks almost as tired as I feel.
"They'll call my Dad, Nat. Do you want him to find out you scalped tickets to a concert we were not supposed to go to?" I'm grasping, but I can't go to the hospital. I've had this heart condition long enough to know I'm not in any immediate danger. The door winded me and split my stitches. The pain made me hold my breath and cut oxygen to my brain. I know that's what happened. Other than a headache and stiffness, I feel fine.
"I don't want you to die, though. That would really ruin my night..." She smirks and squeezes my forearm. Sarah leans forward to gawk at us, but soon she's smiling, too. Lane is not.
"Fine. I have butterfly sutures at my place. Your other option is to come with me and stay under my observation. If I think you have a concussion or any damage whatsoever, I'm taking you to the hospital no matter how you feel about it." His glare is hard.
"Okay, fine." I force my aching muscles up. I don't often have seizures anymore. Not since the surgery. But go figure, it's in front of Jordan. I twist my wrist where his phone number is still scrawled across my skin. I'm not ready for him to disappear. I trace the numbers on my arm. I'm not ready to let go.
"If there is one speck of dirt in that cut, Evan." Lane points at me, and I nod. I don't want to go to the hospital, but I'm also not an idiot.
“I’m coming too,” Sarah says, standing and linking her arm through mine. My favorite singer saw me have a seizure, freak out on a guy I’m in a fake relationship with, and still doesn’t take off. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe this night.
Lane glances at Sarah in a way that screams without using words. They have an unfinished history, and the way his eyes shadow over hits me with wildly curiousity. But with me and Jordan, and Nat’s issues with Aaron, I don’t have time to add one more messed up love story to my list.
Lane flips the keys in his hand and shrugs. The keyless entry causes the SUV to beep loudly as the doors unlock, and Lane mumbles something about babysitting as he moves around to the driver side.
I open the back door and slide in followed by Nat. Hector sprints across the parking lot and jumps in on her other side. “I’m riding with you guys.”
Sarah turns in the front seat, and Lane seems almost relieved.
“What are the other guys doing?” Sarah asks, and Hector shrugs.
“Rick went back for that girl from the concert. I dunno about the others, probably off to find someone to keep them awake for the rest of the night, too.” Hector winks as he pulls a phone out of the pocket of his bright red hoodie and begins tapping it.
Through the window is the empty, dark street, and my heart squeezes painfully. “What about Jordan?”
Lane looks at me in the rear view mirror. “Jordan knows his way home.”
We drive in silence, all staring straight forward, and I try to keep my eyes open. It’s two in the morning and everything inside, outside, and on me is exhausted. A small part of me wishes I could go back to the hotel and sleep. Forget this night.
My forehead rests against the cold window as the world zips by. I know forgetting is not an option. I know Lane should check my incision. I know I need to talk to Jordan again.
I know that no matter what happens, I will never forget this night.
2:02 AM
Nat has to carry most of my weight up the fifth flight of narrow stairs leading to Lane’s apartment. I lay one arm over her shoulders while gripping the peeling paint of the banister in the other. Lane and Sarah disappear into the apartment, and I stop walking. My senses are overtaken by the slightly musty smell that I assume is natural for a building this old.
“You okay?” Nat asks.
“I’ll be fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
I watch her expression carefully for lies, but there’s nothing but concern. “Wild night, hey?”
Nat gestures dramatically and piggy backs me up the rest of the stairs, while I laugh. It’s not the first time she’s done this.
Lane’s place is rundown but nice. Old and clean. No musty smell in here. There’s a huge crack along the ceiling like a stress fracture from the heaving of the brick structure. I follow the crack as it passes over the super old, gold couch with brown flower patterns on it and run my finger along the worn fabric. Jordan lives here, and I can feel him everywhere. I wonder what his day-to-day life is like. I wonder what he does when he relaxes, when he isn't over-thinking and over-feeling everything. There's a small bookcase next to the TV, and I wonder what books he likes, who his favorite poet is, and when he started writing on objects. Fresh tears burn my eyes when I realize I might never get to ask him. My fingers fall from the back of the couch, and Nat flops down onto it like she lives here.
“Oh man, laying down feels amazing.” She tugs at her hair and stretches her legs out. She’s right. It feels like I haven’t sat on a couch or bed in forever, and suddenly, I crave it. Lane helps me to the little kitchen counter covered in yellow-checkered laminate and pointing to a wooden stool.
“You sit.” His mouth twitches enough so I know he’s not quite as irritated with me as he’s pretending to be. I stumble backward and sit hard. “Shirt off.”
My eyes open so big it hurts. Hector and Sarah are watching me intently. I shake my head.
“Evan, you said no hospital. I need to clean that incision, patch it, and re-bandage it, because, if you don’t recall, the doctor said it had to stay on for twenty-four hours after you left, which it hasn’t been yet.” Lane snaps his fingers, pointing to my shirt, and I’m amazed at how much he sounds like my dad. How he can say small, seemingly meaningless things, but like an iceberg the words only make up a fraction of what he’s really saying.
“Evan,” Dad said through a sigh when I came home from the hospital after my myectomy surgery where they carved out some of the excess muscle in my heart to make room for more blood. “The doctors feel like we could do more for you." But between each word was a blame laid on all of us. Mom and Dad fighting all the time. Me insisting I was fine, disappearing further into the stars. We were failing. All of us.
We were failing each other.
Lane calls to Hector who's sitting next to Nat on the couch, I can see her arms hanging off the couch, but I can't see her face. Hector turns his attention to us.
"These scissors are dull. Can you go in that desk over there and grab my spare first aid kit?" Lane asks, and Hector walks under the crack in the ceiling. "First drawer."
He absently slides open the drawer and grabs a bright red case, but he pauses and leans over the drawer. In his other hand he holds out a Manila envelope and frowns.
"What's that?" Lane asks as he finishes setting up all the bottles and sutures and things he'll use to poke at me with.
"It's from Royal Holloway..." Hector sounds confused.
"What's Royal Holloway?" I ask, and Nat sits up on the couch. Hector's frown has morphed into a glare, his gaze hitting Lane so hard I feel it.
"Did you know about this?" he asks and Lane’s face pales (He definitely knows about it. Whatever it is.) before he reaches for the first aid kit. Hector tosses the little case at him and mutters a string of curse words that I don't understand the meaning behind.
"Jordan's a big boy, Hector. He makes his own choices." Lane pulls scissors from the kit and begins to disinfect them with some alcohol solution that burns my nose. Sarah washes her hands at the kitchen sink.
I shift my gaze between the three of them. None of them will look at each other.
"What is this all about?" Nat grabs the envelope from Hector's hand and shakes her head as she opens it. "This night is too dramatic for me." And that’s saying something.
Nat slides a paper out and snaps it in the air, holding it close to her nose.
"Dear Mr. Evans," Nat begins and clears her throat. "We have reviewed your portfolio of work, and the faculty of Royal Holloway at the University of London were impressed by the overall quality of your poetry..." Nat's words slow down with each added syllable. Her voice trails out, and her mouth falls open. She twists her body from side to side.
"Shut up," she continues.
"What Natalie?" I urge her. Now is not the time for theatrics.
"He was accepted wasn't he?" Hector leaks the words through clenched teeth.
"Accepted on full scholarship." Nat whistles. Hector snaps the paper from her hands, startling us all. She exposes more papers from the envelope. “He only had to fill all this crap out to apply...”
"And he didn't.” Hector pushes the words out. It's more of a statement than anything. Nat shakes her head slowly.
“The deadline was April third,” Nat says quietly.
“Hector,” Sarah says, and he silences her with a single glare.
“I pulled a lot of strings to get this done, Sarah, and he doesn’t even bother to fill out the paperwork? To tell me about the scholarship?”
“He didn’t have to tell you about it,” Lane interjects as he snaps on a pair of blue gloves. Hector transfers his glare from Sarah to Lane. “He didn’t have to tell you because he doesn’t want to go. He didn’t apply. You did.”
A whole flood of questions comes to my mind, but I don’t dare interrupt. Sarah smiles at me weakly, and I can tell this isn’t the first time this topic has been argued.
“Oh, that’s bullshit and you know it, Lane,” Hector says waving the paper in the air. “He is scared to go. Scared to leave Annie...” His face goes stoic. “I bet she—”
Lane waves his hand. “Annie doesn’t know. He never told her. What you did was a dick move, Hector. Jordan doesn’t want to go. It really is that simple. So drop it, okay?” He points the scissors at Hector.
“Dude—”
“I said drop it.”
Hector growls and crumples the paper in his hand. He storms to the door and flings it open. As he passes through the doorway he slams his fist into the already cracking trim, and I jump.
"Hector!" Sarah calls and runs out after him but stops in the hall, letting out a long sigh. She comes back inside and heads down the long hallway. A door slams.
“Well, that was intense,” I say.
Nat nods and leans on the back of the couch. The air seems as if it’s expanded in the room and filled every corner with a lingering tension.
“Why is Hector so invested in what Jordan does with his life?” Nat asks.
Lane shrugs. “He thinks Jordan could do big things with his writing. Hector sees Jordan as a performance artist, especially with the writing on public property, almost as much as a writer. But Jordie’s weird about his poetry.”
Nat laughs— short choppy. “Yeah, we figured."
“My brother is an all-or-nothing kind of guy. And he’s very private. Not many people have been able to crack him.” Lane looks at me directly, and like before, I feel like what he said is only a small part of what he means.
“It sounds like this Annie chick cracked him pretty good,” Nat says, picking at her fingernails, and my heart hammers at the mention of her name. I know it’s dumb, but I’m jealous of her and pissed at her at the same time, and I don’t even know her.
Lane scoffs. “Annie didn’t crack Jordan. She disintegrated him. He never opened up with her, only caved in on himself, trying to please her.”
“I think maybe you’re a bit of a poet yourself, Lane.” I attempt to lighten the mood, and Lane’s lip twitches.
“I prefer science to emotion,” he says. He points to my shirt then gestures upward, telling me to take it off. I let out a long exhausted sigh as I strip off my hoodie and t-shirt carefully.
“Me too.”
He adjusts my shoulders so I’m square with his body and picks up a pair of scissors. “Okay, Evan, this might hurt...” He lightly pinches my skin where one of the stitches has ripped clean through the flesh.