I follow them to their car like a lost puppy. The sun is out, which seems mildly homophobic since between the brightness and my tears, I can barely see. They pull out of the parking lot, headed vaguely toward home. My home or theirs, I’m not even sure.
Eventually I get my crying under control enough to say, “I got kicked off the play.”
Bowie doesn’t look away from the road, but their eyes bug out. “You what?”
“Jasmine posted my breakup lists all over the Theatre Board.”
“What? Why?”
This is the hardest part to say.
“She found out about me and Liam.”
“Oh.” Bowie chews their lips, hits their blinker. “Yours or mine?”
“Huh?”
“Your house or mine?”
It takes me a moment to decide. Not only because I’m trying to calculate when Jasmine will get home, but also because I’m not sure if I deserve Bowie’s friendship. Not when I’ve been such a butt.
“Yours.”
“Okay.”
The drive is quiet. I don’t know what else to say, and Bowie’s concentrating on getting around a traffic jam caused by a car pulled over on the side of the road. It’s on fire, actual fire, with huge billows of black smoke coming from the front. At first I panic, thinking it might be Liam’s—a fire is about the only thing that hasn’t happened to his car yet—but it’s not the color of cargo pants.
It does have a Riverstone student parking sticker on the rear windshield. Along with a bumper sticker for one of the more conservative churches in town. And then, next to the firefighters, I spot—
“Was that Dominic?” Bowie asks as we drive by. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“Maybe Jasmine’s gone on a vengeance tour.”
“At least you’ve still got your sense of humor.”
I’m not sure if I’m joking or not.
When we get to Bowie’s, they let me in, and I immediately fall face-down on their couch. I wish it would swallow me whole. But before I can even get comfortable, Bowie prods me in the shoulder with their knee until I roll over.
“Uh-uh. Come help me with this basghetti.”
“What’s to help with? Boil water. Cook pasta. Drain. Add sauce.”
“Nope. I need your help.”
“Bowie . . .”
“Jackson.”
They keep staring at me, one eyebrow quirked.
“Ugh. Fine.”
So I fill a pot with water while they get out the spaghetti and a jar of sauce.
It’s only basghetti if you make it with sauce from a jar.
“What happened?” they ask as we wait for the water to boil.
“You’re going to be mad at me.”
“Maybe. But I’m still your friend. What happened?”
So I tell them. About me and Liam getting caught at swimming. Jasmine freaking out. Stealing my lists. Liam breaking up with me. Dr. L kicking me off the show.
“You know the worst part? Right before it all happened, I told him I loved him.”
Bowie’s eyes soften. “You did?”
“And he said he loved me back.” I’m crying again, tears pooling before streaking down my face to soak the collar of my shirt. “He said he loved me. But then he broke up with me anyway.”
My lips quiver.
“I messed everything up. With Jasmine. With Liam. With you.”
“Oh, we’re doing me now?” Bowie asks.
I try to laugh and cry at the same time. It only comes out as a hiccup.
“I should’ve been a better friend to you.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I know it was shitty. I made everything about my relationship.”
Bowie adds salt to the boiling water and tosses in the pasta. They turn back to me, arms crossed.
“You did.”
“I don’t know why I did. But I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Please don’t give up on me.”
They look at me like I’m speaking French.
“Seriously, Jacks? Apologize in one breath, make it all about you in the next?”
I swallow. They’re right.
“We’ve been friends since we were five. Do you really think I’d give up on you?”
“I don’t know.” I hug myself. “No.”
“Good.” Bowie purses their lips, blows out a breath. “I can be mad at you and still love you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Sometimes I can’t help myself. “Jasmine says I have abandonment issues.”
“Well, she’s been pretty awful to you lately, but I’m not sure she’s wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“I really think you should talk to someone about this, Jacks. Like . . . go back to therapy or something.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“But my therapist was the one who told me to make lists in the first place.”
“Are you sure they weren’t supposed to be, like, pro-con lists?”
I shrug. “He always talked slow to me anyway.”
“Sounds like you had a shit therapist.”
“Maybe.” I grab the tongs and stir the spaghetti. “I’m really sorry, Bowie. I messed up. And you’re right. I’ll ask Dad about therapy.”
“I forgive you. And don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I know you’re scared about college. But it’ll be okay. Did it ever occur to you that I’m going to miss you too?”
Honestly?
I’m not sure it did.
“But we can’t let that stop us from chasing our dreams. I want you to reach yours, Jackson.”
“I want you to reach yours too. You know that. Right?”
Bowie finally smiles. “I do.”
When the pasta’s cooked, I drain it, then Bowie cracks the jar and pours the sauce all over. I serve them a big pile and then myself.
“Carbs don’t cure everything, but they come close,” Bowie says. “It’s going to be okay, Jacks.”
I sigh. “But I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Jasmine. The show.” I swallow. “Liam.”
I feel another cry coming on and stare at the ceiling, but that doesn’t help.
“I really hurt him.”
“Yeah.”
“You talked to him?”
“Not about you, but yeah, he seemed down.”
“I didn’t think I could love someone the way I love him.” I wipe at my tears before any more fall into my basghetti.
Bowie sighs. “You’ve got a big heart, Jackson. A big heart, and an itty-bitty brain sometimes.”
“Ouch.”
“But that’s why I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“It’s going to be okay. Now dig in. The basghetti’s getting cold.”