This time we were at his house. (Miguel would still have me over, but only when his mom was at work. I always liked his mom. Sharp tongue but soft heart. Amazing cook. Super welcoming. Until I got expelled. The sad twist that only M and I could appreciate: my trying to help her son was what led her to hate me.)
Ever since that day at my house, our friendship had bloomed into something else. Junior year was hell, but Miguel was my silver lining. The one worthwhile part of my life. I always looked forward to seeing him. But lately, that feeling was more like a compulsion. This gravitational force pulling me toward him. I didn’t want to be near him. I had to.
That day at his house, he lay next to me. I studied his body, trying to memorize it before it became hidden again. The way his skin seemed to absorb the energy of the lamplight. His chest caving in, forming a shallow pool. I wondered who else in his life was granted this privilege. Who else got to push that birthmark button. My social life resembled a line connecting only two points. But Miguel’s was a circle. He had other friends at Hanover. A big family with lots of cousins. And there was an ex he still spoke to. Where did I fit in? Near his center? Or toward an outer ring?
What is that? he asked, breaking the silence.
I followed his gaze, realizing too late where he’d been looking. I had forgotten that I’d removed my bracelets. Something I normally wouldn’t do. Something his gravitational force persuaded me to do.
I pulled my wrist away. Nothing, I said.
He stared into my eyes. It felt like a challenge.
I got out of bed, rolled my bracelets on. A few scars from a few idle nights. Passing time, really. A lighter, matches, candle wax. Fine, not nothing, but not totally something, either.
He sat up. You always do that, he said.
Do what? I said, putting on my shirt.
Anytime I get too close… His feet hit the floor.
I tried to laugh. What are you talking about?
We’re always here at my house. You had me over one time. It’s like you only give me these tiny glimpses.
I challenged him with a dead stare. Why do you even care? It’s not like we’re… I shrugged. I don’t even know what we’re supposed to be.
He shook his head and sighed, stood up. How can we get there if you don’t let me.
(Spoken like a statement. An ultimatum. I had no choice, really.)
Miguel didn’t know what the past year had been like. He’d heard, sure, but he wasn’t actually there. He knew only the legend, not the reality. Day after day after day. Scratching and scraping. The damage done to me and by me. Every good thing turned bad. Lying in bed at night and imagining myself just…
You don’t understand, I said.
He looked at me for a moment. And then, he came up to my face. Nose-to-nose. Eye-to-eye. Not as close as we were a moment ago and yet somehow more intimate than that. So, he said. Tell me.
I stood before him and I shook. I shook from his stare.
Be fucking real with me.
How? How could I do it? When underneath whatever he thought he saw in me was something so beyond repair?
I stepped back, clenched my jaw, locked myself up. Got dressed as fast as I could. He tried to stop me, called me back. But my split decision was already made: run for your life.
(Still running, I guess.)
There’s this photo of me going around now. Short hair. Big, goofy smile on my face. I saw it everywhere at that assembly a few weeks back. My mother must have found it on my phone. I guess she had no way of knowing that I edited the photo. A selfie, taken by Miguel. In the original, he is by my side, his smile as wide as mine.
I was certain of one thing: how I felt when I was around him and when I wasn’t. The first was exhilarating. The other unbearable. Being with him was like being hooked on a drug. When we stopped seeing each other, I went into withdrawal. It was a long, dark summer.