Just so we’re clear—because I wasn’t even sure myself at first—my parents are sending me to Iceland alone. I was worried for a minute they’d decided to shut down Camp so we could have some happy-go-lucky family retreat. Camp is still on, my moms are still running the place, and I’m glad. I am a little nervous, though, about going somewhere so far away on my own.
I went to see Brian at the restaurant earlier. His parents pretty much have him managing the place now that he’s graduated. It means he’s busy a lot, but on the plus side, he did give me a shit-ton of free cheese fries.
“How was prom?”
“Kind of a bust. You think it’s going to be a big deal, but then you get there and it’s just another stupid high school dance,” Brian said. “Terrible music. Lots of twerking. People crying.”
“And graduation?”
“Terrible music. Lots of twerking. People crying.”
“Ah, good,” I said, and I found myself smiling for the first time in a while. “I was afraid I was missing out.”
I told him about the trip. Figured he might want to come along.
“Iceland?”
“Yeah, man. Supposed to be really pretty right now. So, do you want to go? There’s probably still time to get you a ticket.”
“That’s really cool, man. But, I can’t. I gotta adult.”
“No! You can’t do this to me, Brian. Please don’t do this to me. You can’t adult.”
“I know. I know. Trust me, nobody regrets this more than me. But, look.” He waved his hand around, gesturing to his recently inherited kingdom of fry cooks and oil vats. “Someday all of this will be mine.”
I groaned and speared a few more fries with my fork. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss high school. No. Not that. What I really miss is being small enough to ride in the shopping cart at the grocery store. Those were the days.”
He smiled and stretched his gigantic arms across the back of the booth. I bet Bri doesn’t even remember riding in a shopping cart. His limbs were probably too long at age three. “No, man. You’re gonna have a hell of a time in Iceland. You know what I’ve heard about that place?”
“Uh, that it’s green and Greenland is icy?”
“Nah. I’ve heard it’s super easy to get laid. There’s even this website that gives you tips on how to get Icelandic girls to go home with you and stuff. I’ll have to send you the link. Also, I saw this old interview with Quentin Tarantino where he said pretty much everyone there is really, really hot. Like, even the girls working at McDonald’s. I wish I could go!”
“Yeah. But wouldn’t Megan be pissed if you went off to screw some Nordic women with me?”
He sighed. “Man, Megan dumped me.”
“What?” I said. “When?”
“Like three months ago, maybe. She met this guy at her fancy new bank job. I don’t know.”
“That sucks, man,” I said. They’d been together since freshman year. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“Why didn’t you say something? Even though I’ve got all this shit going on, you know you can still talk to me, right?”
“Your phone can place outgoing calls, too, Miles.”
Ouch.
After I left the restaurant, I had to run a few errands for Mamochka. When I got home, Brian had already sent me the link to the How to Hook Up with Icelandic Chicks website. And an 8tracks mix entitled “Music to Lay Your Lady (or Man or Whatever Miles Is Diggin’ These Days) Down To.” What a bro.
I just had a panic attack. At least, I think so. I’m thinking about all those times I’d sit with you gasping beside me and all I could do was rub your back and tell you to breathe. Slow down, V. Slowly. Deep breaths. I don’t have anybody to do that for me. Mamochka, maybe, but she’s sleeping, and it’d just worry her more. And I’m too old for that shit, man.
And you wanna know what brought all of this on? This awful panic attack stuff? A fucking three-pack of Trojans.
Because, yes, I bought condoms for my trip. The smallest box I could find, and it still feels like a thousand-pound weight on my chest.
And, God, I can’t even say it. I can’t even type it to a faceless oblivion. That’s how ashamed I feel right now.
Okay. I’ve slept a little. Not a peaceful drift, but pure exhaustion. I feel a little clearer now, though. So, we can try this again.
I want to have sex with someone.
First of all, I’d choose you. In a heartbeat. Like, if some magical hookup fairy came to me and said, You can bang anyone you want, Miles, anyone in the whole world. Hell, even aliens are up for grabs if you’re into that freaky tentacle shit. I’d be all, No, ma’am, just Vivian please. Awake and alive and in my arms. No question. BUT meanwhile in the real world . . . I am losing my mind here. I hate thinking this whole thing is about sex. Am I really that basic?
There’s no guidebook for Comaland, though. Nothing to tell me that a year and a half is long enough. I wish YOU could tell me a year and a half was long enough. Just like I wish you’d been able to rub my back and tell me to breathe, but, no, I’m just feeling my way in the dark, and it really, really sucks.
Maybe a year and a half is too long? Maybe I’m a loser for waiting around when I know you’re not going to wake up, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be you and we’d still never ever sleep together again. Brian definitely thinks I’ve waited long enough. And so does his cousin Audrey, who tried to hook up with me, like, a year ago. I almost did. I mean, the pants were off. But then came the guilt.
Damn, I’ve got more hang-ups about sex these days than a Pentecostal preacher’s daughter. I want to not feel guilty. I want to not feel like I’d be cheating on you. I can’t have that, like I can’t have one last little kiss on the shoulder. I’m not asking to fall in love again. Definitely not ready for that. But I’d like someone to touch me. And maybe push you to the back of my brain for a little while.
Just finished packing. I laid everything I needed to take to Iceland out on my bed like one of those knolling-style photographs you always see on travel blogs and menswear ads. A collection of related items, perfectly sorted and neatly arranged. There’s something soothing about creating order from chaos. I folded my wrinkled jeans and worn-out boxer briefs. Belt, passport, iPad, tiny toiletries, guidebook, chargers. Other than a few dumb slogan tees and a handful of ¾-gauge earrings, it was all pretty run-of-the-mill stuff.
It’s funny how boring it all seemed. Guess I’m pretty generic. On paper, anyway.
I unzipped my suitcase to find a slight dusting of white sand, a souvenir from my last big trip. The Definitely Not Disney Trip to Florida. You made us all swear up and down that we wouldn’t set foot in the Magic Kingdom.
“Why on earth,” Mom had asked, “don’t you want to go to Disney World?”
“Because my parents haven’t ever taken me,” you said. “I just think it’s something all parents HAVE to do.”
You were sixteen. At that point it seemed highly unlikely that your parents would ever take you to Disney, especially if you weren’t on speaking terms.
I was fourteen, and my parents had never taken me to Disney. And since you weren’t my girlfriend at the time, just this new and constant fixture at my house, I had to point out the fact that you were ruining my chances of meeting Mickey Mouse—not that that was ever a life goal or anything. Now, Princess Jasmine . . . maybe.
So, anyway, we all went to Florida. We drove because you were afraid of getting x-rayed and felt up by the TSA agents. We stayed in a condo that looked like a Barbie Dream House, and you and I soaked in the enormous bathtub together with our bathing suits on. Instead of Disney World, we went to Universal Studios, which, honestly, I think is probably better anyway. Because: Harry Potter.
That was a good trip. A happy trip.
Sometimes when I get really angry about your parents, Mamochka tells me that they’re just loving you the only way they know how. Like, somehow, keeping you alive makes up for being the reason you wanted to die. It never quite makes sense, but it used to be enough to calm me down. Now I think it’s bullshit. It’s bullshit, and I hate them for not loving you the right way and for never taking you to Disney World.
You should have let us take you instead.
I’ll be close to you tomorrow. The airport’s only, like, thirty minutes from your hospital. But I can’t go see you, because your parents filed an ex parte. Weird, isn’t it? I’m the last person you’d ever think would get slapped with a restraining order. I wish I’d known the last time I saw you it was truly the last time. I don’t know what I could have done differently, but there does seem to be a lack of closure here. So, for now, I’ll have to browse through my photos of you and kiss my phone screen goodbye instead of your cheek. Not really. I don’t actually make out with my phone or anything. That would be weird. I miss you, V. Love you.