This is me trying, p.27
This Is Me Trying, page 27
What I saw was a beautiful girl with an exterior that shimmered like a glacier, simultaneously stunning and icy and hard, but breakable. What I didn’t see was the car veering into our lane.
I cranked the wheel toward the side of the road and the car was spinning and Whitney was screaming and the only thing in my mind was: I don’t want to die.
I couldn’t take it back.
I started seeing things too clearly. Every plan I’d made had grounded me. Watch a movie with Mom tonight, try a new brand of oat milk the next time I stop by the grocery store, take Lottie to the vet this weekend, study with Whitney. I thought I’d been drifting away, detached from the world by my grief. But life managed to weigh me down little by little every day until I felt like an old birthday balloon sinking to the ground long after the party had ended. Or maybe I was the child it once belonged to, swatting at it, begging it to float again.
Part of me did want to float away. Sometimes I still do.
Santiago doesn’t interrupt, absorbing years of secrets I’ve kept even from myself. I hardly register the words leaving my mouth, my internal dialogue suddenly external. It’s quiet for so long before he speaks.
“So, how did things end with you and Whitney?”
I’m not proud of it. “Well, we didn’t actually crash. But a week later, I told her I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t speak to her until Bryce’s birthday, months later. By then she seemed happier.”
“Was that a punishment? Letting her go?”
I’ve managed the entire thing without crying, but my throat tightens now.
He nods.
“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” I admit. “Me and my pain and guilt. I’m scared this’ll always be me. But I’m also scared to be anyone else.”
For years, the grief clouded my life. I could only see as far as it let me, and that was either forever without someone I loved or tomorrow. At some point, I learned to wade through the fog. Kept finding a reason to push the expiration date back, even if just to see the sun set and stars emerge one more time.
“It’s not your fault,” Santiago says, and maybe one day I’ll believe him.
I miss Bryce. He was hilarious and bossy and a liar and creative and fun and selfish and wonderful. I think of him often but not honestly. I think of him the way he wanted the world to see him—joyous and okay—rather than the way he was: a kid who needed help.
I wish he was here.
“Me too,” Santi says. I spoke aloud again.
“I really wish he was here,” I repeat, this time on purpose.
chapter fifty-two SANTIAGO
When I wake up, it’s a few hours later and I’m alone in Bea’s bed. I prop myself up on one elbow, leaning over to find Lottie on the floor, pawing at one of my discarded socks. Apologetically, I take it from her and slip it back on before crawling through the open window.
The sun is setting, bathing Bea’s face gold while she casts a long shadow that matches her clothes. It’s tricky to navigate my way over, survival instinct riddling my body with every move, and I feel a shard of terror that the reason she finds it so easy to come up here is because she doesn’t fear the ground the way I do. Her earlier confession may have me looking for signs in every act, a new obsession to mull over. But when she scoots aside to make space for me, she keeps a steady hand planted on the roof and a cautious eye on the edge.
“I didn’t hear you get up,” I say, brushing dirt off my hands as I settle. After talking, we both knocked out.
She tugs her knees closer to her chest. “I was quiet. And you’re a heavy sleeper.”
We remember prom at the same time—I see it in the way her posture stiffens. It’s a day of honesty and I already played my part with Pa and Whitney, but I know where this next conversation has to lead us, no matter how daunting the task.
Carefully, I hook a finger through the cord around my neck and the key emerges, twinkling in the last sparks of sunlight. “I shouldn’t have told you about the fight the way I did.”
She pulls the chain out from under her shirt, revealing her key. “We both had bad timing.”
I shake my head, and the movement drops the key from my fingertip, landing back onto my hollow chest. “I knew you would blame yourself, and I never wanted that for you. I doubt he would either.”
She rubs at her unpainted eyes. “Why me? Why fight over me, of all things? He wasn’t the jealous type, and you and I never—” Prom flashes through both of our minds again, our mouths and bodies behaving in the least platonic ways imaginable. “There was nothing like that between us, right?”
“Right,” I say honestly, because even if I thought Bea was pretty back then, it wasn’t in the way I do now. “But I don’t think it was about him believing anything was going on.” For so long, I was angry that Bryce—my best friend and probably, if I’m being honest with myself, the first person I ever loved—distrusted my intentions enough that he thought my friendship with Bea was motivated by romance. That’s too simple a solution though, one that absolves and indicts all of us in a clean sweep. Bryce was wrongfully jealous. Bea and I never so much as entertained a romantic or sexual thought about each other when he was alive. Now, Bea and I are proving him right. Bryce’s suspicions came true. It would all be so much neater if it boiled down to these things.
But Whitney was jealous of me and Bea, and not for any of the assumed reasons. I forgot how easy it is to pretend that love has a hierarchy in type, but romance isn’t the end-all be-all.
“Bryce told you what he was feeling,” I say. “Maybe he wanted me to see it for myself.” The rest of the conversation steps forward, shadowing the parts I often highlighted. Bryce angry that I wanted Bea, but not him, to have access to Abuelo, Bryce angry that I implied Bea losing me would hurt more than him losing me, Bryce angry because I was leaving and he couldn’t stop me, but he could yell at me and tell me to go instead, snatching back control.
Isn’t that what we’ve all been yearning for, control over what the world throws our way, a coauthoring position in the narrative of our lives?
No one ever told us specifically how Bryce died, so on the worst days, I let myself wonder about it. Did it hurt? Was he scared? Did he want to take it back, in those final moments? Did he realize, as he slipped away, that he’d pressed stop when all he really wanted was a pause?
Or did the same sick relief I feel when I complete a ritual—some arbitrary action that I’ve convinced myself is the solution to escaping death and tragedy—wash over him? Did the permanency not matter, because in that moment, his pain felt so overwhelming that it wrongly convinced him this was the only cure?
I’ve been running from death my whole life. It’s inevitable, and one day I’ll have to embrace the reality that I cannot control it, but it’s not a cure for anything.
“I get why you ignored me now,” Bea says, startling me. She rests her cheek on her knees so she can watch my face as she forgives me. “Honoring his final wish.”
“I left you to deal with it on your own.” Whatever resentment I feel for my parents, both of them, twists its way back to me; that genetic predisposition to run that I thought I could escape. The irony of it all would be laughable if not for my life’s corrosion.
“If it’s any consolation, I doubt I would’ve accepted the help, had you offered it,” she admits. “I didn’t think I deserved to live, least of all have a friend. After a while, sending a message, knowing you weren’t going to respond, was its own form of punishment.”
“Not replying was too.” I won’t let the OCD take all the credit, but for too long, I’ve tried to draw stark lines between it and me, as if it wouldn’t bleed into facets of my identity, especially those related to grief. “You’re still allowed to hate me for it.”
She scoots closer, picks up my hand, and just holds it there for a second, like she’s feeling the weight of it. “What if we forgive each other?”
The sun has set, orange sky melting into dark night, and the stars begin to emerge. I’ve used so many metaphors and labels and feelings to describe her and us. And here we are again, mirrors and liars and, I think above all else, forgiveness. “Is that where we go from here?”
“Maybe. I just don’t want to hurt you,” she says like a confession. “And I’m scared that’s all I’m good for with people.” We’ve both had Bryce’s death hanging over us for so many years, each taking responsibility without verbalizing the claim.
“You’re worth more than your mistakes. Why do you think I hang out with you?”
She shrugs. “Clearly a ploy to get me to sleep with you.”
I snort. “Clearly.”
“Don’t forget to thank your dad for that condom.”
My snort turns into a full-blown laugh, one we share heartily between us, and it’s a moment we both desperately need amid everything else. Eventually our laughter subsides, but it remains ringing in my ears and sounds an awful lot like crying, the way it echoes.
“I should apologize for leaving,” she says. “I panicked.” It doesn’t sound like an excuse.
“Did kinda suck waking up alone to the sound of you and Whitney arguing about whether or not I deserved to be ditched after having sex for the first time. Can I ask you something though?” She nods without hesitation. “Was it an apology, or way of paying me back or something?” My jaw tightens as I hear the longing in my voice show all my cards, a hand full of hearts. “You said that’s how you justified you and Whitney.”
She takes a deep breath, and though it hurts to see her have to consider this, I’m glad she’s actually taking the time to parse through her emotions and actions.
Finally, her shoulders lose their tension. “You weren’t a mistake,” she says, and I immediately believe her. “Or an apology or payment. It happened because I wanted it to.” The last statement comes out like a confession, guilt battling with desire on her face. “You can still hate me for it too.”
“You’re my best friend and I love you,” I say, and she looks up at me from below my chin. I watch with awe as her pupils grow the longer we let the words sit in the air. “How about that’s where we go from here?”
She shifts her hand from around my waist to cup the side of my face. “I love you too.”
The kiss is quick, and then we’re back to watching the stars. It isn’t a goodbye or punctuation to this conversation or whatever we’re becoming, it’s a promise of more to come. It’s the best kiss in the world, and anyone else would’ve blinked and missed it.
chapter fifty-three BEATRIZ
A few days later, I’m waiting in the kitchen when Mom comes downstairs to start making breakfast. I expect her to startle, but she just sighs in relief.
“You weren’t in your room,” she says.
Now I startle. “You checked?”
She nods, and we both ignore my surprise.
“I was up early.” I know I need to tell her about the insomnia and the roof. I know, sometime soon, I need to tell her about a lot. This is the first step of that.
I slide my phone across the counter, open to a photo album of screenshots. They’re college acceptances. Almost everywhere I applied, I got in.
“Oh my god!” she yells. Lottie jumps off my lap and scrambles into the living room. Mom throws her arms around me. “Abejita, this is amazing!”
“It is,” I tell her. “But I’m not going.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, eyes still glued to the screen as she pulls back. “To which one? You’ve got plenty of choices.”
“To any of them.”
She freezes. “Beatriz—”
“There’s a great makeup school in LA,” I say quickly. “They have scholarships, and I can get an apartment with roommates using money from Eileen and Neil if their offer still applies. I’ll work while getting my certification and pay it all back.” And there’s always community college.
“I don’t think you know what this means.” Mom waves my phone. “Going to any of these schools could change your life.”
“How?” I allow the word take up all the space in the room it wants.
“Connections, career opportunities, a degree! You could really make something of yourself.” She leans on the counter, lets it hold her frustration and weight. “You don’t have to give up makeup, but you don’t have to give this up either.”
Guilt claws its way up my throat. Wanting a future for myself when Bryce is gone still feels so unfair. After talking to Candace and Santiago, though, I considered a new angle. Maybe the unfairness lies in Bryce being dead, not in me being alive.
She bites her lip so hard at my silence that I expect her to draw blood. “I just want the world for you.”
I’m older than my mom was when I was born. For years, I’ve blamed myself for robbing her of a future other than this. Then blamed her for not seeing that blame and the way it made living feel a bit like a crime. Now, I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. We’re all just trying our best.
“I don’t want the world,” I say. “I just want to be happy.”
She rubs at her forehead. I admire the wrinkles there. “We’ll need to talk more about this plan. You, me, and your grandparents,” she says. “But your happiness is the most important thing. I won’t stand in the way of that.”
I am disappointing her. She loves me. They coexist.
“I also have to ask you three things,” I say.
“Okay.”
One. “I’d like to find a therapist or psychologist, and maybe a psychiatrist.”
She nods, the tiniest smile on her lips. She suggested this years ago when Candace first told her about me and my pain. I refused the help then. “That seems reasonable.”
Two. “Can you tell me more about Dad?” I let my voice crack on the words. So much of my life has been about avoiding questions like this one, scared they might gut me. Visible wounds and unhidden bleeding were antithetical to my purpose here. And though I don’t want to be sliced open anymore, not really, I’d like to see what happens when I don’t wear such protective gloves with my own desires. Pain is part of being alive. “I want to know him in whatever way I still can.”
At first all she can manage is another nod. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Three. “Your bracelet.” She blinks as her hand reaches for it. I touch my own key. I always thought I needed my mom to show me what she’d lost after my dad died. I want the opposite now. “I’d also like to know about the person who gave it to you.”
chapter fifty-four SANTIAGO
I consider texting first, but get the feeling that it’s only so I don’t have to hear his hurt again. Sitting on my bed, I press my phone to my ear and listen to it ring.
“Santiago?” Eric’s voice is a cocktail of relief and confusion.
“Hey,” I say. “Figured it was about time I called you back.”
“Are you serious?” The only time I ever really saw Eric angry was during badminton games, a hilarious character trait when I really think about it, but that anger was always gone by the end of the match, a temporary, adrenaline-fueled emotion. “It’s been fucking months, dude.”
“I know.” I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s been a lot, moving back here.”
“Yeah, I bet,” he says flatly, but still with more sympathy than I probably deserve.
When Pa does stuff like send me that photo album and pop in and out of my life, does he think he’s doing the right thing? When he puts his and his friends’ dreams above my and Abuelo’s needs, is he also just trying to survive living a life he didn’t plan for? Bea said it’s complicated, whether I’m “allowed” to be mad at him and my mom, but she didn’t say no.
Eric clears his throat. “Lunch is ending soon and I left my backpack with everyone.” A toilet flushes in the background.
“Are you in the bathroom?” I try not to laugh, but my failure is rewarded by Eric joining in.
“The no-phones-during-lunch policy is still alive and well,” he says, and for a brief moment, it’s like I didn’t leave, he didn’t find out I was lying about my friendships and losses, and we’re just two guys who hang sometimes.
“I’m sorry I dodged your calls,” I rush out, trying not to take up more of his time. “Thank you for reaching out so much, even after I lied.”
Sounds crackle over the speaker, like Eric is shifting around. Our school bathrooms weren’t exactly built for private conversations. “I looked into your friend’s death after we saw that initial post. I didn’t know it’d been suicide. I’m really sorry.”
My legs bounce up and down, feet tapping repeatedly on the carpet. “Yeah, me too.”
The bell rings loudly enough that I might as well be there with him. “Shit. I really have to go. But I hope you’re doing all right.”
It’s not the thing you say when you plan on speaking again, but I knew walking into this call that I had to be okay with that possibility.
I put a hand on my knee in the middle of my rhythm, leaving it on an odd number of bounces. It hurts, but I stop running in place.
“Thanks,” I say over the rush of intrusive thoughts. “I hope you do all right too.”
* * *
After dinner, Abuelo and I sit on the porch, enjoying one of those rare Vermont days in late spring where the sun hangs longer in the sky, keeping the air warm and comfortable even as evening approaches. A group of kids ride their bikes down the street, giggling and screaming as they wobble on wheels. Trailing behind them is a trio of adults who wave at Abuelo and me as they pass. I think I recognize them, but don’t know their names. We wave back anyway.
“I’m glad I got this year here.” I sip on my lemonade, watching a bird glide from one neighbor’s tree to another. “I didn’t get a proper goodbye last time. I think I’m finally getting some closure.”
“I don’t think such things exist.”
The bird flies off. “What do you mean?”
Abuelo’s glass pings as he sets it on the ground below his chair, his shaky hands and the awkward angle depriving him the privilege of gentleness. “You don’t get to be my age without saying quite a few goodbyes. When I first started losing friends at the center, I couldn’t help but wish I’d said something different the last time I saw them. So many See you tomorrows and Hasta luegos. So few Goodbye, te quiero. Thank yous. But you can’t protect yourself from grief and loss with a couple nice words.” He leans back into his chair, resting his weathered hands on his soft stomach, so content in his body and home. “Still, I’m going to try.”
