Speechless(123)

                “Why should I tell you?” he says, but then, after a pause,                     “He’s…better. Getting there. He sleeps a lot. Has some trouble figuring out what                     he wants to say, sometimes. But that could be the painkillers. He’s got some                     broken ribs, so.”

                It hurts to hear, but it’s good that I do. That I don’t just                     ignore the Noah component in this fucked-up equation that is my life.

                “He didn’t even want me there,” Andy says. He’s staring down at                     the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “I had to beg                     him to let me come to that stupid party. I was mad because—I always knew,                     what I was, you know? It was never a big…thing, with my parents or at school. I                     was mad at him, for not being comfortable with it.                     Like I thought he wanted to hide us. Me. So I made him take me to that party. I                     was the one who…started things. In the bedroom. And I didn’t lock the door,                     because part of me wanted someone to walk in, and when you did—” He laughs, but                     the sound is like shattered glass. “I was glad. I thought, ‘Good. Now people                     will know.’”

                I sit there, the cold air heavy in my lungs, absorbing this.                     Andy wanted me—well, not me specifically, but someone—to find out, all along.

                It sounds like he blames himself as much as he blames me. I                     want to write It’s not your fault, underline the                     words until he believes them, but I know by now it’s never that easy.

                “You have to stop punishing yourself,” he says, so quietly I                     almost don’t catch it.

                I don’t know if he’s talking to himself or to me. I guess it                     doesn’t really matter.





                                      day twenty-one

                I wake up the next morning when my phone beeps on the                     nightstand. It’s not a ring, more of a bloop. The                     sound it makes when I receive a text message. I roll over and fumble for it,                     squint through bleary eyes at the front display. It’s already past noon. I flip                     it open and scroll through screens to my in-box. It’s from Asha.





                lets go shopping 2day