Saint Sebastian's Arrow

Chapter 1

The cold, unfeeling moon glared down through the clouds to the lone single voice of sorrow below. Jackson knelt in a deserted parking lot while tears streamed down his face. The emptiness around him was broken by the sounds of his cries which echoed through the air which intensified the sobs as they bounced off the ice crystals. He pushed his hands hard into the asphalt as punishment. He deserved the pain. He deserved the heartbreak. He deserved the embarrassment. The joy of the past hours froze in an instant and it was all because of him.

During Jackson’s freshman year, he decided to audition on a whim for his university’s production of TheCrucible . Micah, a sophomore and theater major, had gotten the role of John Proctor, the role Jackson would have loved to have but knew he wouldn’t get, and Jackson was cast as an extra townsperson. The theater department would often cast students from different majors as small, non-speaking roles, simply to claim diversity in their casting.

Savannah, the girl who had played Abigail Adams, treated Jackson like he was unworthy to be on the stage. There was no doubt she had the looks and talent for the stage. She even had the ego to match. “The theatre,” the pretentious spelling evident even in her speech, “is for those who wish to dedicate their whole person to it,” she would say, “not to someone who sees it as a passing fancy.” Jackson knew she was talking about him. So did everyone else.

“It’s hard to believe you dated her,” Jackson would say thinking back to those days.

“We all make mistakes,” Micah would respond. “Some of them are just louder and more arrogant than others.”

During rehearsals, and even in the dressing rooms between scenes, Micah always compensated for his prima donna of a girlfriend’s comments by taking Jackson under his wing. He didn’t agree with the policy of casting individuals based on their major, but rather on their talent. He would always tell Jackson he hated the politics of theater—that it drove him crazy, but he did it because it was an escape for him.

“Theater,” he would say as if reciting a Shakespearean monologue, “allows a man to drop the mask he wears every day of being strong and everything everyone else expects of his existence, and to put on the mask he chooses to create. It allows him to develop a character all his own and become someone else for an hour or two—someone who doesn’t have to worry about what you’re worrying about. Someone who has a life entirely separate from your own. Someone who you wantedto be, not someone you hadto be.”

After the end of the show, Jackson didn’t get cast in anything else, though Micah maintained his leading man spotlight through the next show and stage-managed the annual spring musical. Micah wasn’t really into musicals, anyway, so he would invite Jackson to sit in the booth with him during a couple of showings to help him with a fast set of cues he had to make. Micah liked having a good time and joking over the headset but made sure his job was done well. Jackson admired that in him. Micah knew when to joke around and when to be serious.

Their friendship extended outside of the theater on walks around their little college town. They would talk about life, school, or nothing at all. Jackson loved it. It got him out of his own head that was bogged down with classical literature, math

equations, and the oddest philosophical conundrums from his 11:00 class with Dr. Jones. They would go to the local diner at two in the morning just to get a midnight snack and shoot the breeze. Micah was Jackson’s first real friend. Jackson didn’t know it, but Micah felt the same way. All of his other friends liked being associated with the star of the stage. He had a strong jaw, good physique, and was one of the nicest guys anyone could get to know. He got along with everyone. He got good grades and was even involved in student government to the extent the shows would allow. Micah never complained about being overburdened, though. He saw no point in it. The only thing Micah didn’t have to do was work. He had gotten in on a talent scholarship and came from a very well-to-do family near Boston.

Unlike Micah, Jackson came from a family that barely made ends meet. He was taking the full burden of paying for university. Jackson worked every other night at a restaurant down the street washing dishes. His wages barely covered food expenses. Student loans, a Pell grant, and the academic scholarship he received helped to cover the rest. Jackson knew his parents struggled. He didn’t want to be a burden on them, so he never told them of the struggles he faced paying to fill his fridge. He did well in his classes and was fairly congenial, but people never seemed to look at him the way they looked at Micah. Perhaps it was because he was more cynical and sarcastic. That was Micah’s favorite quality in Jackson. He found it hilarious. Jackson was always able to plaster a smile across Micah’s face.

Jackson never asked him to, but Micah always seemed to know when he needed a little boost. He would never admit the times he slipped a few bucks into Jackson’s wallet while he thought he wasn’t looking. Jackson once tried to refuse it, but Micah denied it.

When Jackson persisted, Micah said, “I owe you some money for the other night.”

Jackson took that as a signal to let it go. He always told himself he would repay Micah someway, though he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to.

This night was no different. Micah was now a junior and Jackson was a sophomore. Jackson headed over to the theater after he got off work and waited for Micah to finish with preparations for the upcoming production ofMissSaigon. Micah was in charge of the set. He could do it all.

“Gotta keep myself busy,” he would say.

“You’re doing a bang-up job of that!” Jackson chided.

“If there’s anything worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Micah recited.

“Want to go grab a bite?” Micah said as he screwed the last board into place.

“I don’t really have any money,” Jackson said.

Micah set the drill to his side and looked up at Jackson.

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you wanted to grab a bite to eat.” That was Micah’s way of saying he wanted company to go eat with and intended to pay for food whether the other party chose to eat or not.

“I suppose I could eat something.”

“Good. Just let me clean up this mess and we can head out.”

Micah put the drill back in the tool cabinet, swept the shop floor, and locked the theater door. He grabbed his coat on the way out and the two walked over to the all-night diner three

blocks away and got their usual booth. It was nearing midnight, but this was the perfect time. The diner had only a few customers and the best waitstaff. Their favorite server, Candy, was working. She was an older woman who always greeted them with a smile.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” she asked only as a formality.

Micah looked over to Jackson. Jackson shrugged his shoulders and Micah began asking about various meals that were nowhere near to being served, like venison and pheasant.

“Special occasion?”

Micah looked up to her with a big grin, “Every night you’re here, Candy, is a special occasion.”

Candy took her order book and playfully hit Micah in the shoulder. Her cheeks broke into a smile. “Oh, you two! You know how to make my day.”

“How about a chocolate shake on top of the usual, tonight, Candy? I’m not driving,” Micah added.

Candy gave a quick chuckle, “Comin’ right up, Darlin’!”

Candy walked to the back to grab their usual order of two omelets with bacon, hash browns, a side order of pancakes with a cup of coffee for Micah and a glass of milk for Jackson. Micah and Jackson struck up the usual conversation about nothing. The theater…classes…politics…Professor Zed’s latest choice of eccentric shoe… Micah had finished his coffee and pancakes and was finishing up the last of his omelet.

“You have a date for the next week's’ party at Alpha Chi Omega?” Micah asked with his mouth half-full of egg.

“No,” Jackson forked the last bit of hash browns into his mouth. After a swallow, he said, “Do you?”

“Nah,” he said as he picked up his chocolate shake and begin nursing it. “I don’t really like parties. Too many people.”

For being a star of the stage, Micah didn’t like being the center of attention. He preferred sitting back and watching people. They always intrigued him. Their interactions with each other and the way they carried themselves told so much about their feelings.

“We tell more about ourselves and the way we think by the way we walk and interact with others than we could ever do with our mouths,” Micah said. “You learn to watch people when you have to pretend to be one all of the time.”

“That’s why I think you’d like to go. Come with me. We’ll sit and make fun of the few invited freshmen trying to prove why they are there. Besides, they’ve got free booze.”

“You know I’m not big on drinking, Jackson.” Micah slid his empty shake glass away. “It goes right through me.”

“I know. I just thought it could be fun.”

Jackson sat back and put his hand on his stomach, satisfied with the meal. He liked going to the frat houses and seeing people act like idiots when they were drunk. He would have a drink or two to loosen him up but wouldn’t go much farther. Micah didn’t drink. His neighbor growing up was an alcoholic who had died driving the wrong way on the interstate after hitting one too many bars. He left behind a wife and a little girl just younger than Micah’s little sister, Anna. Micah’s family got really close to them. Just the thought of drinking turned his stomach.

“You ready to head out?” Micah asked as he waved to Candy to bring the check.

“Yeah.” Jackson wiped his mouth.

“Wanna go back to my place and watch a movie?”

Micah lived about a mile from Jackson’s new apartment and a half-mile from their university campus. It was common for the two to sit on Micah’s couch until the sun came up, especially on chilly nights like this one. Micah’s suggestion of a movie was somewhat out of the ordinary. Usually, he suggested playing BattlefrontorCallofDutyor going for a walk downtown, but the cold cut out this possibility. Jackson liked movies, though, so he readily agreed. Micah pulled out his wallet, paid the bill, and they headed out. It was a fifteen-minute walk from the diner to Micah’s house. A swift gust of wind blew down an avenue as they crossed causing a flurry of snow to kick up into the air which danced around the duo before passing by. Micah had on a long, beige, double-breasted peacoat with a scarf, woolen gloves, and a stocking cap. His shoulders were raised nearly to his ears and his back was so stiff and straight he almost had to swing his whole body around to take a step.

“How can you walk around like that?” Micah breathed through his scarf, his nose already turning a bright pink. Jackson wore only a sweater under his leather jacket. Micah hated the cold, but Jackson loved it. It made his body feel alive and refreshed.

“You tell me,” Jackson laughed. “You’re the one who grew up in the Northeast.”

“Yeah, but we had heaters.” Micah’s teeth were audibly chattering. “And didn’t go outside when it was cold.”

Jackson’s chuckle formed a puff of vapor that dissipated with the breeze. He sniffed and said, “Well, I must just have thicker skin than you…or a faster metabolism…”

Micah reached away from his body quickly to put his hand on Jackson’s stomach and joked, “Or just fatter. Ha-ha!”

Micah pulled his arm back quickly to return his hands to the warmth of his pockets. Jackson was a beanpole, but he had developed a bit of a belly since he started working for the restaurant. Micah enjoyed teasing him about it any chance he got.

With a smile and a chuckle, Jackson said, “Maybe you’re right there.”

Micah lived in a finished basement apartment. Immediately upon opening the door and turning on the light, he took off his gloves, scarf, hat, and coat; walked over to the radiator; and held his hands over it to warm what little chill may have penetrated the gloves. The apartment was large for a college student living alone. There was a full kitchen on one side of the open room and a living room area on the other. A serpentine bar ran along the center of the room with barstools on one side and a sink and countertop on the other distinguishing the two halves of the room. The deep red shag carpet of the living room on the right was met by the soft brown wood of the kitchen floor to the left. Micah had set up a projector facing the large white wall of the living room with a recliner, a couch, and large Lovesac in front of it. Across the room was the door leading to Micah’s bedroom and the bathroom, which together was about half the size of the entire apartment. Jackson never asked what Micah paid in rent, and Micah never told him.

As Jackson took a step towards the living room area Micah spoke one word.

Micah liked his apartment like he liked everything else— clean and organized. He had a shoe rack next to the door and entry closet. Jackson took off his shoes and placed them on the shoe rack and hung up his coat and sweater in the closet. He then walked over to turn on the projector. On the way to his usual seat on the Lovesac, he grabbed the remote to Micah’s Roku and an apple from the kitchen counter and began flipping through the different options on the projection. With a whoosh of shifting foam, Jackson settled down into his seat.

“Netflix, Hulu, Amazon, or Vudu?” Jackson said, shoving a bite of apple into his cheek.

“You choose. It’s all the same to me. Just make sure it’s not a romcom or a kids’ show.” Micah was still standing by the radiator, only now he was resting his backside against it and taking a quick glance at his phone.

Jackson began scrolling through the various titles and genres flashing in front of him.

“Drama or action?”

“Let’s do…” Micah thought. “How about a horror?”

“Really?” Jackson said. Jackson loved horror movies. He had first watched Alfred Hitchcock’sPsychowhen he was eight. It scared him so much he refused to take showers for three months. Ever since then, he was captivated by old monster movies and suspenseful thrillers. Micah saw them all as being too predictable.

“What?” Micah looked at Jackson incredulously.

“You hate scary movies.”

“I do not,” Micah said as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“Micah, you can’t watch The Nightmare Before Christmas without screaming. Are you sure?”

“Just pick one. I’m going to get out of these clothes while you finish choosing.”

Jackson nodded without looking back at Micah as he disappeared into the bedroom. Jackson continued flipping through titles.

“You like silent movies, right?” Jackson shouted to the bedroom.

The toilet flushed from the other side of the wall and moments later Micah walked through the bedroom door. He had put on a pair of red plaid pajama pants and was pulling a longsleeved shirt over his head.

“What was that?” Micah instinctually ran his hand through his thick black hair the static had raised.

“I couldn’t remember if you liked silent films.”

“I haven’t really watched many. What are you wanting to watch?”

“I was thinkingTheCabinetofDr.Caligari . It’s an old not-so-scary movie.”

“What’s it about?” Micah said as he walked towards the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

“Sure.” Jackson stood up and walked over and leaned on the bar, watching as Micah microwaved milk. “It’s about this guy

named Dr. Caligari who basically has a sideshow act with a sleepwalker that people think killed someone.”

“Sounds esoteric.” Micah poured chocolate powder into the mugs, grabbed two spoons, and handed one to Jackson. “I’ll like it. Cheers!”

Micah usually plopped himself into the recliner with one leg on the armrest and the other propped up, but he sat down on the couch and pulled the blanket resting on the back of it over the top of him. Jackson stirred his hot chocolate and hit play on the movie. The room turned suddenly dark and then broke into abstract black, white, and gray shapes and ink splotches. Jackson walked back towards the Lovesac when Micah stopped him.

“Come sit over here. If this is even mildly scary, I want you to be just that much closer so I can grab your arm or something. Plus, you can share the blanket.”

Jackson changed course and sat on the opposite side of the couch from Micah, put his feet up on the couch and covered his legs with the blanket. The room filled with organ music and light as the scene before them followed the characters and dialogue frames guiding the story. Dr. Caligari’s exaggerated features were made more prominent on the scale produced from the projector. Even Jackson began to get uneasy as the drama unfolded.

“I never really understood how people could get sucked into these and think they were scary,” he said quietly. “We take so much for granted with movies nowadays.”

Micah glanced over and gave a slight nod in agreement.

“It was all about the story in the old movies. Not so much anymore,” Micah replied. “It’s all about the jumps, the fighting,

or the sex scenes. That’s another reason theater is the best. More story than anything else.”

After a few minutes of watching intently, Jackson grabbed his mug. As he went to take a drink, the mug slipped from his hand and spilled all over his shirt and his side of the couch. The combination of Caligari’s somnambulist, the darkness, and the spill created the perfect jump scene to make Micah nearly fall off the couch.

“Ah, shit! I’m sorry, Micah.” Jackson jumped up to get a towel.

Micah paused the movie and turned on the lamp on the side table.

“It’s really not a problem, Jackson. I’ve spilled on this couch more times than I can count.”

Micah got up from the couch and walked into the bedroom. Jackson’s shirt was completely soaked. Micah grabbed a shirt from his dresser and walked back into the living room where Jackson was vigorously wiping the puddles of sticky, brown liquid off the couch.

“You’re going to want to swap shirts. You’re covered in it,” Micah said as he stood over the back of the couch.

“Oh, man!”

“Seriously, don’t worry about the couch. It’ll be fine. At least it wasn’t the Lovesac—I might have had to kill you if you had spilled there. We may not want to sit on the couch for the rest of the movie, but it will be fine. I don’t want you to get sticky. Here, give me your shirt and I can throw it in the wash. It’ll be ready before you leave, and if it’s not, you know where I live.”

“Thanks, Micah.” Jackson began lifting his shirt, and it was already beginning to stick to him. “Do you have a rag I could wipe off with? I don’t want to get your shirt all sticky.”

“Yeah. Just a sec.” Micah walked over to the kitchen and pulled a washcloth out of a drawer in the bar and got it wet. He walked back and Jackson went to grab it from him.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed the washcloth to Jackson. Jackson wiped off his stomach and chest with the rag and put the borrowed shirt on his damp skin. Micah grabbed the washcloth and Jackson’s shirt and started to wipe up what was left of the milk on the couch and then threw them into the washing machine. The machine came to life with a series of short motor bursts and water pouring.

“Let’s get back to the movie,” Jackson said wanting to forget his own stupidity. Micah closed the door to the washing machine. Jackson pushed the couch back out of the way and Micah rolled the oversized Lovesac into its place. Luckily, it was big enough for the two of them with room to spare.

As the movie started again, Jackson thought about the events of the evening.

“Are you okay, Micah?” he said.

“Of course I am,” Micah said with a slight chuckle. “Why?”

“You just seem like something’s off. I mean, first you get the milkshake, then you suggest a movie instead ofCallofDuty.”

“I just wanted to change things up I suppose. Life stagnates when routines are unchanged. With the movie, I thought we’d so something you enjoyed. You get tired of doing the same thing all of the time, don’t you?”

“Do you have a saying for every occasion?” Jackson joked as Micah shook his head in validation. “I just wouldn’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me if something was wrong, you know?”

“Jackson,” Micah said as he shifted his weight to make it so he was facing Jackson. “Everything in my world is perfect.” Micah had a slight smile on his face. “Especially now.”

He looked at Jackson as if examining his face. Suddenly, Jackson leaned in to give Micah a kiss. Micah pulled back before Jackson made contact.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, Micah,” Jackson stammered as he sat back. Micah awkwardly got up and walked into the kitchen and put his hands on the bar. “I…I just…I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I should…probably get going,” Jackson’s voice trailed off as his face began to burn, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even know if he was breathing. Micah stood at the sink trying to understand what just happened by cleaning up a couple of dishes and wiping down the bar. Once Jackson realized he was still sitting and staring at the place where Micah’s face had been, he shook himself back to reality. He stood up quickly and headed towards the door.

“Yeah, that’s probably best.” Micah turned, put his hand on his forehead and walked away from the bar to look for something else to clean.

“I’ll bring your shirt back in a couple of days and get mine, and then you don’t ever have to see me again.”

Jackson grabbed his coat and put on his shoes and opened the door.

Micah started scrubbing down the top of the stove.

As the door shut behind him and the wind picked up in front of him, Jackson swore, “I’m such an idiot.”

The sound of his feet pounded in his ears. It was as if the cold amplified the sound while killing every other sound. He sniffed at his slowly dripping nose. He didn’t know if it was the cold or his emotions. The mile-long walk seemed to take an hour. He just wanted to get in bed and cry himself to sleep. He was embarrassed, angry, and felt so alone. The wind whipped his naked ears making them sting. The darkened windows of the stores and houses he passed made him feel as though the world was rejecting and laying down judgment on him. He just wanted to hide. He was glad no one was passing by. He was certain they would be able to see every facet of his life.

As he approached his house, he reached into his pockets and pulled out his keys. He tried to unlock the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He resituated the key in the lock and tried again. Still, it didn’t budge. Suddenly Jackson remembered his landlord changed the lock and left his copy of the key on the counter. He put his head against the door and pounded his fist, his stupidity compounded the emotional state he was in. There was silence from the other side of the door. He pulled out his smartphone and called his roommate. No answer. The moonlight seemed to cast a spotlight on his plight.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” he begged the wind. He couldn’t go back to Micah’s after what happened. It was too late to wake anyone else. All seemed hopeless. Jackson was stuck in the cold. He had two options: sit on his front porch in the cold and sulk or attempt to keep warm in some way.

He walked over to his junker of a car hoping to find refuge. It was colder inside there than outside. He turned the key. Nothing. He turned again. Still nothing. He wanted to cry.

Thebatterymustbedead.

He sat with his head against the steering wheel. He decided it wasn’t going to do any good to sit in a freezing car, so he got out, pulled his hood over his ears, and walked back into the night hoping to find someone awake that would let him sleep on their couch or floor.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in his mind.

WhatwasIthinking?DidIthinkhewasgoingtoaccept it?HowdidIthinkthatwastherightthingtodo?

His mind was racing over the implications.

I’mnotouttoanyone…notevenmyfamily.Idon’twant allofcampustoknowI’mnot100%straight.Nobodycanknow. AndnowIdon’thaveanybodytotalktoaboutthis.HowcanI faceanyone?

Jackson made his way towards campus. The cold kept students inside this time of night. Only a handful of lights were visible from dorm-room windows. The various buildings of numerous classrooms were dark. It seemed all wisdom had left them. There was nothing but coldness, darkness, and silence within the walls.

He walked over to the parking lot near the theater. He looked to the door and couldn’t take it anymore. He fell on his knees and stopped fighting the tears.

“God,” he cried, “why am I like this?”

His cries seemed to fall onto deaf, frozen skies.

His warm tears dripped from the end of his cherry-red nose to the frozen ground.

“I try to do what you want me to,” he continued aloud. “Why are you doing this to me?”

The frozen daggers of lonely pavement pierced his jeans making his knees go numb. He looked up to the distant moon, its waning fullness hazed through the tears. As he stared up at the moon, Jackson could almost see it turning its back on him. The coat he had put on earlier in the evening was barely enough to abate the frigid breeze blowing down the hill as he began his trek to find an open door and warm bed. Now, it did little to slow the wind as it passed along his spine. His gloveless hands pounded against the blackness beneath him in frustration and sorrow. Each blow made the already biting cold sting with cathartic pain. He didn’t know how long he had been kneeling in the road, and he didn’t care. Time was a distant illusion having no sway on his misery. The cold meant nothing to him. He deserved to be locked out. He deserved the cold. It was fitting that he should feel as much outward pain as he did internally.

“Do you even know I’m here?” he pressed the darkness. “Do you care how much pain I feel? I’m just so tired, God.” Jackson’s head came to rest in his swollen and freezing hands. His breath slowed with a heavy deepness. The cool felt somehow refreshing on his forehead.

“I just can’t do it anymore.” Each breath brought a rush of cold into his lungs reinvigorating his agony. Suddenly, his back lurched as he let go to heavy sobbing and gazed back at the moon.

“Do you even care?”

He sat silently staring up at the moon for quite some time. He felt so small and insignificant. A muffled buzzing startled Jackson. It was his cell phone. He pulled it out of his pocket

and looked at the cold blue glow emanating from the screen. The words seemed both confusing and heaven-sent. It was a series of texts from Micah.

“Come back”

“Your shirts in the dryer”

But it was the third that shocked him most.

“And I don’t want to watch the rest of the movie without you”

He sat stupefied gazing into his screen. Not knowing what to expect, he typed back, “Are you sure?”

A familiar sound came from the phone with a single word, “Yeah.”

Jackson rose to his feet, brushed off his knees, wiped his eyes and nose, and answered Micah’s text saying he was on his way. He began the walk towards Micah’s house, not knowing exactly what to expect when he arrived.

Jackson stood at the door to Micah’s apartment for a good five minutes. He would lift his hand to knock and then run his fingers through his cold hair. He had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side of the threshold. The wind wasn’t bothering him as much as his turning stomach. He sniffed one last time and made sure his eyes were dry. He then moved his hand towards the door.

A wave of warm air rushed over Jackson as the door swung open before him.

“I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” Micah said with his normal smirk. He was still in his long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants. “Get in here before you freeze.”

Jackson stepped inside with no words. He glanced over at the couch. There was a large dark spot on the couch peeking out from under the towel atop it. Micah had obviously spent some time cleaning up the spill. The projector was still shining on the wall with the frozen face of Dr. Caligari. Micah walked back over to the bar. He picked up a mug from the bar and walked towards Jackson.

“You didn’t get to finish the last one.”

Micah handed the mug to Jackson who still remained silent.

“Don’t worry; it’s not poisoned,” Micah joked. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Jackson stayed silent and unmoving as he took a quick sip from the hot liquid. A pulse of warmth began surging through his body. Micah walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. He crossed the room to the Lovesac and sat down. He motioned to Jackson to join him as if Jackson hadn’t just made a fool of himself.

“Come, sit down.”

Jackson sat the mug down and took off his shoes and coat. He inched towards Micah with trepidation and confusion as to what was going on. Micah was just sitting there with a smile on his face looking up at him. Jackson sat down on the Lovesac in his original spot.Howcanheactlikenothinghappened?Jackson thought. Itriedtokisshim . Jackson’s face felt hot with embarrassment and heartbreak. He sat stiff awkwardly holding his hot cocoa and looking up at the unmoving image on the wall.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Micah said, sensing the obvious emotions in Jackson’s face. Jackson looked down at his hot chocolate.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackson sighed.

“Don’t be,” Micah started. “I’m not mad at you.”

“You’re not?” Jackson said, almost spilling his hot cocoa again.

“Of course not! In fact, I should probably apologize to you, actually.”

“For what?” Jackson took a sip from his cocoa to hide saving it from falling.

“I’m incredibly flattered.” Micah shifted to better face Jackson. “I was just…surprised. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”

Jackson pulled his eyes up to meet Micah’s. “But I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Jackson, I was surprised because I didn’t know you were gay. I mean, you’re in the College Republicans.”

Jackson looked away. “I’m…I’m not…” A lump started to form in his throat.

Micah sat, listening carefully.

“I’m not out to anyone. I mean…I don’t know what I mean.”

Micah sat, waiting for Jackson to gather his thoughts.

“I’m not exactly gay, but I don’t feel exactly straight.”

“I just thought…I don’t know what I thought,” Jackson continued. “You were just so sweet, and you were sitting so

close, and the things you were saying…I just…I don’t know why I did that.”

“Stop beating up on yourself, man. It’s alright.” Micah put his arm around Jackson in a consoling embrace. “You’re in good company.”

“What do you mean?” Jackson asked as he moved back from Micah suddenly.

“I’m 100% gay,” Micah said with a comforting smile.

Jackson’s eyes opened wide as his jaw dropped.

“But...you dated Savannah…” Jackson was confused.

“That…was a little bit of an accident…I guess you could say. She needed a date to homecoming last year, and I was nice to her. Nobody assumes I’m gay. She didn’t either.”

“But, then why did you keep dating her?”

“She made a good ‘beard’ as it were,” Micah said. “Being in theater and being gay are stereotypes I don’t want to perpetuate, and I don’t want to make guys feel uncomfortable during costume changes.”

“I still don’t quite understand,” Jackson continued to look searchingly into Micah’s eyes. “You just don’t seem gay.”

“What does ‘gay’ look like?” Micah chuckled. “Why do you think I like theater? I get to be something I’m not. My life has been great practice for the stage.”

“Does anyone know?”

“My family knows.”

“I never would have guessed,” Jackson said shaking his head incredulously.

“What about you? Do your parents know?”

“Hell, no! Nobody knows. It would break my dad’s heart, and I know my mom would just try to fix me.”

“You’ll be okay, my friend.”

Micah wrapped his arms back around Jackson who began to sob relievedly against Micah’s chest. They sat in silence for a good minute or two until Jackson was able to calm his tears and slow his breathing. Micah’s friendly and welcoming arms melted the loneliness and embarrassment Jackson had been trudging through for years. Micah leaned his head and placed his lips against Jackson’s forehead. Jackson hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

He looked up at Micah and said, “Let’s start the show back up.”

As the movie went dark, Micah looked to his side where Jackson had fallen asleep. He pushed his arm into the Lovesac to slide it out from underneath Jackson’s head. Luckily, Jackson rolled over in response to the motion. Micah slowly stood and grabbed the mug from Jackson’s side to take to the sink. He crossed back into the living room area and grabbed the blanket sitting on the back of the couch and covered the emotionally exhausted Jackson. As he pushed the button to turn off the projector, he looked at Jackson’s sleeping face and smiled. The room went dark, and he walked into his bedroom shutting the door behind him.

Chapter 2

Jackson woke with a start in the darkness to the gentle yet sudden vibrations of his cell phone. The blinding blue light hurt his eyes as he tried to decipher the message on the screen. It was a text from Ethan, Jackson’s worrywart of a sophomore roommate.

“U coming to class,” the text read.

Jackson’s eyes saw the timestamp on the notification. It was 8:06 AM. He was late for his first class of the day, and his most despised professor, Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. That’s exactly why Jackson hated him. He rubbed his degree in the face of his students—like it made him better than them or something. Jackson couldn’t ever make a comment satisfactory enough for him. When others would answer, even if it was what Jackson had just said but maybe just in different words, Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. would praise them for it. Jackson couldn’t help but feel like Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. had it out for him. Plus, it was economics, so with Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. droning on and ignoring him coupled with his hatred for the subject, Jackson only understood about 15% of the lectures.

Economics went way over his head. Too many people trying to guess how other people are going to spend their money. He understood what markets were and how supply and demand worked, but when Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. went into GDP, stocks, and game theory, Jackson zoned out. He hated credit scores, especially his own which sat an uncomfortable 615, and all he knew was that life was expensive and only getting more expensive.

He thumbed out a response to Ethan and quickly maneuvered out of the Lovesac. He grabbed his coat and put on his shoes. He ran his tongue along his teeth. They felt fuzzy and disgusting. He hated doing it, but he grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed his teeth and tongue before bolting out the door. He ran his hands through his hair to put down the matted pieces sticking out making him look like the lead singer from Flock of Seagulls. He didn’t want to give any fuel for Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. to feed on.

He slowly opened the door to the lecture hall at 8:23 so as not to draw too much attention to himself. Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. gave him a disapproving scowl across the large room as he continued his lecture about the differences between Keynesian economics and Austrian economics. Jackson never understood why he had signed up for an 8:00 class in the first place. He had an English class at 8:00 as a freshman, and he missed about a third of the classes. Luckily, the professor hadn’t graded on attendance, and he did really well on the assignments. Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. always graded attendance, and it was 20% of the final grade. Jackson grabbed his normal seat on the end of the third row from the back. Ethan, who sat right in front of him, turned his rather rotund frame around and made a cheeky remark about how late Jackson was. Ethan was incapable of being covert about things. His size didn’t aide his efforts to be sneaky. Every chair he sat on and every board he stepped on seem to creak under his weight. He was a good sport about his weight though.

“It’s a glandular problem,” he would say as he ate his fourth helping in the cafeteria. “My mom’s the same way.”

Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. glanced back again in Jackson’s direction as Ethan had rotated back to face the front of the room.

“Mr. Marshall, it isn’t enough that you show up unkempt and late to my class, but you then proceed to overrun my lecture by disrupting your classmates. Please stop talking and pay attention.”

Jackson knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. it hadn’t been him who spoke, and he knew Ethan wouldn’t say it was him. He was such a timid kid.

The lecture continued, though Jackson paid little attention. His mind was focused on the borrowed t-shirt peeking through his partially zipped leather coat. It felt strange to reflect on the night before. He hadn’t expected to tell Micah what he had suppressed and hidden for years. Micah was the first and only person who knew, and it felt good. He felt like a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn’t alone in his secret anymore.

Jackson doodled in his notebook to give the illusion he was taking notes.

He continued to kick himself for not seeing it earlier. I can’tbelieveMicah’sgay,he thought to himself. Imean,I shouldn’tbesurprised.Hedoestheater,forgoodness’sake.Everyoneknowstheaterguysaregay.

Through the rest of the class, Jackson sat silently pretending to take notes. He didn’t even realize the lecture was over until Ethan put his heavy hand on Jackson’s shoulder.

“Sorry I got you into more trouble by talking. I didn’t know he would react like that.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ethan,” Jackson said. “He was just looking for a reason to yell at me, and, lucky for him, today he had two.”

Ethan patted his shoulder and walked off. His phone gave a gentle vibrate. It was a text from Micah.

“You forgot your shirt,” it read.

“I’ll get it tonight if that’s alright. I was late for class,” Jackson responded.

“sure thing!” the phone flashed the response. Jackson couldn’t help but flash a half-smile. Micah was no longer just his best friend—he was a confidant.

Micah walked back into his room and set his phone on its charging pad and dumped the freshly laundered clothes onto his bed. He began folding and putting away his shirts and boxers. As he folded Jackson’s shirt, he set it aside. Micah recalled the first person he told about being gay—it was his Anna, his little sister. It was completely unexpected, but also the hardest thing he had ever done.

It was just before he left for college. He had taken her on a brother/sister date to a fancy restaurant for her 15th birthday.

“Order anything you want, Anna. It’s your special day.”

“You’re only saying that because Mom’s paying.”

Micah grinned, “You’re absolutely right. Wow! Barely turning 15 and already knows everything.”

She ordered crab legs with a side of shrimp scampi and a Dr. Pepper. She loved seafood. Micah ordered a medium rare sirloin steak and a Coke.

“I wish you didn’t have to go to school,” Anna said after the waitress left to put their order in.

“I’m a big boy, now.” Micah puffed out his chest. “I have to go to school to become as smart as you.”

“I’m gonna miss our dates,” she said.

“Only because Mom won’t let you date until you’re 16.”

“Which is such a stupid rule!”

“Mom has her reasons, Anna,” Micah said. “Besides, I’ll be back before you go on your first date.”

“Why do you have to go so far for school?” she asked.

Micah chuckled, “Because that’s the only place that would have me.”

“It’s the only place you applied,” Anna prodded. “True.”

“Why didn’t you apply around here?”

“You see, when you do really well in school, and do really well on your tests, you can pretty much choose what school you want to go to.” Micah tried to explain how colleges, SAT scores, GPAs, and tuition costs all worked. Anna talked about the next year of school. She was going to play volleyball and lacrosse.

“Maybe I’ll be as good at lacrosse as you,” she said. Micah’s team had won the state championship the year before.

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” he said with a wink and a grin, “but you can sure try.”

The rest of the meal was spent like most of their dates, giggling, sharing inside jokes, and talking about their mother. Their dates always ended with a long drive. The moment etched

into Micah’s mind happened just before they turned back towards their house.

“I really am going to miss you,” Micah said.

“I’m going to miss you, too, Micah,” Anna began to tear up. “Next time I see you, you’re probably going to be married to some smoking hot chick from California.”

Micah softly chuckled, “I highly doubt that.”

“You could get any girl you want,” she complimented.

“You’re probably right, Anna.” The thought of dating was one Micah had fought against throughout high school because he didn’t want to be seen with a guy. “I mean, you’re the expert.”

“How do you go on dates?” Anna asked.

“What do you mean?” Micah said wanting to help his little sister.

“I mean, what do you do with a boy on a date?” she was increasingly frustrated as she talked about how weird it would be alone with a guy in a car. Micah did his best to describe what he would do on a date and it settled her frustrations.

“Why don’t you go on dates, Micah?”

Avoiding the question, Micah said, “What are you talking about? I’m on one right now.”

“No, Micah. I mean a real date. Why haven’t you had a girlfriend like all of your weird friends?”

Micah sat for a second and thought about how he should answer the question. He thought about lying to her and saying girls at school kept rejecting him or some other excuse, but he knew he couldn’t lie to her; the only one to whom he couldn’t

lie. He could feel his heart beating in his ears and a lump growing in his throat as he started to speak.

“Anna,” he choked out, “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?” she said with a concerned look on her face.

“I haven’t had a girlfriend because I don’t want one.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t want one’?” Anna shot back. “Everyone wants to date somebody.”

“I do want to date somebody, but it’s not a girl.” The words hung in the air like a day-old birthday party balloon. Micah didn’t know how Anna was going to take it.

“So, you want to date a boy?” Anna asked matter-offactly.

Micah hesitated, “Yeah.”

“Who?” Anna responded excitedly as if the meaning of his words had completely missed its target. Micah didn’t know what he had expected when he told his sister, but it sure wasn’t this. He wanted to make sure she understood precisely what he was saying.

“Anna, you understand what I’m saying, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re gay. So what? To me, it is kind of obvi, but I didn’t want to assume. You’re still my big brother. Who do you want to date?”

“How was it obvious to you?” Micah was dumbfounded.

“Micah, I know you better than anyone. I see all of the weird things you do that nobody else notices. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to think my big brother, the guy who could get

any girl he wanted, wasn’t dating anyone because the girls rejected you. There had to be another reason. Who do you want to date!?”

Micah was relieved to have someone know and to know it didn’t bother her in the least. The last bit of their drive was spent talking about guys both thought were cute and those who were or weren’t gay.

A half-smile crossed Micah’s face as he finished folding his laundry. He was glad Jackson came back after he had responded so badly. Micah walked to the bathroom and began to draw himself a warm bath. Removing his clothes, he looked at his back. A series of healing bruises peppered his ribs and shoulders in ugly shades of green, purple, and brown. As Micah climbed into the tub, he winced slightly when the warm water hit a fresh set of slits on his elbows and inner thigh he had made the night before.

Chapter 3

Jackson sang along to the radio on his way to work. It helped him focus on the road. With the setting sun’s reflection off the crisp snow coupled with the sun being directly between his rearview mirror and the top of the front window, driving became nearly impossible.

Ineverrealizedhowanti-Catholicthissongwas , Jackson thought going over the lyrics to Billy Joel’sOnlytheGoodDie Youngas he passed Saint Angelo’s Catholic Church.

Itseemslikelotsofmusicianshatereligion , he continued. He thought about the Neon Trees song Trash,LosingMyReligionby R.E.M., TakeMetoChurchby Hozier, John Lennon’s Imagine, and many others.

Jackson had grown up in a very strongly religious home. He went to church every Sunday. He took part in the youth groups. People always assumed he was going to go into theology or find a profession in the Church. The thought had crossed his mind on a number of occasions, but he had other hopes—he wanted to go into psychology and help people whose pain originated in their minds and spread through their whole being. Plus, focusing on others and their issues always seemed to make his problems seem so much smaller and insignificant.

Since he had come to school, he had stopped attending any religious services. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, in fact, his faith in God had only increased in moving out to school. Having to trust God without being able to depend on his family bolstered Jackson’s faith every day. He stopped going because he

believed in God. He had been struggling with being able to balance his faith and his sexuality, so he separated himself because he didn’t want to feel like a hypocrite.

He hadn’t been inside of a church for nearly two years. Churches made Jackson feel like a hypocrite. He couldn’t stand to sit there and read about the Pharisees and Sadducees without thinking Jesus was talking about him. He felt guilty for emotions he couldn’t control.

Iguessthat’swhereI’mdifferentfromalotofmusicians, Jackson thought.Idon’tblameGodforthewayIam.Ijustdon’t havethestrengthtochange.

It was having to change things he didn’t know how to control that kept him from going in those doors, not the teachings. He didn’t think God hated gays. He often felt like God loved the LGBT community more, actually, because there was more need of His love. He didn’t believe the blanket condemnation of those who felt a certain way or another. He believed Jesus’ words in Matthew 5.

“Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you,” Jackson repeated to himself. “That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

If God only loved those who kept His commandments, He wouldn’t be able to love very many people at all, Jackson chuckled to himself.

“They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick,” he said aloud. Jackson never really saw himself as a sinner since he hadn’t done anything with a guy before. He had sent shirtless and dick pics to guys, but that was as far as he had ever gone. Still, though, he felt like everyone there could see the sin of Sodom like the mark of Cain on his forehead. He didn’t want that feeling. He couldn’t stand the thought of anyone whispering. He was always afraid someone would have seen him on a dating app and recognize him. It never really crossed his mind that if they recognized him from the app, then they were just as guilty as he was.

Jackson turned left onto the street where he worked. He parked his car in his usual spot and turned off the engine. As he closed the door, he glanced up to the west where the setting sun painted the sky behind the steeple of the old cathedral a few blocks away with beautiful purples, reds, and oranges. He stood for a moment and just looked. He then turned and walked towards the kitchen door to the restaurant.

His phone buzzed with three short text messages from Micah.

“You got this Jackson

“Follow your heart and things will work out

“Love you man”

MaybeIshouldtrytogobacktochurch , he thought as he looked back once more at the canvas in the sky before walking in to begin his shift.

Chapter 4

“What are your plans for summer?” Jackson asked Micah as they sat across from each other eating their usual meal. The semester had flown by, and the April rain was pounding on the metal roof of the diner.

“Probably just going to go back home. See my family,” Micah said as he shoveled a fork-full of hash browns into his mouth. “What about you?”

“I’m staying around here. Gotta make some money so I can afford my Junior and Senior years.”

Micah looked up at him. His mouth was full.

“You know you can come stay with my family if you’re not comfortable going home.”

“I know.”

“Have you even talked to your mom since then?” Micah sipped his coffee.

“Yeah.”

Jackson had decided to tell his parents of his penchant for men shortly after coming out to Micah, and it didn’t go well. It went better than he had expected, but nowhere near what he hoped. He wasn't banned from the house. He wasn’t threatened. He was told simply told he was confused--that it was his own fault if he felt those feelings.

Jackson had been in tears moments after calling to talk to his mother. The conversation had been about something completely unrelated, but Jackson felt it was time.

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, Love?”

“Mom...” he started. “I…I don’t know how to tell you this?”

“What is it, Sweetheart?”

“I...” he let out a heavy breath. He couldn’t bring himself to pull off the band-aid.

“What is so hard you can’t tell me?”

“Mom, I... I like men.”

“What?” she said, mildly confused.

“I’m attracted to guys.”

“You’re gay?”

“No, I’m not gay, I’m more bisexual, I guess you could say.”

“No, you’re not,” she said curtly. Jackson didn’t know if she was joking or simply misunderstood what he was saying.

“Yes, Mom, I am.”

“You can’t be,” she stated. “What about the girls you dated?”

“What about them?”

“Is that why you didn’t want to keep dating them? Because you wanted to be gay?”

“No, Mom, that’s not...”

“There are two wolves inside all of us, and the one that wins is the one you feed,” she interrupted.

“Mom, I’m not feeding anything,” he said.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re fighting it either,” she said.

“What does that even mean?”

“If you don’t fight it, it’s as good as feeding it. Are you doing things that you shouldn’t be doing?”

“Like what, Mom?”

“Are you going places and seeing people you shouldn’t?”

“No, Mom, I’m not, I’m not dating guys.”

“Well, these things don’t just come out of nowhere.”

“I’ve felt this way since I was little.”

“Do you have friends pushing you to do things? What about Micah? Is he pushing you?”

“What?! No!” Jackson was exasperated and started crying. “He’s my friend and wouldn’t ask me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with.”

“You sound like you’re comfortable with doing things if given the opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t do anything with him. I haven’t done anything with anyone! He’s my friend, who just happens to be gay.”

“Well, you need to put yourself in a place where you won’t be tempted.”

“Mom, I started going back to Church. I pray. I do all of the things I’m supposed to, and I still feel this way.”

“Well...” she trailed off.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you this. I knew you would freak out. I knew you would try to fix me. I’m not broken!”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Jackson. I’m trying to help you. I still love you.”

“Well, you’re not helping, and it feels less like love and more like you’re worried I won’t fit your perfect ideal of how your family is supposed to be. You’re just making me feel horrible. Thanks, and I’m sorry I ruined your perfect family picture.” With that, Jackson hung up the phone. He sat against the wall with his elbows on his knees and just cried. He felt so alone.

His phone buzzed. It was his mother. He silenced the buzz and put the phone face down. It buzzed again and was met with the same response. It buzzed one more time and Jackson picked it up flustered and heartbroken.

“I don’t want to talk to you, right now, Mom! Just leave me alone for a little while!”

“What happened?” the voice came from the phone. It was Micah.

Jackson sniffed.

“I came out to my mom.”

“I take it it didn’t go well.”

“Oh, you know. She tried to fix me.” He sniffed again and wiped some of his tears off his cheek. “And then I hung up on her.”

“Do you want to talk or go for a drive to get away?” Micah suggested.

“I think that would be really good.”

His phone buzzed again.

“Ugh! My mom’s trying to call again,” Jackson groaned followed by a violent rejection of the call.

“Well, at least she still wants to speak to you,” Micah joked.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to speak to her.”

His phone buzzed again. It was a text from his mother. It consisted of ten words.

“I’m still your mother. I still love you. Call me.”

“Give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.” Jackson could hear the sound of Micah getting his coat on and the jingle of his keys.

“Okay.” Jackson sniffed once more. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He hung up the phone and just sat staring at the opposite wall. He sat for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, he stood and ran to the bathroom to vomit, but nothing came up. He hung his head into the bowl dry heaving.

Tears poured from his eyes into the toilet. He didn’t know whether it was from the lurching or the emotions. A gentle arm wrapped around him. Jackson looked up. In all of the pain, he hadn’t even heard Micah come in. Micah said nothing. He put his head on Jackson’s shoulder and let him cry.

Jackson never wanted anyone to see him like that, but he was glad to have Micah there at such a low point.

“Need anything else, boys?” Candy said.

“Just the check will be good.” Micah reached in his wallet for his debit card. “Thanks, Ma’am.”

“How many times I have to tell you? I ain’t no ‘ma’am’.”

“Whatever you say, Ma’am.” Candy laughed and walked off.

“My parents want me home, but I just know I’ll be a walking taboo.”

“I get it,” Micah said. “I was the elephant in the room for a while. They wanted to talk about it and didn’t know how to talk about it.”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to have to deal with that. The wound is too fresh right now.”

“Well, the offer still stands, Jackson. My mom would love to have someone for me to hang around with this summer.”

“Thanks, Micah, but I had better stay and try to earn some money.”

“Suit yourself, my friend. But know I can hop on a plane if you really need me.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to,” Micah winked. “But I will if I need to.”

“Before you know it,” Jackson mused, “you’ll be walking up to get your diploma.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jackson scoffed. “You still planning on heading out to New York to make it big?”

Micah shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s really hard to get into Broadway.”

“Maybe you could do commercials to start off.”

“Doesn’t that sound like the most thrilling thing in the world?” The sarcasm dripped from Micah’s lips.

The voice of Micah’s mother could be heard, though muffled, in the background of the phone call.

“Commercials, Mom,” Micah answered. His mother’s voice sounded excited at the thought.

“See, your mom likes the idea,” Jackson chaffed. “Don’t encourage her.” Micah’s mother laughed.

“It would be a start, at least.”

“Yeah.”

Micah returned the question, “Do you have any plans after graduation?”

“That’s too far off for me to think of.” Jackson changed the subject. “When do you get back to campus?”

“I should get back in next Thursday, depending on what my lawyer says.”

“What’d you do?”

“It’s nothing. Just some paperwork they needed me to sign. Hopefully, I can get it into them Friday so I can leave early next week.”

“As long as you’re not in legal trouble.” Jackson chuckled. “I’m glad you’ll be here next week, though. It’s been so boring all alone. All I’ve been doing is working and sleeping. There’s nobody here and nothing to do.”

“No summer romances?” Micah jeered.

“No way in hell. I couldn’t afford one even if I had anyone.”

“Damn. Yeah, me neither. Oh, well.”

Jackson noticed the time. “Shit, I had better go. I have to get to work.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know whether or not I’ll be back on Thursday.”

With that, the two disconnected. Micah put his phone in his pocket and walked into his lawyers’ office. He had always hoped he’d be able to help someone in a big way. He didn’t care for money, but he had never really known life without it. All he could do was sympathize with those who didn’t. This act was the least he could do to lighten the load of someone who had done so much for him.

“Hello there, Micah.” Micah reached out to shake his lawyer’s hand. “Are we ready to get started?”

“Yes, let’s do this.”

“Okay. Who are you wanting to put down as Trustee?”

Micah looked over at his mother.

“Are you sure, honey?”

Micah nodded and turned back to his lawyer.

“Jackson Marshall.”

As classes started, Jackson and Micah did their best to balance classes, work, and rehearsals while still finding time to hang out and grab dinner. Though it was hectic, it sure made the semester quick.

Before either of them knew it, the first show of the school year was over. Micah had starred as Doctor Faustus. He had wanted the part of Mephistopheles, but the director needed Micah’s adaptability to play both the older and younger versions of Doctor Faustus. The first showing had been on the night before Halloween. The department thought it would be poetic given the subject matter. Micah received rave reviews and standing ovations every night of the run, closing just before Thanksgiving. After Christmas break, the department started working on the next show—ManofLaMancha—the spring musical. But not just any musical, Jackson’s favorite.

Jackson had pulled back on his hours to allow for him to have time to work on schoolwork. When he heard that the department was going to be doing ManofLaMancha , though, he knew he had to try. Even if he was only a random inmate, he wanted in this show.

“Do you think I’ll make it?” Jackson’s excitement was evident.

Micah channeled Savannah, “Can you even sing?”

Jackson punched him in the shoulder. “I can sing this! It’s my favorite story. I’ve watched the musical like a million times. I basically have it memorized already!”

“You’ll never know unless you try.”

“With your help, I think I can pull it off.”

“Well, with my help, you could be a movie star,” Micah joked.

“Let’s just get me the part of Don Quixote, then we can look into getting me on the big screen.”

Micah worked Jackson to the bone preparing him for the auditions. It wasn’t an easy task, but Jackson was determined to get the role.

When it came to the audition, Jackson put his all into it. He auditioned with “The Impossible Dream.” He hit every note with energy and emotion. He left everything on the stage. He wanted it so much.

The assistant director spoke only two words, “Thank you.” Jackson left the stage.

As he walked to the back of the auditorium, the stage manager said, “Callbacks will be posted here on Friday.”

Micah stood just outside the door waiting for Jackson.

“How did it go?”

“They just said ‘Thank you.’ Is that a good thing?”

“Who said it?” Micah was obviously going over calculations in his head. “Was it the director or the assistant director?”

“It was Kary. Is she the assistant director?”

“Yes. That’s a good thing. That means Professor Zed was actually thinking about it.”

“Well, now I’m nervous.” Jackson tried to relax his shoulders.

“Don’t be. You’ve done all you can do. Now it’s up to him.”

When callbacks were posted on Friday, Jackson’s name was on the list. That night, he and Micah celebrated with milkshakes and watched ManofLaMancha .

“You go in and tell me what it says, Micah. I can’t bring myself to go in.”

“This is your moment, not mine.”

“Okay.”

Jackson took a deep breath and walked into the auditorium; he saw a piece of paper hanging on the bulletin board. His stomach dropped into his toes and his heart jumped into his throat. He was so nervous. He couldn’t take another step towards the paper. He had to, though. He closed his eyes and walked towards the bulletin board. He could feel the wall in front of him and he looked to see if his name was on the top of the paper. His fingers found the name Don Quixote and his eyes followed the line to the opposite side of the page where it read, “Diego Martin/Jackson Marshall understudy.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Marshall.” The voice was stern and older. It was Professor Zed. “I don’t usually cast non-theatre majors as leads, but I something made me take a chance on you.”

“You did it!” Micah ran towards Jackson and squeezed him. “I knew you could do it! I’m so proud of you!”

Jackson stood in stunned silence staring at the cast list. Micah looked over to Professor Zed and gave a half-smile and a wink as gratitude for taking a chance on Jackson. Professor Zed smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

Chapter 5

“Dammit!” Micah shouted pulling his hand back in pain shaking it after missing a nail in the backdrop and hitting his fingers. The rest of the stage crew suddenly stopped. A freshman began chuckling at the reverberation of Micah’s voice.

“What the hell’re you laughing at?” shot Micah. The freshman went back to attaching wheels to the bottom of what would be the cell walls for “I’m Only Thinking of Him.”

“I think you missed,” came a familiar female voice from the balcony. “Next time, try aiming for your face.” Micah turned around to send up a furry of well-deserved insults, but when he saw Savannah looking down on the space she called home and what she often referred to as “the flea she used to date,” he knew it would just add fuel to her fire.

“I’ll try that, Aldonza,” Micah said referring to Savannah both as her character in the upcoming musical and Miguel de Cervantes’ purpose of using that name for the scullery maid. Savannah didn’t care to do such research into the name, so she simply took it as the attribution to her role. “Maybe if I think of this nail as you standing there, I will get it down in one blow.” Micah swung the hammer swiftly and drove the nail flush with the wood. “Huh! Would you look at that? It worked.”

“Do you really want to do personal digs, Micah?” Savannah huffed. “Do you really want me airing your dirty laundry in front of the entire theatre department?”

“You know I don’t mean a lick of it, Van,” Micah apologized, knowing the reputation-destroying dirt she had on him. “Besides, Mexico is just a flight away.” Savannah pursed her lips and turned away. She knew about Micah’s attraction to men and

the problems he had with self-harm, and she wouldn’t hesitate to expose him if it benefitted her. It wouldn’t be the first time she threatened to let something slip. That’s part of the reason they had stayed together for so long—simple extortion. Though she was mortified with the thought of being Micah’s “beard,” Micah boosted her popularity, and she could use his predilection for the male physique as a means of getting whatever she wanted.

She used Micah to get jewelry, fancy galas, even tickets to see Hamilton , which Micah thought was overrated. He was not allowed to go with her to these events with her unless it involved being seen by peers. Micah begrudgingly paid the blackmail. He hated Savannah, but it was better than opening himself up to ridicule and being hit on by the other gay men on campus whom he had absolutely no interest in.

So, he paid. That is until he found out Savannah’s own skeleton in the closet. It wasn’t anything terribly damning, but it was definitely a scandal she believed would ruin her. When Savannah was in high school, she had run off to Mexico with some friends for Spring Break. While there, she got horribly drunk and slept with a classmate of hers. The only problem was that she was 18, and he was 16. Though not technically illegal because of Mexican age of consent laws, when word got around her high school that it had happened, she was accused of rape by the court of public opinion. The boy didn’t care and didn’t pursue anything, but it still hurt her reputation. She got called “cougar,” “creeper Van,” “slut,” and worse. She hated going to school.

Finally, she decided to change everything about her. She trusted no one and turned to the only person left—herself. She made herself the lead character in her own one-woman show. She went to different parties, changed her makeup, and even chopped off her signature long red hair into a pixie cut she dyed

gray. She went from the average teenage girl to a prima donna. She insisted on wearing name brand clothing and deep red lipstick. Everything was her way or no way.

Micah wasn’t the kind of person to blackmail someone, but the temptation was present every time Savannah even hinted at exposing him. He knew what was behind her inch-thick makeup and brand name clothing. She was hurt. She had been betrayed by those nearest to her. She went home to a wonderful family, but she would sit and watch YouTube videos and shut everyone out. She figured if she didn’t let anyone in, they couldn’t hurt her.

When she and Micah met, she shut him out, too. Micah was the star and she figured he would judge her just like everyone else. She put on the mask of prima donna, but her acting was unidirectional. Each character was the same and had no arc. The department head and director, Professor Zed, tried to get her to work with others, but she was unable to grasp the intricacies of characters.

It wasn’t until she got paired with Micah during a musical theater class that things began to change for Savannah. The two were practicing a song from Rentwhen Micah stopped her suddenly.

“Something isn’t working, Van.”

“I’m doing my best, Micah,” she said defensively.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re just singing the words and the tune, but you don’t mean any of them.”

“Well, I’m not Mimi. I don’t know what it’s like to be an exotic dancer with HIV. I’m doing the best I can.”

“You don’t have to know what it’s like to have HIV or be an exotic dancer.” Micah threw his papers on his chair and walked in front of her. “Have you ever liked someone you didn’t think liked you back?”

“Hasn’t everyone?” Savannah retorted.

“Because to listen to you sing, you don’t know what it is to feel anything for anyone,” Micah criticized.

“Rude!” Savannah walked away from Micah.

“What I mean is that you’re notshowingme that you know what it feels like. Here, watch me.”

Micah began to sing “If I Can’t Love Her” fromBeauty andtheBeast . Savannah sat spellbound by his melodic baritone voice. Micah was full of emotion, and it was visible. When he finished singing, Savannah gawked at him.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” she finally spoke.

“I missed more notes than I hit, and I messed up the words,” Micah said.

“I couldn’t tell; it sounded so good.”

“You want to know why?” Micah began.

“Absolutely!”

“Because I let myself be vulnerable. I was willing to take what was inside of me and put it on display.”

Savannah didn’t like the sound of that. She hadn’t been vulnerable since Mexico and that had turned out negatively for her. Micah began to get animated and paced back and forth.

“Think of your emotions as your heart. It’s soft and squishy and... warm. It can bring comfort, love, happiness, all of

those good emotions. It can be shared and felt by others, caressed, loved, kissed, and held tenderly. Too often, though, when we are vulnerable, we take our heart, and the wrong person gets ahold of it. That person pokes it. They call it ugly or set it aside. They may even spit on it, step on it, or stab it. Because of this, we often take our heart and put it in a glass box on the shelf. People can still see it, but they can’t hold it. They know it’s a heart, but they can’t feel its joy. The glass box protects the heart from ridicule and pain, but it also cuts it off from all of those good feelings. One of the hardest things to do is to reach into that glass box, pull out our hearts and hand it to someone again. We may fear they will do what others have done and cause it so much pain. And you know what? They just might.”

Micah’s voice began to intensify and focus.

“But they might also love it. They might also kiss it and hug it. They might think it is the most beautiful thing in this whole godforsaken world. Our hearts are all that we can give to others.”

It was obvious Savannah was trying to digest this monologue from Micah when he switched tones suddenly.

“And if you want to be a great actress, you’re going to have to have vulnerability under every mask you wear. Be willing to have crowds mock you and make fun of you because if you don’t, they will never cheer for you.”

With that, Micah grabbed his bag and walked towards the door. Savannah looked to the ground. As Micah opened the door, he heard a soft sob coming from the actress. He stopped and turned. He could see that she was broken. He walked back over to her and set his bag down and put his arm around her shoulders. He didn’t say a word. Savannah broke the silence.

“You know what?” she whispered through the sobs. “You’re absolutely right. I am closed off.” She wiped her tears, smearing her mascara. She never told him any details, only that high school had been difficult for her. Micah remained silent, not wanting to interrupt. As she finished, Micah sat for a moment and then spoke softly.

“I can’t say I’m sorry, because I didn’t do those things to you. But I can say that I won’t ever look at you the way those people did.”

Savannah was physically overwhelmed with emotion again.

“Thank you.”

Micah simply nodded.

“I haven’t cried in front of anyone for three years,” she said trying to compose herself.

Then she sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes letting out an overwhelmed chuckle.

“I bet I look beautiful—a blubbering crybaby with raccoon eyes.” She sniffed and chuckled once more.

“Never more beautiful is an individual than when they remove their masks and show their true face.”

That moment brought the two of them together, though the period of time they dated drove them apart. It wasn’t until the next semester the two started dating. It wasn’t until a month into the relationship that she uncovered Micah’s dirty little secret. They had gone on a group date with some of Savannah’s friends, and Micah’s phone had fallen out of his pocket onto the seat when he got up to go to the restroom. Savannah decided to take a peek and found Grindr and a couple of pictures inferring

Micah was not interested in persons of the female persuasion. When she confronted him about them, he was honest. He told her what was happening and laid all of his cards on the table. She used the deceit as reason enough to hold him hostage in the relationship.

Micah learned of Savannah’s past by accident when a news story of an alleged child molester came across the television one night. The young man was 18, and his girlfriend was 17. Her parents found out the two had been intimate and wanted to press charges. Savannah said that was ridiculous because of the closeness of their ages, and Micah argued that the guy knew the law and disregarded it. During the argument, Savannah told her story to Micah to get him to understand why she saw it the way she did. It wasn’t too much later afterward they broke things off when a standoff between the two secrets led the two to a mutual agreement to go separate ways without exposing the secrets.

Since the breakup, minor threats of exposure were few and far between, but they happened and solidified the divide between the two. There was still a sense of collegial respect for the artistry between the two, especially since it was Micah whose lecture was what helped skyrocket Savannah to the limelight of the theater department. Micah never truly intended to expose her, and he didn’t really believe she would either, but the threats still happened.

“Look out!” a voice shouted from the ceiling. Micah looked up just in time to see a paintbrush crashing to the floor that splattered gray paint all over Micah’s clothes.

“Dammit!” Micah said as he recoiled from the crashing brush.

“Sorry, bro,” the voice came again. It was from a football player atop a 10-foot ladder painting the top of the set.

“Don’t worry about it,” Micah said, not wanting to get into anything over a simple accident. “It just startled me, that’s all. Besides, first rule of working on the set—don’t wear clothes that can’t get messed up.”

He stood up and handed the paintbrush back up to the football player.

“Speaking of which,” Micah said pointing towards the young man’s now bespeckled shoes, “you might not want to paint in Yeezys.”

Micah walked off-stage to grab a rag to wipe up the paint from the stage floor as the football player began swearing as he looked down to assess the damage done to his shoes.

When he returned, he finished putting the finishing touches on the backdrop. His part was finished. His last show and he wasn’t even going to be on stage for it.

So,thisishowitends,he thought as he looked out from the stage.Nospotlight.Noapplause.Nocostumes.Nomasks. Justme.

Chapter 6

“Hey, Jackson,” the hostess said through the rack of dirty dishes. “You got a minute?”

“What’s up?” he said as he wiped up a dropped ramekin of ranch dressing.

“There’s a cop here that wants to talk to you.”

Whathappenednow?he thought as he wiped off his hands. His mind ran through the marijuana he had hidden in his room to a dine-and-dash from the week before. Luckily, it was a slower evening. He followed the hostess out to the lobby where a police officer stood waiting.

“Good evening, officer,” Jackson started.

“Are you Mr. Marshall?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know a Micah Stevenson?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“There’s been an incident, and I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“Wait, what?” Jackson responded. “What kind of ‘incident’ are you talking about? Am I under arrest?”

“Mr. Marshall, you’re not in trouble. We just need you to come in to answer some questions for our investigators.”

“What kind of incident? What happened to Micah?” Jackson pushed again. “Is he okay?”

“I think it best to talk about this elsewhere.”

Jackson refused to move. “No, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

“Had anything been strange with Mr. Stevenson,” the officer pushed.

“No, he was normal,” Jackson said quickly. “What happened to Micah?!”

“I really think it would be best to discuss this matter in private, Mr. Marshall,” the officer urged.

Jackson pulled out his phone and began dialing. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’m just going to ask him.”

The officer put his hand out to stop him and interrupted, “Mr. Stevenson was found in his apartment unconscious and covered in blood.”

“What?” The phone went to voicemail as it slowly fell from his ear. “Is...is he okay?!”

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this. Mr. Stevenson managed to dial 911, but it seems he must have lost consciousness after completing the call.” Jackson was shaking his head in disbelief at what he heard.

“When the ambulance arrived, he had lost a lot of blood. He passed away shortly before arriving to the ER.”

“No, Micah wouldn’t...” Jackson said aloud. “He wouldn’t—...There’s no way he—...” He started to hyperventilate and crumpled into a heap on a bench in the lobby waiting area.

“Take it easy, son.”

“No. This can’t be happening. He just tried to call me!” Jackson looked at the missed calls on his phone. Two were from Micah along with one voicemail.

“You were listed as his emergency contact. We attempted to contact you using his phone in hopes that you would pick up.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he—” Jackson covered his mouth as his eyes began to water.

The officer sat next to Jackson and put his arm around him as he started to sob. He sat there for a minute or two trying only to console Jackson. One of the owners of the restaurant walked over to the officer and asked a few questions that Jackson couldn’t hear because of the pounding of his heart in his eardrums. Slowly, the officer and the hostess helped Jackson up and out to the officer’s patrol car.

“Don’t worry, Jackson, it’s slow. We’ll be okay,” the hostess said as Jackson sat in the back of the police car. “You take care of you and Micah. We’ll cover here.”

Jackson had never seen a dead body before, except his grandma who had passed away when he was young. This was different, though. He couldn’t believe the sight in front of him.

There’s no way that’s Micah, he told himself. He stood in silence looking at the body. His emotions turned to ice as if they were undergoing an autopsy, not Micah. He said nothing—only stared. It was too surreal. He was too still—too pale. He looked almost CGI. His hair even looked fake. But there was no denying the body lying on the table was that of his best friend.

Howcouldthishavehappened?he brooded.Whydidn’t hesaysomethingtome?Maybethat’swhyhewascallingme. Maybehewantedmetostophim.MaybeifIhadansweredthe phonewhenhecalled,hewouldstillbehere.MaybeIcouldhave stoppedhim.

“Is this him?” the officer’s voice interrupted the cacophony of maybes swimming inside Jackson’s head. Jackson said nothing, only nodded his head, his eyes fixated on the closed eyelids behind which so much happiness and love had poured out to him. The medical examiner pulled the sheet back over Micah’s face.

Jackson felt his foundation crumble. He felt everything that had held him up for the past year fall. He was alone. He had no one. He faced the musical and life alone. Everything Jackson could hold on to had been taken away by this sheet. He stared through the glass at the sheet and felt nothing. He was empty.

“I know this is difficult to digest. When you’re ready, we have a couple more questions we would like to ask you.”

Jackson sniffed hard and turned around to face the officer.

“Does his mom know?” Jackson said calmly.

“We were waiting for positive identification before reaching out to her.”

“I think I had better call her.”

He bit his lips and pulled out his phone. He searched through his contacts for the contact listed as “Mama Bear.” He paused for a moment and then looked up at the officer.

“What am I supposed to tell her?” Jackson’s eyes began watering. “Hi, Mrs. Stevenson, it’s Jackson. Your son killed himself.”

“Be honest but compassionate.”

Jackson sniffed again and let out a heavy breath.

“Here goes nothing.”

The dial tone was a death knell. Mrs. Stevenson’s smile was audible through the phone.

“Hello!”

“Hi, Mama Bear.” Jackson sniffed.

“How are you, Jackson?”

“I’m okay. Umm...is Mr. Stevenson there?

“He’s right here. Let me just hand the phone over to him, just a second.”

“Actually, I need to talk to both of you.

“Okay, I’ll put you on speaker. Just a sec.” There was a moment of silence.

“Can you hear us?” came the voice of Mrs. Stevenson.

“Hi, Jackson,” the voice of Mr. Stevenson sounded like it was in an echo chamber.

“Hi, Mr. Stevenson. Are you guys sitting down?”

“We’re just in the middle of cleaning up after dinner. Should we be sitting?”

“Something’s happened.”

“What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Micah...” He cleared his throat. “The police found Micah unconscious on his apartment floor after he called 9-1-1.”

“What are you saying, Jackson?” Mr. Stevenson urged. Jackson started to cry. He couldn’t say anything else.

“Jackson, what happened to my baby boy?” Mrs. Stevenson’s voice was no longer smiling—it was breaking.

“The cops are saying it looks like...” He took a quick breath to steel himself, “Like Micah committed suicide.”

Mr. Stevenson took the phone off of speakerphone. He spoke very matter-of-factly. “Can I talk to the officer, Jackson?”

Mrs. Stevenson could be heard in the background. She let out a heart-wrenching wail that could only be driven by the grief of a mother over the loss of her child.

Jackson handed the phone to the police officer.

“Mr. Stevenson wants to speak with you.”

The officer took the phone. “This is Officer Peters.”

He stepped away to talk with Micah’s father and tell him more of the details. Jackson turned around again to look at the sheet covering Micah’s body. ~~~

“Hey, Jackson,” the phantomed voice came through the earpiece. It was obvious he was crying. “I just got home from finishing the set for the show. I’m actually really glad you didn’t pick up the phone. I just wanted to tell you that you’ll do amazing in the show. I’m sad I won’t be able to be there to see you dreaming the impossible dream. I’m sorry to leave you this way. You’re going to learn a lot more about me here in the next couple of hours and days that you probably never knew. Know that

this isn’t anyone’s fault but my own, especially not yours.” Micah sniggered. “I know I shouldn’t have kept secrets from you, but I didn’t really share some of this stuff with anyone.” He sniffed. “Please, just remember me from the times we spent together. I will always hold your image in my mind as a happy one. Like that time you started sleep-talking in math class.” He gave a short chuckle, sniffed, and cleared his throat. “I’ve left a couple of things for you in the top drawer of my dresser. You are my best friend. I haven’t had a lot of those, but you take the cake on that. I love you. I want you to know that. If that is all you hold on to from me, please, let it be that. ‘Til we meet again, my friend.”

The phone clicked followed by the messaging service asking if the message should be saved or deleted. Jackson touched a number on the phone.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...” the message replayed for the fifth time. Jackson wasn’t really listening to the words of the message. He was in a static state of shock. Tears had stained his swollen eyes and cheeks with streaks of pink.

“‘til we meet again, my friend.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Officer Peters asked.

“A cup of coffee?” Jackson choked out. Those were the first words he had spoken since handing the phone over to the officer. Another officer walked out of the room to retrieve the cup for him.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Not unless you can get me a time machine.” The other officer walked back in with a paper cup.

“Thank you.” Jackson blew into the hot liquid.

“Do you need any cream or sugar?”

“That would be great.” The officer walked over to the table and grabbed some cream and sugar and handed it to Jackson. She then sat next to him on the couch.

“Thanks.”

The door to the room opened unexpectedly. It was President Cox, the University President.

“They just called me, Jackson. I’m so sorry to hear about Micah. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Jackson poured the cream and sugar into his coffee. “Probably not.”

“We’ll give you two a few minutes.” Officer Peters and the female officer walked out of the room.

“Are you going to be alright?” President Cox asked.

“‘Alright’ is probably not the right word to describe what I’m going through. Micah is my best friend.”

“Micah’s passing is a terrible loss.”

Youhavenoidea , Jackson thought.

“This isn’t your fault, you know.”

Yeah.That’swhatMicahkeepstellingme.

“How can I help?”

“Bring him back! That’s the only thing that could actually help me feel any better! Other than that, I don’t know what you could possibly do to make any of this any better!”

President Cox sat for a moment.

“I understand you’re going through a lot of pain, but we will get through this.”

Jackson rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee.

“We’ll hold a memorial service on campus for Micah this Friday. I have sent an email out to the faculty letting them know. I didn’t say what happened, just that he passed away sud—”

Jackson interrupted with perturbed rage, “‘Just that he passed away suddenly and unexpectedly...’, because pretending his death was anything but suicide will do anyone any good? Micah killed himself! Just say it. Just say what happened. He cut his femoral artery. He tried to stop it and called the ambulance when he realized he had gone through with it and couldn’t turn back. He bled out on his floor and died in the ambulance. Just say it. Admit it! Say the words! Say, ‘Suicide!’” Tears were streaming down his face.

President Cox put his hands up to calm him down. “Jackson, it’ll be alright.”

“Don’t tell me it’ll be alright!” Jackson started hitting his fists against President Cox’s chest. “My best friend is dead! How can any of it be alright?”

President Cox put his arm around Jackson and tried to comfort him in the only way he knew how.

“Shh, shh, shh, shhh,” he hushed, acting more like a father than a university president. “I know it hurts. I know. Shh...”

Jackson howled a deep and painful yell fueled by adrenaline, anger, and sorrow.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

President Cox squeezed tighter even though he had never been particularly close to Jackson. Jackson finally quit fighting the embrace and wept in anguish. He buried his face in President Cox’s shoulder and bellowed his agony.

Officer Peters opened the door and President Cox nodded to him to come in.

“Is there someone you can stay with tonight, so you don’t have to be alone?” Officer Peters asked.

President Cox spoke softly, “He’s my responsibility, and he can stay with me tonight.”

Jackson lay awake in the darkness staring up at the ceiling. A light through the window formed a large shape that he couldn’t help but think looked like a coffin. He became aware of every nerve in his body, some itching while others numb. He rolled onto his side. The sound of his breathing became prominent and infuriating. The ticking of his watch was deafening. He rolled onto his stomach. Hot breath filled his face. His thoughts swirled with images of Micah’s body lying on the cold and dispassionate table, Don Quixote, and blood. None of them lingered long enough to seriously contemplate, but they whirled by on the merry-go-round of his mind he kept starting and stopping, each thought precisely where it began earlier.

He couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He reached for his phone for some sort of escape. He opened an incognito browser and searched for some momentary pleasure through pornography, but as he began to search, the images of bodies

brought only more loneliness. One image, in particular, recalled Micah’s form to his mind. He closed the browser, frustrated and disheartened. He set his phone on his chest and stared again at the coffin on the ceiling.

He lifted his phone once more from his chest. He opened up one of his movie streaming apps and ran his fingers along the glass. He scrolled through the rows of pictures. Nothing seemed distracting enough from the typhoon inside his head. Then, he stopped. He stared for a moment at the image before him. He touched the image of a geometric black and white face. Abstract black, white, and gray splotches formed on his screen followed by the words “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”

Tears flowed from Jackson’s eyes, but a smile crossed his face. His mind went back to spilled hot chocolate, the frigid walk home, the disappointing locked door, and the warmth of Micah’s friendship. There was no more ticking of his watch. The sound of his breathing was swallowed up in the echo of Micah’s words, “Everything in my world is perfect. Especially now...You’ll be okay, my friend.” The screen began to fade into darkness as sleep embraced Jackson like a long-forgotten friend.

The spotlight shining in Jackson’s eyes obfuscated the faces staring back at him from the crowd. He could hear the music playing, but as he tried to sing, but he didn’t know the words. He stood, mouth agape, and stared out hoping for some noise to come out. The orchestral introduction repeated, giving him a chance to catch the cue once more, but he was frozen. Savannah

stepped towards him and nudged his side with a sharp, “Get it together, Micah! That’s your cue!”

Jackson looked back at her and mouthed, “I can’t remember the words.”

Savannah faced upstage and whispered, “What are you doing, Micah? Trying to embarrass me? Just sing!” She then gave a forceful shove forcing a honk to come out of his mouth.

He looked down to muster some composure. He was wearing Micah’s Celtic cross necklace and overcoat. At the end of the sleeves, Jackson saw dark, wet stains while a sticky liquid dripped from his fingertips. He looked at his hands to see them covered with blood.

Jackson looked back to show Savannah, but she was gone. He shouted for help, but the theater returned only the sound of his shout and the dripping from his fingers. He couldn’t move from the spotlight.

There was a shuffle of fabric behind him.

“Hello?” he spoke to the darkness. “Is someone there? Can you help me?”

The disembodied voice of a man answered back. “You choose to be this way. Choose to be different. Choose to be normal.”

The voice had a Castellano Spanish accent mixed with the arrogance of a well-educated man.

“Who’s there?” Jackson shouted, trying to look behind him.

“Look, Don Quixote,” the voice came again. The voice sounded as if it was coming from all sides, now. “Who are you? Really? Look and see.”

A bright reflected light hit Jackson’s eyes. A bright blue streak across his vision colored the blackness. He could make out a metallic object and was drawn toward it as if he was sleepwalking.

“What do you see?” the voice boomed in anger.

Jackson stared into the reflection before his face.

“Look!”

Jackson couldn’t believe his eyes. The face staring back at him through the mirror was not his own.

“Micah!” he screamed into the mirror.

“You’re nothing more than a pretender! You’re a fraud!”

Jackson started groping at his face to test the mirror. Micah’s face followed every action. The blood from his hands dyed his face and the mirror as he confirmed it to be solid. His eyes filled with tears. He then pulled on the mirror to try and break it, but the arms holding it were strong.

“Why are you doing this?” Jackson pleaded.

“Don’t you remember? You invited me. It was you who brought this upon you. No one else. It’s your fault.”

Jackson looked back to the mirror. The red streaks clouded the face in front of him.

“I’m sorry, Micah. I’m so sorry.”

Suddenly the spotlight shifted to the man holding the mirror. The man was dressed in brilliant armor. Jackson shifted

his gaze upwards. His face was darkened by shadow and his head covered with a hood. A hand came from his side and pulled the hood from his head. A face, more hideous than any he had seen before stared back at him with fire-red eyes, a mouth grinning with malicious delight, and skin the color of ash.

“Drown in what you’ve done!” the figure spoke through his clenched grin. “Drown in your shame! Drown in your guilt!”

Suddenly, Jackson felt arms squeezing him tightly.

“Jackson!” a strong, but comforting voice came.

Jackson woke screaming as President Cox held him firmly with Mrs. Cox standing nearby in a silky red robe.

“Where is he?” Jackson cried searching the room.

“Where is who, Jackson?” Mrs. Cox hushed as she gently stroked his sweat-filled hair.

“Where’s Micah?”

“Jackson, it’s alright,” President Cox hushed as he held Jackson still. Jackson’s eyes were pouring tears as he looked to his hands to check for blood. “It was just a nightmare; you’re safe.”

Jackson’s eyes found the clock that read 4:38 AM. The events of the following night filled his memory, and he collapsed into President Cox’s arms.

Chapter 7

President Cox sat in silence across from Jackson at the table not knowing exactly what to say. It was now 5:45 AM, and Mrs. Cox had prepared a simple breakfast for them. None of them had slept since he had awoken Jackson while screaming in his sleep. President Cox wished there was something he could say or do to help, but he didn’t want to make it worse, so he sat and stared at his second cup of coffee and staring at the homemade scones Mrs. Cox had laid out.

Nathan Cox had been made president of the university five years ago, and this was the first time a student had committed suicide. He felt responsible for what had happened and couldn’t imagine what Jackson was going through. Micah had never shown any of the tendencies he was told to watch for. He was active in the theater and the College Republicans. He seemed happy. What made it worse was he was Jackson’s only friend. Though he tried to avoid the thought, he couldn’t help but worry that Micah’s death would cause others, mainly Jackson, to follow suit.

President Cox was originally from Kansas City, Missouri. He grew up simply. Both of his parents had been government workers for the Department of Defense. He learned the ins and outs of a federal job, and he couldn’t stand it. Though the benefits were good, he hated seeing his parents’ paycheck determined by politicians and lobbyists who only cared about getting reelected. There were many nights where his father would yell at the radio or television because, “Damn it! Ike cut the budget again.”

Nate, as he was called, attended university at NYU and, despite minor dyscalculia, got a bachelor’s degree in economics. He had the opportunity to work as an intern for Bear Stearns, which meant he set up coffee and meetings for middle management. He caught on to the business with only minor difficulty. After going on to get his MBA, he was offered a position as a junior business analyst.

Over the years, he was promoted multiple times and hired interns of his own that set up coffee and meetings for him. He loved working with the interns. He loved their drive and passion. They were still excited about the business, even the mundane bits, whereas Nate’s coworkers had long lost the fire of their work. The interns were willing to take on any task, while his coworkers tried to pass the buck. The interns were scraping for money and smiling because they had the chance to work with one of the biggest investment banks in the world. The guy in the office next to him complained he and his wife weren’t going to be able to go on a third cruise that year because she was going to have a baby the next month.

Nate would talk to the interns about school and goals. Some of them wanted to go into investment banking or hedge funds. Others wanted to start multi-million-dollar companies or run existing ones. One intern, a young woman named Christine, wanted only one thing. She wanted to be able to help her father.

“My younger brother started a bakery outside of Chicago,” Christine told Nate, “and he struggles managing marketing, budgets, pretty much everything. He’s amazing at baking, but not much else.” She gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “I love my brother, but he’s not the brightest bulb in the box.”

She told him how she was the second youngest of five children. Her father had passed away two years earlier, which is

why she was going to school. Her brother had opened up the bakery as a way of supporting their aging mother since their other siblings had moved away years before.

Even after Christine’s internship ended, Nate continued to keep in contact with her and help her brother’s bakery succeed, which it did. Her brother was a master baker who gave all the credit to watching his mother while growing up.

Despite a decade’s age gap between the two, Nate and Christine’s friendship grew. Nate would fly to Chicago to spend time with Christine and her mother. He would make sure to stop in with a client or two so he could write the trips off as a work-related expense. After a two-year relationship and a year-long engagement, the two were married outside her parents’ Illinois home.

Shortly after their marriage, Christine’s brother had a stroke. Unable to work at the bakery and with climbing medical bills, the business struggled. Nate and Christine decided it was time to move to be closer to her mother. Nate had saved enough money that the move wouldn’t take too much of a hit to their finances and he began looking for positions in the area and was able to teach business at a nearby private university where he could be surrounded by the fire of youth that inspired him each day as he had worked with interns at Bear Stearns.

This fire for life Nate had striven to kindle in so many was gone from Jackson’s eyes who sat across the table staring into space. The cup of coffee he had been poured hours ago was now ice cold sitting next to an untouched scone.

“Ja—,” President Cox choked on his coffee and cleared his throat. “Jackson?” he said, setting down his coffee. Jackson didn’t acknowledge his existence. “I’m not going to say this is going to

be easy. I know you and Micah were close.” He waited for some sign that Jackson was listening, but none was given. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, but I know that things will get better.”

Jackson took in a deep breath and shifted his thousandyard stare away towards the kitchen window where the first light of the morning was beginning to shine. The yellow light pierced through a small opening of an overcast sky, but was immediately snuffed by the swift moving storm that was settling in.

Mrs. Cox walked in carrying President Cox’s cell phone.

“Honey?” she nearly whispered afraid of disturbing the conversation. President Cox gave her a nod to let her know she wasn’t interrupting anything. “It’s Lenny. He wants to talk to you about Friday.”

President Cox reached out his hand for the phone.

“Hey, Lenny,” he said rather coldly. Lenny was Dr. Leonardo Lopez, the dean of students and one of the most congenial men Jackson had ever met. He was as persistent as he was kind, which had a way of rubbing some people, including President Cox, the wrong way.

“No, we don’t have anything set right now…Lenny, can I—can I call you back after I have a chance to draw up some plans?…No, I know we need to get this going, but…,” President Cox looked up to Mrs. Cox and over to Jackson, “Now’s just not the time to discuss this. Come see me in my office at one on Wednesday, okay? … Okay… Okay… We can discuss it then… Okay, Lenny… Mmhmm, I’ll have Jackson be there, as well… Okay, bye.”

He handed the phone back to Mrs. Cox and she turned to get a plate of breakfast for herself.

“What did Lenny want?” Jackson said, his gaze still unfocused out the window.

President Cox nearly spilled his coffee in surprise.

“He was just asking about the Friday assembly.”

“You mean Micah’s memorial service?”

“Do you have anything you think Micah would want to happen during the service?”

Jackson knew Micah didn’t want a memorial service. He wouldn’t want people pretending to cry over him. He hated disingenuousness and couldn’t stand it when people who barely knew someone would act as if they were going to be devastated by death.

“Micah will be greatly missed by all of us,” President Cox said.

Thereitis,Jackson thought.

“Did Micah belong to a church?” Mrs. Cox asked.

Jackson shook his head. “Micah hasn’t been in a church since he was a teenager. His parents aren’t too religious, but they’re Mormons or Methodists. Something with an ‘M,’ I think. We didn’t really talk a lot about church stuff a whole lot.”

“Do you think Micah would have liked a Bible reading?”

“You might as well just read fromJesusChristSuperstar.” All of the questions about church and God made Jackson claustrophobic. “Do you mind if I go for a walk?”

“I don’t kn—” President Cox began.

Mrs. Cox put her hand on his shoulder to cut him off, “I think an early morning walk is just the ticket.”

Jackson nodded and walked out of the kitchen and walked out into the dewy morning.

“I don’t know if he should be alone at a time like this, Chris,” Nate said as he heard the front door close.

“Sweetheart,” Christine chided, “he just lost his best friend less than 12 hours ago and asking him questions about how to say goodbye to Micah is not going to help him.”

“You’re probably right,” he conceded. “But what if he does something stupid? What if he walks into traffic or something?”

Christine grabbed her husband’s shaking hand as the other rubbed his forehead with great force. “I never told you this, Nate, but I had a girlfriend who killed herself when we were in high school. She hung herself in the bathroom. All I wanted to do was be alone. I didn’t want to talk about her. I didn’t want to think about her, but she was all I could think about. Everyone tried to make me feel better, but it all, somehow, made me feel worse. It took time, but I had to take the time to accept what I couldn’t change.” She squeezed his hand as a tear rolled down her cheek. “And Jackson needs to take that time to accept it, too.”

Nate looked up at Christine and pursed his lips. “I failed one of my students.”

“No, sweetheart, you didn’t fail him.” She put her hand on his cheek. “You didn’t know. All you can do is help the next student.”

The two sat silently for a moment with tears in their eyes trying to hold each other together while smiling at each other.

“I had better get ready for work,” Nate said as he leaned over and kissed Christine on the forehead. “Thank you. I love you.”

“You’re welcome. I love you, too,” Christine replied with a kiss to the air.

The air was wet as the oncoming storm crept its way along the sky. President Cox’s house was only a short walk away from campus, but Jackson didn’t feel like going to campus would make him feel any better. The cool, damp morning air helped alleviate some of the heaviness on his mind, but it didn’t stop his thoughts from racing. He pulled out his phone and put it to his ear.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...”

As he walked, a light mist began to fall.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...” the message played again.

Jackson’s feet felt disconnected from his consciousness. He was focused on the sound of Micah’s voice. He was memorizing the deep notes of his voice, the sound of his laugh, the sound of his tears, the rhythm of his breath. He didn’t want it to fade away into the darkness of the night before.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...” the message played again.

A car blared its horn and swerved as Jackson stepped off the curb narrowly missing the front end of the car. The sound felt a mile off in the distance. The only reason Jackson knew the car had driven by was the splashing up of water. He kept walking and turning down streets without paying attention.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...” the message played again, but Jackson dropped the phone to his side as he realized where his feet had taken him. He looked at the door in front of him. There was tape sealing the door he had passed through so many times. Jackson stepped slowly in the wet grass to the door and stretched out his hand to the cold and unwelcoming barricade. His heart broke as he thought about the scene he knew was on the other side.

He hit his forehead against the door in despair and made fists with both hands. He pounded against the threshold as if urging Micah to come to the door and welcome him in. The humid air had formed beads of rain on his face which disguised his silent tears. He turned his back to the door and slid to the ground. He lifted his head towards the sky and stared at the expanse of clouds above him. He said nothing. He made no noise except a sniff now and then.

He didn’t care he was wet. He didn’t care he was cold. He didn’t care about himself at all.

He lifted his phone to his ear.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...” the message played again. Jackson cried and sniffed along with Micah’s voice.

“Please, just remember me from the times we spent together. I will always hold your image in my mind as a happy one. Like that time you started sleep talking in math class.” Jackson let

out a sharp chuckle at the memory of waking up with his entire class staring at him.

“You are my best friend. I haven’t had a lot of those, but you take the cake on that.” His eyes started streaming tears. “I love you. I want you to know that. If that is all you hold on to from me, please, let it be that. ‘Til we meet again, my friend.”

Jackson couldn’t hold it in any longer. He put the phone down and hung his head in sorrow and let go of all of his emotions.

“Why?” he sobbed. “Why did you do it, Micah? What made you think this was the only way out? What were you going through that you couldn’t tell me? I would have done anything to help you. Why didn’t you let me in?”

Jackson sat at Micah’s door and wept until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

“Hey,” spoke a firm voice. It was a police officer shaking his shoulder to wake him. “Hey, kid, are you alright?”

Jackson pulled back, not recognizing where he was or who was shaking him awake.

“Hey, now, everything’s okay,” the officer reassured. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” Jackson apologized. The mist from earlier turned to a light rain that made the grass slippery and caused him to lose his footing as he climbed to his feet. “I’m sorry, this is my…I mean…wasmy best friend’s house.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry for your loss. But we can’t let anyone on the premises,” the officer scolded.

“I understand. I don’t even know why I came here.” Jackson began to walk away.

“Hey,” the officer shouted at him. “You forgot your phone.” She picked it up and handed it to him.

“Hey, uh…Why don’t you grab a seat in my patrol car? It’s warm. You can dry off a bit, and then I can give you a ride home once they come to process the scene.”

“I appreciate that.” Jackson started towards the car.

“When will I be able to go in and get his things?” he said.

“Something like this, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to gather things by Thursday or Friday.” The officer turned and moved to call on her radio but looked back at Jackson who had just opened the door to the patrol car.

“You’re going to be okay, kid.”

Jackson gave a half-smile and climbed into the backseat.

Jackson laid down on his bed and stared at the ceiling intermittently rolling over to one side or the other. None of it seemed real anymore. He hadn’t gone to the police station. He hadn’t seen Micah’s body. None of this was happening. It had all been a terrible dream, and Micah was going to call him to go hang out any minute now. This couldn’t possibly be happening. He didn’t care about anything. The world outside his four walls no longer existed. He was alone in the universe. He ignored his

phone. He didn’t check his email. He just laid there waiting to wake up from a horrible dream.

A knock on his door broke the trance. There was another person in the world, and they came to his apartment. Jackson got up and opened the door. Standing there was a big pink tornado visibly upset, in every sense of the word. Her eyes flashed in anger and her puffy eyes were a giveaway she had been crying.

“Did you simply forget about rehearsal?” she burst through the door and sat at his desk. “I was close to Micah, too, but you don’t see me missing rehearsal.”

“‘Hello’ to you, too, Savannah,” Jackson spoke to the space she had once occupied. “Would you like to come in? Oh, please, it’s no trouble. Have a seat.”

“You should have been at rehearsal!” she shouted. “Diego got some nasty stomach thing last night and can’t be in the show and next week is Tech Week! If you ask me, he just got super hungover and is puking his guts out, but Professor Zed said he couldn’t be in the show anymore because he’s worried of getting everyone else sick. Besides, even if it is just a super hangover, Diego is only 20. Stupid boys thinking it’s cool to drink until they can’t see straight…” She went off about something like how toxic masculinity was destroying the school, theatre, and the entire world, but Jackson shut her out.

“What does this have to do with me?” Jackson finally spoke up.

“Since Diego can’t be in the show, it means you’re it. I have to rehearse with you, and without you there, I look like an idiot.”

“Don’t blame me for you looking like an idiot. I wasn’t even there.”

“If you think just because you’re hurting you can make fun of me, you’re dead wrong!” Savannah covered her mouth realizing her poor choice of words, suddenly making an about-face in her anger revealing something Jackson had never seen from her—compassion.

“I’m so sorry, Jackson. I shouldn’t have said ‘dead.’ Gosh dang it, I said it again.” She hit her hands against her legs in frustration.

“It’s alright. You can say ‘dead.’ Everyone dies,” Jackson was still miffed at her.

“But doesn’t it make you think of…” Savannah trailed off.

“Make me think of what, Savannah?” Jackson’s voice didn’t hold the same level of compassion as hers.

“You know…” Savannah’s discomfort exited her body through a shifting of her weight.

“Say it,” Jacob looked at her intently while she continued to avoid eye contact. “Say his name. Say what he did.”

“No, I don’t like to think about it,” Savannah squirmed. “I mean, it just happened.”

“Say it!” he erupted causing her to jump.

“Why?” she shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s just talk about something else, please?”

Jackson’s eyes glimmered with tears as he burst out, “Say hisfuckingname, Savannah. Say what he did.”

“What’s wrong with you, Jackson?” Savannah’s squirming moved to full-blown defense.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he continued slowly. “What’s wrong with you? Just say, ‘Micah committed suicide.’

It’s not that hard. Drop the pretense he’s going to walk through that door any minute and just say it.”

“Please, Jackson. Stop,” she begged sounding more like a wounded animal than a leading lady. “I don’t want to—"

“Say it!” Jackson’s even temperament had disappeared. He stood over her with labored breath and pain in his eyes.

“Jackson, please?”

As he stared down at her, she stared back with tearful eyes lined with tangible fear. She was a good actress, but not this good. He took a step back and collapsed onto his bed.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Van,” he shook his head and blinked as if waking up from some sort of trance. “I…I don’t know what came over me.”

Savannah stood up and gingerly placed her hand on his shoulder. Jackson’s body melted at her touch. He began heaving with sorrow, though his eyes were no longer able to cry. Savannah knelt beside him and slid her hand to the middle of his back as she let out a calming hush as she gently rubbed. Jackson had never known this side of Savannah. She was always so fake and cold. For once, she was a squishy person with emotions other than hatred and malevolence.

“I’m going to miss Micah, too,” she said just above a whisper.

“Sure,” he mocked. “You’ll miss acting opposite him.”

She brushed off the criticism, “Yeah, I will miss that, but Micah was more than just someone I enjoyed acting with. We weren’t as close after we broke up, but Micah was still a very important person in my life. We respect each other.”

“Micah was a good guy, huh?” Jackson looked up at her with puffy eyes and red cheeks.

“He was one of the best.”

Jackson’s mind wandered around the things Savannah’s stories of Micah. It made his misery return. A pain settled onto Jackson—everywhere, yet nowhere all at once—a deep and penetrating ache. The fact that he was now the lead in ManofLa Manchawasn’t even phasing him. He tried pulling out his phone to try to distract himself. He almost mindlessly opened Facebook.

HowdoIhave25notifications?He thought.Oh,right, it’sbeenacoupleofdays.

Twelve new friend requests, five direct messages, three comments, two reactions, two tagged posts, and an event invite. He barely recognized any of the people requesting his friendship, except for a friend request from his aunt’s fifth new account. Most were from people he knew in passing from school, except for two that looked like fake accounts. He completely ignored the reactions, comments, and tagged posts. When he looked at the messages, they were all trying to console him. He closed his Facebook and threw his phone down. He hit his head against his pillow and punched his bed.

WhydidIthinkthatwouldmakemefeelbetter?Facebooknevermakesanyonefeelbetter.

He laid there and stared. He stared off into the blackness of his room. Images returned to his mind of the mirror, the

blood, and the hooded knight from his nightmare. His breath quickened and a weight settled onto his chest. His chest tightened and he felt like the room was spinning. He stood up and shook his hands. He felt in danger. The face of Micah staring back from the mirror and the ashen face staring down at him were tangible and present in the room. He grabbed his phone and rushed to his bathroom. He sat on the toilet and cried. The room spun and the sound of the fan pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. He held out his phone and tapped a couple of icons.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...”

Jackson’s breath quickened again. This time he didn’t feel any better. He had to escape. He had to run away. His eyes searched for an exit, but the room closed in.

“God, please make it stop!” Jackson whispered. “Make this go away.”

It didn’t go away, though. Jackson got up from the toilet and grabbed his keys. He had to run away. He had to escape. He didn’t know where he would go, but he had to go.

He made it down the stairs and slammed the door open. His car was parked in its usual place under the streetlight, fourth parking spot from his door. He pulled the driver’s door open and got in.

It was silent. Everything fell silent. He couldn’t even hear himself breathing. He finally felt like he had shut out everything—school, Savannah, his anxiety, the hooded figure, Micah— everything except the pain. He turned the key and drove off into the night. He didn’t care where he went, he just needed to leave.

Jackson stared at his glass. His eyes followed the swirling ice cubes in his glass. He hadn’t had a drink in over a year, but he had ordered his drink of choice—a Jameson sour with grenadine. He came upon it completely by accident but fell in love with it on the spot. He lifted the glass to his lips hesitantly. The smell filled his nose with memories of birthdays, holidays, and celebrations.

A cheer came from two booths away as a young man took his first drink. “Happy birthday!” the table shouted. A girl leaned in and gave the young man a lingering kiss. Jackson didn’t know he could feel more alone. He downed his drink.

He didn’t even know why he was here. He had searched “gay bar” in Google and this was the closest one. He hated the club atmosphere and didn’t even really want to be at a gay bar, but the idea of having some drunk girl hitting on him just made him feel weird.

Atleastatagaybar , he thought,Iwon’tbehittingonanyone.

“Hey,” a male voice came from behind, “mind if I sit next to you?”

Jackson nodded and the man sat down. He was a muscular guy who wore a button-down plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tight dark blue jeans. He had dark brown hair in a pompadour with a well-groomed goatee and sideburns to his jawline. He asked the bartender for a Coors with a shot of tequila and sat down.

“The name’s Gavin. Whatcha drinking tonight?”

Well,you’refriendly,aren’tyou?Jackson thought. “I’m Jackson and I’ve been drinking whiskey.”

Gavin shouted to the bartender, “Get a Jack for Jack here and put it on my tab.” Jackson didn’t like being called Jack, but he didn’t have enough energy to care, especially if it got him another drink.

“You drinkin’ alone, Jack?” Gavin licked the back of his hand and poured some salt and did the shot.

Jackson nodded as he took a sip of his whiskey. Jack Daniels had a harsher flavor to it, but it was free, so he wasn’t going to complain.

“Not very talkative, are you?” Gavin’s eyes were watering a little from the lime.

“Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Then I won’t ask another word about it,” Gavin said. “Hey! What’s say you and me go get something to eat. Drinking alone ain’t the best when you’re down. Just makes you feel worse.”

“I don’t know,” Jackson hesitated as he looked back at his drink.

“Come on, Jack. It’ll be my treat. We can get some food.”

Jackson took a breath.Well,it’sbetterthandrinking alone.

“Okay. Just as long as you promise you’re not some serial killer who picks up depressed guys at bars.”

“I make no promises,” Gavin said with a wink and a nod to the bartender to close out their tabs. “But we’ll go somewhere public if it makes you feel better.”

Chapter 8

Micah lost his grandfather when he was 16. It was hard to see his father, who had been so strong all his life, sit stoically looking into the casket. His father’s eyes stared at the lifeless form before him. He got hugs from mourners and hugged his three sisters, but there was no emotion in his father’s face.

The days following the memorial service, Micah’s father refused to leave the house. He was a ghost who walked from his bedroom to the bathroom and back to his bedroom. He rarely spoke. Micah’s mother took meals into the bedroom, though she would return with just as much food as she had entered the room with.

Micah’s mother didn’t know what to do except carry on with life. She had lost both of her parents when she was younger. It wasn’t any easier to lose her father-in-law, but she felt as though she was losing her husband as well. She tried to remain composed around Anna and Micah, but he could see it was wearing on her. She would look to the bedroom when watching television. She took a breath before walking into her bedroom.

One night, as Micah got up to go to the bathroom, he saw his mother sitting on the couch. She sat quietly with her eyes closed, head down, and arms folded. He tried his best to sneak past her, but as he stepped, his growing joints let out a loud crack. Her head snapped up suddenly with a gasp of mild terror.

“Oh,” she said. “You startled me, Micah.”

“Sorry, Mom,” he apologized. “I just had to go to the bathroom.”

“It’s alright, Micah,” she sniffed. “Come here for a second.”

Micah sat down next to his mother who was wiping her nose with a tissue she had wadded in her left hand. She grabbed his hand and kissed it. Her hands quivered as her fingers traced the bones in his hands.

“I want you to know how much I love you,” came her cracking voice. “And how much your father loves you.”

Micah didn’t like the sound of this conversation. “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”

“No, Honey,” she smoothed his messy hair. “We aren’t getting divorced. Dad’s just having a difficult time, right now. We all grieve differently, and it takes different amounts of time for people to mourn. You remember when Granddad died, how hard it was on me?” Micah nodded. “Well, I had already lost one of my parents. When Grandma died, it was a lot harder.”

“But did you lock yourself in your room?”

“No, I didn’t, but I wanted to. I resented everyone around me. ‘How dare their lives get to carry on while mine is crashing down!’ I thought. My whole world was changed, why wasn’t theirs? It wasn’t fair. Dad is feeling that right now.”

“How long is it going to be like this?” Micah asked. “Do you think he’ll make it to my show this weekend?”

Micah’s mother pursed her lips. “I sure hope so.” Her voice was shaking. “He just needs to know that his life can still go on and losing a parent can make you feel like it’s stopped.”

She gave one more kiss to his hand and then one on his forehead. “You had better get to bed. You’ve got school in the morning.”

Micah kissed his mother’s hand and rose from the couch. Just before going down the hallway, he looked back. “Mom?” She looked up at him. “Is there anything I can do to help him?”

“I think the best thing you can do is give him something to live for.”

“Goodnight, Mom. Love you.”

“I love you, too, Sweetheart. Goodnight.”

Micah spent the next day at school thinking how to help his father find something to live for. Finally, he realized that it was him. That he was something his father could live for. When he got home, he grabbed a picture from his dresser of he and his dad on a camping trip. They were smiling, his father’s arm around his shoulders. He took it out of the frame and slid it under the bedroom door with a knock and a note that read, “You lost your dad, but I’m not ready to lose mine.”

There was no noise from the other side of the door as he walked away from the door. He walked back into his room and began doing his homework when he heard a soft knock on the door.

“Micah?” a beleaguered voice spoke as the door slowly opened. It was his father in a robe. His face was gaunt and gray while pink gullies under his eyes filled with tears.

Micah rose from his desk and walked to the door. Neither man said a word. His father held out the note and the picture. Micah reached for the note and picture, but his father lifted his arms and reached around him before he could take it. Micah returned the embrace and both men cried.

“I’m sorry, Micah. You haven’t lost me, Son,” he cried. “And I haven’t lost you.”

“My dad,” Micah told Jackson, “let death take control of his life. I put life back in. It was still hard for him, but he was able to get up and eat with us. He went back to work. His life went back to normal, and he made it to my show that weekend. Life is life and death is death. When we let death encroach on life, we end up with a whole lot of life unlived and die before we meet the grave.”

A sharp pain shot through Jackson’s head as the sun hit his eyelids. He rubbed his eyes hoping this was all a dream. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and he just couldn’t tell if the sound he was hearing was his own breathing or a lawnmower.

Oh,boy!Today’sgoingtobefun,he thought. He inhaled in preparation for his next movements.

Through his haze, Jackson stretched his arms in front of him and he felt something shift on his side; there was something that didn’t belong there. It was bulky and soft and warm.

Whatthe—?Jackson couldn’t look at the thing that shouldn’t be there. Oh,no.On his side was a right arm. He suddenly became very sober and very aware he was not in his own bed wearing only underwear and one sock.

No,no,no,no,no,he repeated as he slowly turned his head to get a picture of the person attached to the arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a tuft of short black hair.

Pleasesayshe’satleastkindofattractive…As he shifted his weight to get a clearer view, the arm flexed, pulling Jackson back towards the body.

Shit!Suddenly the events of the night before came into clear view as the body behind him inhaled sharply.

“Good morning,” the voice from the night before came. “How are you feeling?”

“Hey. A little fuzzy,” Jackson’s voice shook as he rolled over to face Gavin. He remembered driving to get some food, not eating it, and then coming back to Gavin’s, but a crater was carved in his memory by, what he could only assume by his hairy tongue, was quite a bit of alcohol. “Did we…doanything last night?”

Gavin shook his head slowly and deliberately, but with a reassuring smile. “No, we didn’t. You had way too much to drink when we got back here, and I couldn’t take advantage of someone in that situation, especially someone as trusting as you. We were cuddling when you passed out while telling me about what a dick some guy named Matthew was. I didn’t want to move you, and I just fell asleep right next to you.”

“I’m sorry.” Jackson could tell he was turning red. “Matthews is a professor of mine.”

“No, don’t feel bad. I actually had a good time,” Gavin propped up on his elbow, “even without having sex. I just assumed Matthew was an ex or crush or something.”

“Thanks. I just…haven’t…” Jackson couldn’t stomach the words.

“I know. You told me.”

Jackson winced and Gavin smiled and laughed again.

“About ten times…”

“Oh, no.” Jackson covered his face as his mind raced through all of the possible secrets he shared with Gavin. He winced in pain as his hangover reminded him that it was still there.

“Hey,” Gavin pulled Jackson’s hands from his face and touched his cheek. “It’s okay.”

Gavin reached over to his nightstand and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and handed Jackson four along with a red Gatorade.

“Take these when you get some food in your stomach.”

Something about Gavin’s bright blue eyes and soft smile brought a new peace to Jackson. A tear began to form in the corner of his eye. Gavin’s thumb reached in from his cheek, wiping the tear before it could fall. That made tears line up at the gates waiting to take the place of the first. Jackson didn’t know why this stranger, a bar boy, was being so kind to him. Only one person had ever been this kind to him. It was almost like Micah was holding him.

Micah!

Jackson jerked back to the world outside of Gavin’s touch. “Shit! What time is it?”

Gavin rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand. “It’s 10:17, why?” Gavin said.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! I have to go,” Jackson threw the sheets off and looked around the room for his clothes.

Gavin sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Jackson reached down and grabbed his shirt. “I’ve just got some stuff to do today.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” each word was swaddled in sympathy. Gavin climbed out of bed and started grabbing bits of clothing. The fact he had boxers on was oddly comforting for Jackson, though his pecs made his eyes linger longer than he intended. Gavin grabbed Jackson’s pants that were slung over a chair.

Jackson’s head popped out of his shirt, “Thanks. It’s just some stuff I’ve got to prepare for.”

“Oh,” Gavin’s face showed more secrets than Dr. Matthews, Ph.D.

Jackson’s left leg still hung out of his dark blue jeans. “I see I told you about that, too.”

“That’s part of the reason I didn’t try to kiss you this morning or suggest anything. I wouldn’t want to come between you and your boyfriend. I mean, it seems like you guys are fighting and if you’re trying to work it out, I wouldn’t want to stop you.” Gavin pulled on a pair of sweatpants and sat on his bed.

Jackson felt a tingle go up his neck. He slipped his other leg into his jeans and sat next to Gavin on the bed. He hung his head and looked at the floor.

“Micah…” he let out a sharp breath. “Micah’s not my boyfriend.”

Gavin looked at him.

“At one point I wished he was, but he…he’s not my boyfriend.”

Gavin turned his whole body towards Jackson. His hand went to his hip to help him face Jackson better.

“Micah wasmy best friend.” Gavin’s eyes recognized the past tense. He reached out his hand to place on Jackson’s knee. There were no tears this time.

“I’m so sorry,” Gavin said. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

“It’s alright,” Jackson quickly wiped some sleep from the corner of his eye. “That’s kind of why I went to the bar last night.” Jackson’s voice was quiet; his breath measured. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” Jackson gave an embarrassed chuckle.

“Micah killed himself Sunday while I was at work, and I have to get stuff ready for a memorial service we’re having for him at school on Friday.”

“Oh, Jack.” Gavin put his arm around Jackson and pulled him in close, like they’d been friends for years. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge this up. I shouldn’t have even said anything.”

“No. No... It’s—it’s fine,” Jackson said with a sharp sigh. He then repeated the words Micah had said so many times, as if cold-reading a script, “Life is life and death is death. I shouldn’t let his death encroach on me living my life.” A heavy pause came as he tried to swallow a lump that had formed in his throat. “He’d hate that.”

Jackson stared at the door. “He’d want me to get back to living, but I just…I just don’t know how. He was always there for me, and the one time he needed me…”

He slapped his hand against his knee and covered his face. “Why didn’t I answer the fucking phone?”

Gavin held him in silence for a moment. “I know what you mean. I, uh, had my own Micah...of sorts.” Gavin pulled his arm back and looked at the ground. He breathed deep, prepping

himself to speak. “My, uh,” he coughed to clear his throat, “my cousin. A few years ago, we were fighting. It had been about a week or so, and I was stubborn, so when he called, I didn’t answer. That night, he was driving home from work to his wife and two-year old, and, he—uh—he was in a head-on collision and he” he cleared his throat again, “he died almost instantly. I never got to make up with him, and I wish every day that I could just apologize. Sad thing is I don’t even remember what the fight was about.”

Jackson put his head on Gavin’s shoulder and sighed, “Don’t we make a sad little pair?” He let out a forced chuckle. He held his head there for a moment and Gavin rested his head on Jackson’s. Slowly, Gavin lifted his head and turned to face Jackson. Jackson lifted his head to look into Gavin’s eyes and hesitatingly motioned forward with a quick breath in. Gavin slowly slid his hand around Jackson’s neck and pulled him in closely and softly kissed him. Jackson met Gavin’s eyes. He looked deep and saw compassion and understanding, while his mind flooded with shame and regret.

“I really want to stay, but… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I’m still trying to figure things out, and with all of this stuff, I just…” Jackson let out a heavy sigh.

Gavin reached for his hand and gave it a small kiss. “You’d better get going,” he said. “I’m sure you have a lot to do to get ready.”

Gavin’s eyes, once full of compassion and understanding, now looked at the bed where he and Jackson had spent hours next to each other. He instinctively ran his hand through his hair as if to hide himself. Jackson saw the pinch his words of regret had on this kind and beautiful man.

“I am glad I got to meet you, Jack, even if you were only sober for a little of it.”

“Thanks,” Jackson said, “for being easy to talk to.”

Gavin decided to test the waters, “Hey, when you’re ready, I’d like to see you again—if you’d want to, that is.”

“I think I might like that,” Jackson’s lip curled slightly. “One day.”

“Well, when ‘one day’ comes, just come get ‘er,” Gavin gave Jackson’s hand one more kiss and threw it back at him. “Now go!”

Jackson smiled and walked out the door.

Jackson hated feigned sympathy. It never felt nearly as much like compassion for his suffering as it did as a mask of humanity painted an inch thick on the face of those who wanted people to think they were compassionate, but as soon as they walked away, they didn’t care anymore

“You’re in my thoughts and prayers,” they would say, but as soon as they were out of earshot, they would take off the veneer and resume their egocentric lives, uncaring and unfeeling, until the next time they passed and painted the mask again.

Every face he passed on campus had this painted mask as he walked to President Cox’s office. One line in the food court avoided eye contact, altogether, as he passed.

Atleasttheyaren’tpretendingtocare.Iguessthey’retoo hungrytopretend.

The last thing Jackson remembered eating was a ham and cheese omelet the night before with Gavin, or, at least he thought he remembered that, but he was pretty certain whatever it was didn’t stay in his stomach overnight. Before that must have been before the news. He had to get the taste of reverse-whisky and bile out of his mouth, as well as something to take with the ibuprofen Gavin had given him.

His eyes crossed the food court’s cluttered assortment of tables. Some eyes looked intently at homework, while others stared knowingly at Jackson. One couple was canoodling like the room wasn’t full of people. His eyes rested on a restaurant with one person in line.

Ionlyhavetodealwithonepersonthere , he justified to himself, as he walked across the food court and got in line.

He ordered a breakfast sandwich and paid without another word, walking off to meet with Dr. Lopez and President Cox to figure out the details for Micah’s memorial.

Nathan loved staring out the large window which opened to the main complex of the school. The third floor gave him a watchman’s view of the campus’ oldest and most iconic building and the location where Nathan planned on having Micah’s memorial services—the Chapel of Saint Sebastian. The chapel had been constructed of a yellow and cream-colored onyx marble that almost blushed in the sunlight, as if the light emanated from within. The outer columns were made of deep red cedar that lined the entrance and façade. An ovoid window sat above the main entrance doors, just below the chapel’s belltower that

housed a carillon which sounded every hour and at evensong. The belltower was capped with an oxidized bronze roof and cross that bore an inscription, “Laus Deo”.

PraisebetoGod , Nathan thought, staring up at the cross. Another Latin phrase from within the chapel came to his mind. This inscription sat below the apse where was painted a depiction of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, pierced by arrows and tied to a column which looked similar to those of the anterior of the chapel. The words read, Diabolus modis omnibus nervi ad conciliandos animos quae pertinent ad Christum

Nos non debet odium nostrum labore in luctando eas a Satan et dare eis ad Deum.

Thedevilstrainseverynervetosecurethesoulswhichbelongto Christ , he recited the translation to himself. Weshouldnot grudgeourtoilinwrestlingthemfromSatanandgivingthem backtoGod .

His eyes wandered between the groups of passing students below. He couldn’t help but feel that wrestling for each of them as these words of Saint Sebastian pierced his own heart.

Theyhavesomuchlifeaheadofthem , he thought.They gettreatedasifabadgradeonanassignmentistheendofthe world,whiletheyrackuptensofthousandsofdollarsindebtjust togetapieceofpaperthatsaystheycouldpasssometests.They havesomuchontheirshoulders,andtheypretendlikeitdoesn’t breaktheirbacks .

He couldn’t help but blink hard with emotion. Scanning the complex, he noticed an abstract statue. It was supposed to symbolize man’s ability to grow and adapt to change, but from

this vantage point, it looked like a monkey on a seesaw surrounded by a couple of squiggly lines. In fact, that’s pretty much what it looked like up closely, as well, but he was no artist. He preferred the harsh and straightforward lines of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian. No interpretation needed.

“It’s 10:30,” Lenny said, as he hurriedly jumped from a leather armchair, which groaned at his sudden movements. He crossed to the large window and stood next to Nathan. Rather than joining in gazing across the campus, Lenny’s eyes followed the seam of his sweater to his analog Casio, counting every second. “He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

He began pacing back and forth between the desk and the door, all the while the ticking itch scratched away the seconds.

Dr. Leonardo Lopez, though congenial and kind, was a man of punctuality. He needed to be. He wore many different hats. On top of being the dean of students, he also taught a couple of courses and sponsored the university’s Student Government. Beyond these, he was a husband and a father of five young children. This center of his universe made the balancing act of roles necessary since it added a couple thousand dollars to his annual salary.

His wife, Georgina, dealt with schizophrenia. It wasn’t severe as long as she was on medication. He was also diabetic, as were two of his five children. This meant that, even with insurance, the medical bills composed a large portion of their budget, but Lenny performed each task with a smile on his face.

He was a heavy-set man, weighing in somewhere north of 300 pounds. Coupled with his height of 6 foot 5 inches, Lenny was a commanding, though caring, figure around campus. Between Thanksgiving and the end of the Fall Semester, he often

dressed as Santa Claus, giving out candies and prizes for special contests the Student Government came up with. He was even called the “BFG” or “Big Friendly Giant” by much of the student body; though, out of respect, they would always address him as “Dr. Lopez” or more casually as “Lenny”. He didn’t much care to be called “Leonardo”—always made him feel like a stuffed shirt, and he didn’t like that at all.

“God didn’t put emotionless robots on this earth,” he would say. “If he wanted to, he could have, but, instead, he put humans—humans with flaws, emotions, needs, and quirks. These quirks and strategic imperfections make it so we can help each other. God put you where you are because he needed you—not someone like you or just a body, but you. Not everything happens for a reason, but there are no coincidences.”

He was a good man. He could be a little intense, sometimes, but he was a good man who provided for his family in the best way he knew how—hard work and love.

10:32, he thought to himself as he finally gave in and looked down at his watch.IknowIshouldn’tbesoimpatient withhim;hejustlosthisbestfriend.He crossed and stared out the window for a second or two. ButIdon’thavetimetowaste waitingforhimtoshowup.He hurriedly turned and crossed to his chair, his pacing footsteps matching the ticking of his watch.

“Lenny,” Nathan said glancing over his shoulder, “stop pacing or you’ll give me your anxiety disorder.”

His eyes turned back to the window.

“Besides, I think you can stop counting the seconds.” He pointed out a figure sluffing his way across the courtyard. “Later than we would have liked, but here.”

By the look on Jackson’s face, he would have felt more comfortable in a police interrogation room. President Cox sat behind his large, dark cherry wood desk that filled a quarter of his third-floor office. The light coming from the curtained window brushed a shadow across his face, making him look like he was an anonymous witness on Dateline . Lenny, when he wasn’t trying to console Jackson with a squeezing hug or a hand on his shoulder, sat on the edge of President Cox’s desk furiously taking notes, though not much was being established.

“I’ve already contacted Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson. They had a few suggestions about the service—specifically speakers and prayers,” President Cox shadow said as he handed a handwritten list to Lenny who put it in his stack of papers.

“They also plan on flying in tomorrow afternoon,” President Cox tried to add sympathy to his voice. “They needed to meet with the police department and wanted time to gather some personal items from Micah’s apartment.”

He looked up at Jackson, “We should probably have someone meet them at the airport.”

Jackson spoke under his breath, “I highly doubt they’ll want to see anyone.”

“Maybe Georgina could stop by,” Lenny proposed looking back towards President Cox.

“Yes,” Jackson retorted, “that’s exactly what the grieving parents of a boy who just slit his own wrists want to see—some strange lady waiting to give them a hug and a kiss telling them

how sorry she is and that everything is going to be alright.” Jackson slumped further in the leather chair. “That’ll make them feel just peachy.”

President Cox’s hand raised up, as if to silence Lenny’s imminent defense.

“I was actually thinking that maybe you would be willing to pick them up,” he said. “I mean, you were closest to Micah, and you have a better relationship with them than anyone else.”

All Jackson could do was replay the last phone call he had with the Stevenson’s at the police station.

“I don’t know,” Jackson hesitated, his voice tensing. “I doubt they want to see me, since I was the one who broke the news to them.”

President Cox let out a soft sigh. “Jackson,” he said with a calm forcefulness, “I think you’re the only person on this campus that the Stevenson’s would want to have greet them at the airport.”

Jackson begrudgingly agreed.

“Where should we hold the memorial service?” Lenny said, changing the subject before Jackson could change his mind.

“Well, I was thinking of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian, considering the occasion, it’s the obvious choice,” President Cox suggested. Jackson scoffed.

“Something wrong, Jackson?” President Cox tried not to match Jackson’s energy.

“No, nothing. The chapel’s fine.” Jackson didn’t want to get into it over the location.EventhoughMicahspentlesstime intherethanprettymuchanyoneelse .

Lenny scribbled out some notes, mouthing “Reserve CSS” as he wrote. “I’ll get the building scheduled and make sure we have enough faculty and staff to assist.”

Out of habit, Jackson pulled out his phone. The black screen quickly reminded him he hadn’t charged it since the previous night.

It’snotlikeIhadanyonetotext,anyway . He stuck his dead phone back in his pocket and tried to escape this meeting to plan a meeting by retreating into his mind, but all that sat there was the nightmare, shocking him back him the mundanity of reality.

“Speaking of music,” President Cox—apparently Lenny had suggested music—interjected and suddenly stood and walked to the window, “do you know if Micah had any favorite pieces that he would have liked played?”

Hecouldn’thearthemevenifhedid , Jackson was getting tired of pretending he wasn’t losing his mind.

“He didn’t really have a favorite song,” he answered with mild perturbation.

“What about ‘Lead, Kindly Light’? Or ‘God be With You Till We Meet Again’?” Lenny said, trying to come up with something quickly; it was obvious he wanted to get the meeting over before 11:00. “Mrs. Stevenson said they were Mennonites.”

“Oh, well, Halle-fucking-lujah!" he waves his hands in feigned fanfare. "Micah hated church music. He felt it was cold and detached from the words of professed to teach. He barely even went to church."

Jackson slapped his hands on the leather armchair and stood up, walking towards the door. He had had it. “This whole

service isn’t for him, anyway, it’s for you. You, and the rest of the students who barely knew him. It's a fucking joke!”

President Cox remained seated and looked up at Jackson, whose pacing made Lenny, who couldn’t stop bouncing his leg, look like he had taken a sedative.

“You want to know what to play at the service? Play ‘Road to Hell’ from Hadestown…or—or—” he stammered. “Or ‘Sincerely, Me’ from DearEvanHansen.” Jackson put his hands on the back of the armchair, the leather stretching taut under his grip. “Hell, play ‘Epiphany’ fromSweeneyTodd . Go ahead and play whatever the fuck you want, because none of it will mean anything to anyone, particularly Micah. He can’t hear any of it because he is gone, and he’s not coming back.”

Jackson crumbled onto the floor beside the armchair. No tears, only pain.

Wealldeservetodie , came the words of Sweeney Todd to his mind. Thelivesofthewickedshouldbemadebrief.For therestofusdeathwillbearelief.Wealldeservetodie.He pounded his fist against the leg of the armchair.

President Cox sat at his desk in silence, while Lenny’s leg stopped bouncing. Both of them stared at the puddle of a human before them. Neither of them knew what to do, so they sat there in silence. Jackson didn’t move. President Cox finally rose and knelt next to Jackson, tenderly placing his hand on his shoulder.

“You’re right, Jackson,” President Cox said. “The service isn’t for Micah. It is for all of those he left behind. It’s for me. For Lenny. For Micah’s professors, his friends, his parents…” Jackson lifted his head slowly. “Jackson," President Cox's eyes were soft,

"the service is for you. We’re doing this to give you, and everyone who knew the great man that Micah is, a chance to say ‘Goodbye’ and to forgive ourselves.”

Jackson looked away. “I don’t deserve that chance.”

Lenny now walked to the other side of Jackson and knelt down.

“Everyone deserves that chance,” Lenny said. Jackson raised himself to the armchair. “Everyone can go to hell, for all I care. Micah was better than anyone here, and he didn't get that chance, so why should I.”

President Cox and Lenny remained kneeling next to Jackson.

“I wish it was me in that box.”

President Cox blinked slowly. “You can’t talk like that, Jackson. This wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t there when my best needed me. He had so much life in front of him. People liked him. I’m a nobody from nowhere with nothing. My own family doesn't even like me. It should have been me on that table. It should have been me lying in a pool of my own blood waiting for the ambulance.”

“Jackson,” President Cox said, his voice suddenly sterile. “I could go into how this is a totally normal emotional response to something like this, but that won’t make you feel any better or any different. I could tell you what you’re experiencing, but that won’t stop it. All I can say is that you will get through it, but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Jackson avoided eye contact with President Cox.

"I can't fix it. Nobody can." President Cox went silent for a moment. "But I can love you through it."

“The Stevenson’s asked that you be the concluding speaker on Friday,” President Cox said. “I told them I would ask you.”

Jackson remained quietly staring at the ground.

“Take your time deciding.” President Cox stood and helped Lenny get to his feet. “But I think that we have enough to go forward. If you think of anything else or need anything else,” he patted Jackson’s shoulder, “you know where to find me.”

Jackson stood and walked out the door without a word.

President Cox looked over to Lenny and let out a heavy breath.

“I’m guessing that didn’t go the way you expected,” Lenny gave a slight chuckle.

President Cox responded in kind. “It may be hard to believe, but it went much better than I had anticipated.”

He walked back to his desk and collapsed in his chair and, after a thought-filled pause, realized he wasn’t alone.

“I had better get ready for class,” Lenny mumbled, “besides my list of stuff to do.”

President Cox nodded. “Yes. Sorry to take up so much of your time.”

Lenny gave a salute with his notepad and exited the office.

Thisisgoingtobeaninterestingweekend , President Cox thought as he spun around and looked back out the window just as the sunlight reflected off the pinnacle’s cross.

The black screen flashed with light indicating the successful start to charging and returned to black. Jackson threw his head against his pillow as he stared at the popcorn ceiling above his head. Despite all attempts to keep his head empty, a song with no words and only a vague tune, two or three disjointed notes he knew were connected, jostled between his ears.

He blinked hard, trying to force the tune from his head. What replaced it was the red-eyed vision from his dream. A sudden knock at the door startled Jackson’s into a sharp gasp, casting both the song and the monster out of his mind.

“Jackson?” came the voice of Ethan through the door. “Are you in there?”

Jackson’s really didn’t want to see anyone, even if his hangover was starting to subside. But this wasn’t Ethan’s fault.

“Yeah?” Jackson reluctantly replied. “What’s up, Ethan?”

The bedroom door creaked open.

“Mind if I come in?” Ethan said as he squeezed his sausage-link fingers through the crack.

“The door is open,” Jackson tried not to sound annoyed that he was already entering.

Ethan pushed the door the rest of the way as his belly entered the room. His smirk was shuffled into a look of concern, but this look wasn’t the feigned worry Jackson saw on the faces

of those on campus. Ethan studied Jackson’s face, his eyes darting back and forth never focusing on a single detail.

“Are—” Ethan hesitated, not wanting to pry into his roommate’s personal life too far. He looked down at his hands as they twisted in discomfort.

“Are you okay?”

Jackson didn’t know what to say, so he said what he always said. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Ethan looked back up at him, “I mean…are youreally okay? I heard what happened, and I know how close you were with him—I mean, Micah. And when you didn’t come home last night, I worried, but I didn’t want to snoop into your misery. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” His voice was softer than the habitual cheeky remark. His eyes were red and puffy, even for him, making it look almost like he’d been smoking, but the routine smells of nicotine or skunky pot were not in the air.

“Hell, I don’t know if I’m alright.” The honesty and candor in Jackson’s words surprised even him. “I mean, I just lost my best friend, and I couldn’t even stop it because I didn’t answer the phone.”

“What do you mean?”

Jackson flopped his hand gesturing toward his phone.

“He called me. I was at work, and so I didn’t answer it. The next thing I know, cops were showing up to tell me he killed himself.”

“Oh, man,” Ethan slumped down in the desk chair, which creaked under the weight. “I’m sorry to hear that. That sucks. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Jackson usually hated when people would say they were sorry for what happened. “You didn’t kill him” or “It’s not your fault” usually followed such an apology, but all he could feel was gratitude to his uncharacteristically mature roommate.

“Thanks, Ethan,” were the only words he could say.

“You hungry, yet?”

Ofcoursehe’sthinkingaboutfood . Jackson realized that the small breakfast sandwich, some water, the residual whisky he didn’t regurgitate, and the red Gatorade and ibuprofen Gavin gave him was the sum total of the contents of his stomach for the past two days.

“I know I should be, but not really. Besides, I am recovering from a hangover, so the thought of food is a bit repulsive, right now, anyway.”

“I feel that. When my mom died, I couldn’t eat anything for days. Even the thought of food made me sick.”

Jackson sat up on his bed, putting his weight on his right arm. “I didn’t know you lost your mom.”

“Yeah, two years ago,” Ethan leaned forward in the chair. “She had a heart attack just after I started school. It was her second. She didn’t even feel any pain; she just couldn’t breathe and was really dizzy one night, so my dad took her to the ER. She never left the hospital.”

“Did you at least get to say ‘Goodbye’ to her?” Jackson’s voice bore great pain.

Ethan searched the carpet for the past. “She called from the hospital about an hour before she passed. She was still having a hard time breathing, but she wanted to call me and let me

know she loved me. Dad got me a plane ticket and I spent a week at home. I didn’t really eat until after the memorial service.”

He gave a short chuckle.

“I lost 12 pounds that week.”

He laughed a little harder and Jackson chortled.

“Who knew mourning was such a great diet plan?”

The two began laughing harder.

“Too bad the Freshman 15 cancelled out all of that.”

The two started joking back and forth about Ethan’s weight and how Lenny could use such a diet. Their laughter roared until they were both crying. Jackson was grabbing his side and Ethan had leaned over on the desk in hysterics. Ethan wiped his eyes as his laughter slowed to a small giggle.

Jackson twiddled his thumbs. “When does it stop hurting?”

“It’s different for everyone, I think,” Ethan acknowledged. “I still miss her every day, and it still hurts sometimes, but I don’t have the weight sitting on me like I did. That elephant on my chest isn't there, anymore. Does that make any sense?”

Jackson shook his head in agreement. “I know what you mean. I just don’t see that right now.”

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" Ethan tried once more. But Jackson waved his hand and shook his head. "No, I am fine for now."

“Well, if you do need anything, and I mean anything, I’m just next door. Please let me know.”

“Thanks, Ethan. That really means a lot to me.” Jackson caught a glimpse of his phone. Ethan got up and started to walk out the door.

“Do—" Jackson stopped short of asking if Ethan wanted to listen to Jackson’s final voicemail. Ethan turned back.

“Yeah?”

Jackson decided to adjust his request.

“Do you mind taking notes for me in Dr. Matthews’ class for me?”

“Sure thing, Jackson. You can have my notes from yesterday, too.”

Ethan walked out and shut the door behind him. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to have someone really care. Who wouldhavethoughtitwouldhavebeenEthan?

The phone caught his eye again. Like an addict, he grabbed it and tapped the screen. He realized he must have fallen asleep momentarily before Ethan came in because it was up to a 53% charge.

“Hey, Jackson. I just got home from finishing the set for the show...”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and threw it on his bed. Just the sound of Micah’s voice made him feel like he had betrayed his friend, even though he knew he shouldn't. The muffled message continued to play from his phone, lying on its face in the sheets. He didn’t dare touch it until he heard it finish. He couldn’t stand to feel the full brunt of that weight.

The phone fell silent, and he reached over and exited his voicemail. He needed another distraction, but he didn’t feel comfortable asking Ethan to stop everything he was doing, and he couldn’t stand to open his Facebook. The kindness of this morning’s surprise stranger returned to his mind.

It’stoosoontotextGavin,right?

He put the phone down and plugged it back in, but then bolted up and off his bed.

Shit!I’vegotworkin20minutes!

“Nope,” Micah said as he grabbed the check before Jackson was able to reach it. “You paid last time.”

Jackson was well aware he hadn’t paid the bill on one of their dinners for a month, but he also knew better than to fight him.

“How’s work going?” Micah tried to change the subject as he stuck his debit card into the receipt book without even looking at the cost.

Jackson took his drink and took a big gulp from it.

“It’s work,” Jackson said as he put his glass back on the table, making a geometric pattern with the condensation rings.

Micah sat back. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” Jackson chuckled, “not bad, just same old. I mean, the most exciting thing that’s happened is we had a wine tasting the other night.”

Micah’s eyes widened with a subdued, “Ooo.”

“Yeah, except the dishwashing station smelled like backwashed wine, since everyone was spitting into buckets I had to dump.”

“Blech!” Micah hated the smell of alcohol, let alone the combined smell of wine that had been swished around two dozen people’s mouths. “I’m surprised you went back after that.”

“Plus, some guy tried to steal a big block of cheese.” Micah let out a loud laugh at the thought of a drunk man sneaking out of a restaurant with a block of cheese. Jackson couldn’t hold back his smile thinking about it.

“My boss called the cops to either get the cheese back or have him pay for it.”

Micah looked puzzled by that sentiment. “Was it an expensive cheese or something?”

“No,” Jackson laughed, “It was just a block of smoked cheddar—maybe worth 15 bucks at most.”

The two kept laughing until Candy brought Micah’s debit card back.

“I’d have probably just let that go. Something so cheap isn’t worth chasing someone down for.”

Micah started to put his coat on. “Well, you ready to head out?”

Jackson nodded and rose out of the booth. He put his hand into his pocket to grab his keys, and a $10 bill fell out with it.

“Did you put this in there?” Jackson said as he picked it up, showing it to Micah.

Micah shook his head.

“Didn’t know it was in there—won’t miss it. Must be a sign.” Jackson threw it down in the table. “Candy probably needs it.”

Micah held open the door and the two walked out.

“Jackson,” Micah said as they approached the car. His voice was more timid than usual which made Jackson’s ears perk up.

“What’s up?”

“Remind me when we get down the road a bit; I have something to ask you.”

Micah typically saved important and weightier matters for late-night drives where the two would park on the hill overlooking the lights of the town.

Jackson opened his door. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Micah said after he sat in the seat. “I just got to thinking about something and I wanted to ask you, but not yet.”

Jackson turned on his Bluetooth and started playingHighwayman. Micah began singing off-tempo.

“Just call me Willie Nelson III,” Micah smiled, the light reflecting off the highway before them showing a heavy curiosity Jackson just had to know.

He pulled the car to the side of the road and paused the song. He barely put the car in park before he said, “I can’t take it, anymore, Micah. Something is different this time. What did you want to ask me?”

Micah gave a sigh and a chuckle. He skewed his jaw and bit his lip in what looked to Jackson like an attempt to build up

courage to ask some profound and life-altering question. He sucked on his teeth and stared out the window for a moment, his thousand-yard gaze fixated in the darkness.

“It’s not as big of a deal as I made it out to be, I guess,” Micah said. “I just wanted to know what you would do if you didn’t have to work.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jackson’s response came with a little disappointment. “I guess I would probably just sit in my apartment or something. I guess I hadn’t given it much thought.”

Micah rubbed his forehead, “Sorry, it was a stupid question.”

“No, it wasn’t a stupid question. I guess I just was caught off-guard by it.” Jackson hit play on the music and pulled back on the road. “You had built it up like you were going to ask me for a kidney or something.”

Micah turned and faced Jackson. He stared with feigned intensity. “Will you give me your kidney?”

“No,” Jackson said with a chuckle. “I’m currently using both of them.”

Micah smiled as he shifted back to look out the windshield and his gaze returned to the darkness. Something heavy still sat behind his eyes.

A couple of songs later, Jackson said, “I guess it would depend on why I didn’t have to work.”

“What do you mean?” Micah snapped back to reality.

“Well, it would depend on if I didn’t have to work because I was disabled, had just enough money to cover my expenses, was filthy, stinking rich, or if I was just on vacation for a few weeks. I mean, that’s a pretty broad question.”

“You overthink way too much.” Micah shook his head.

“Thank you, Dr. Yeung, for that wonderful analysis. I could have told you that!”

“Okay,” Micah tried to be more specific. “Let’s just say you had a comfortable financial cushion—not Elon rich—but enough to take care of your expenses and any debt you had, plus a little extra, and a residual income that meant you didn’t have to worry about making ends meet for quite a while.”

“Travel,” Jackson said immediately, as if the answer was a batter waiting for the pitcher to drop his shoulders.

“Where would you go first?” Micah knew the answer as the question passed his lips.

Simultaneously they said, “Europe”.

“Why did I even ask? Obviously, you were going with, ‘Europe’.”

Jackson looked back at Micah. “What about you? What would you do?”

“Not much would change for me, I guess,” Micah responded. “I would probably still act and still buy you dinner.”

Jackson and Micah didn’t like to talk about money very often. They both knew each other’s financial situations, but neither really judged the other for it.

“See, that’s something I don’t get,” Jackson said. “You’ve got enough money to see the world twice over and still have

something to lay back on, and even a fraction of that would change my entire life.”

Micah didn’t say anything; he just looked down at his phone.

“What would you do when you got back from your travels?”

“Well,” Jackson pulled his head back in surprise at the question. “I… I don’t really know. I guess I hadn’t thought that far into it.”

Micah played with his fingers a bit. “You see, I’ve already done your first part. I’ve been to Europe. I’ve seen the Forbidden City in China, the Louvre in France, and Piccadilly Circus. I’ve been all of the places we talk about going and seen all of the things you say you want to see. That’s all well and good, but what do we do after all of that? What do we do with the time we have left?”

Jackson stared down the road, his headlights disappearing along the empty asphalt before them. After a few moments of silence, he quietly said, “I think I’d want to help people like me.”

“Go on,” Micah urged.

“Well, you know the shit I’ve been through—the times I’ve gone hungry or the times the bills were coming due and I had no way of paying them, but somehow I found a way. You know about the situation with my parents and school and work and my car payment. I guess I just…” Jackson let out a trapped breath. Each word came out deliberately bearing the weight of the though put into the entire statement. “I would try to be the person that I needed in those moments.”

After a beat, Jackson joked, “I’d fail a lot, but I would at least try.”

Neither spoke a word. The only sounds were the sound of the tires on the road and the almost imperceptible music of, what sounded like, Dolly Parton or John Denver.

“And that’s what I love about you,” Micah broke the quasi-silence.

“Okay,” Jackson said, “Next question: Should it be called the Marvel Cinematic Multiverse or stay the MCU?”

“Jackson,” the familiar voice of one of the line cooks came from behind him. He shoved a load of dirty dishes into the dishwasher, closed it, and turned around to face her.

“What’s up, Erika?”, he said as he dried his hands on the backside of his soiled apron.

“Come here, real quick,” she said as she waved him back to her station.

Erika was a spritely girl around the age of 20. Her pink pixie-cut hair and her small frame made her look like an anime character ready to throw a peace sign or sing some K-Pop. She was also one of Jackson’s closest work friends. They had essentially become work siblings.

The two would poke fun at some of the bussers, especially the new ones. Once, Erika had asked one of them to lift a very heavy chafing dish into her bain-marie, but “conveniently forgotten” to remove the still-full chafing dish. To top it off,

Erika had smeared some expired butter onto the bottom of the chafing dish, making it difficult to hold onto and coating the busser’s hands and apron in a greasy smear for the rest of the night.

It was all in good jest, of course, because the bussers and servers would play similar pranks on her and Jackson, like the time one of the servers put a hair-tie on Jackson’s sprayer handle and turned off the water so it would explode with water when he turned it on. Nothing destructive and nothing they had to pay for, was the rule for their pranks.

As Jackson turned the corner on her bain, Erika faced away from him. Her head tilted forward and her arms were pulled in front of her with her shoulders hunched.

“What did you need?” Jackson repeated.

Erika turned around to face him. In one hand, she held a dinner plate with a large chicken pasta dish of her own creation. The other, held a Caesar salad. One of the bussers held another plate carrying a large slice of cake made with mascarpone and a berry sauce.

“Neat trick,” Jackson said.

“She was going to try to balance the mascarpone cake on her knee,” the busser said, “but I convinced her not to.”

“Wise choice,” Jackson jeered as he turned to head back to the dishwasher.

Erika set the dishes on her bain.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

Jackson opened the now-finished dishwasher and pulled out the rack of steaming plates.

“I’m headed back to work.”

“Don’t you get it, Jackson?”

Jackson grabbed a stack of plates to put them away.

“Get what?” he said as the plates tinkled on the shelf.

Erika gestured to the plates. “I made these for you.”

Jackson stared credulously at her.

“Okay, well I didn’t make the cake or the salad, Zack got those together for you, but I made the pasta for you.”

Jackson didn’t know how to respond.IwishIhadanappetiteforallofthat .

“Look,” she picked up the plates again and walked towards Jackson. “I don’t knowexactlywhat happened, and you really don’t have to tell me, but I know that the cops picked you up the other night, and I’m guessing what’s eating at you has to do with that, so I thought I would give you something to eat, instead.”

Jackson’s eyes drifted towards the dishwasher.

“I’m only here for a few hours today, and I don’t have a lunch break.”

“Already taken care of,” Erika said, two steps ahead of Jackson. “I already talked to Sandy and T. Zack is going to cover the dishwasher,” the busser holding the cake gave a nod in agreement, “and you’re going to be able to take a lunch.”

“Gosh, Erika,” Jackson’s voice came in a dissatisfied surprise. “Thanks.” He really was grateful for what Erika had done though it sounded more like he was handed a sticky drawing by a four-year-old.

He took his apron off and handed it to Zack and was walked out of the kitchen by Sandy and Tessa, or, as all the employees called her, T. They sat him down at a table nearby and Tessa asked what he wanted to drink.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Jackson pleaded.

“Nonsense, Jackson,” Tessa said as she set two of the three plates on the table. “You’re getting the best treatment in the house, tonight.” She looked up and shouted down towards the kitchen where Sandy had gone to get the cake plate. “Sandy! Get Jackson a house Italian soda!” Tessa looked back at him, “You do like Italian soda, right?”

Afraid of snubbing Tessa’s hospitality, Jackson nodded in the affirmative.

“Now you let me know if you need anything else, okay, Baby?”

“Sure thing, T.”

Just as Tessa entered the kitchen, Sandy walked out carrying the cake and an Italian soda.

“Anything else you need, J.?” Sandy said as she added the final pieces to the jigsaw dinner.

“No, Sandy. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay, Sug. You take as long as you need. Don’t worry about time. I’ll work everything out with Erika later.”

Jackson looked at the smorgasbord before him and wondered where to start.

Iguesssalad,itis .

As he finished up what he could eat of his food, Tessa walked by.

“Need anything else, Baby?”

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” he said, staring at his halfeaten plate of pasta.

“Alright. Here’s a couple of to-go boxes for you.” She looked at her watch and then back at Jackson. “And it’s late enough for you, Hon, why don’t you just head on out. I know you’ve got rehearsal. I’ll square everything away with Erika and then get your time fixed on my end.”

Jackson was confused. “Why would you square everything with Erika?”

“I thought she told you, Baby? Erika donated her lunch to you and paid for your food.”

It was Jackson who was now looking towards the kitchen.

“But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Jackson put his hands over his mouth and just sat for a moment, soaking in the generosity of his pink pixie-cut work sister. ~~~

Professor Zed wore his square reading glasses at the tip of his nose to keep the script and actors both in focus at all times. His ink-black hair fringed by gray temples was perfectly coiffed in

place above the wrinkles in his forehead. He sat at a table directly in front of the stage with his legs crossed, a pencil in one hand for taking notes, and a medium, half-coconut milk, half-soy, 2.5 espresso shot latte with extra foam, 1.5 sugars, 5 honey, and a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg on top that he continually sipped throughout rehearsal in the other hand. His black boot bounced when he felt the scene was dragging and he switched his crossed legs when he felt the something in the scene was wrong.

His scrupulous notes often bore minor slights, like, “Great job, Sancho, for not falling this time,” or “The projection was close to where it needs to be, but make sure it’s on key, Aldonza.” He also never addressed the actors by their actual names; he only addressed the characters. This had a two-fold intent. He felt it helped the actors not to take his critiques personally, since they were directed at the character and not the actor, but also helped the actors become their characters by getting used to being called their characters’ names. The problem with this theory is that, in making the actors feel as though they were the characters, the critiques became character judgments against them, and not simply a piece of constructive criticism.

Professor Zed was well-aware of the style of his notes, because many a theatre major had told commented on their indirect insults. One of his repeating stage managers told him his criticisms were starting to wear on the actors, so he tried for one rehearsal to only give positive criticisms without the insulting compliments. After that, anytime he would make a non-backhanded compliment he would say, “Oh, wow. That one was actually nice, wasn’t it?”

Off-stage and in class, Professor Zed was one of the nicest men on campus. He loved to laugh at himself and didn’t mind

being the butt of a few good-natured jokes. An actor by education, he would ham it up whenever he got the chance to be out in front of a crowd. Watching him move his lanky arms and legs was like watching a marionette perform Shakespeare, but his emotions were far from wooden. He had the emotion of Al Jolson and Marlon Brando combined. In comedy, he’d have the entire audience rolling in the aisles. In tragedy, he could make even the toughest football lineman cry.

He was genuinely interested in his students, and when he wasn’t he would let them know. His candor was not regularly shrouded in artifice. Much like his director’s notes, his assignment grades included blunt, and sometimes biting, evaluations of style, format, believability, and flow. He wasn’t harsh; he was honest.

During the week before tech week, the last full week of rehearsal, the bouncing and shifting happened more rapidly. The notes, however, did not match the fidgeting. Even though every detail was scrutinized down to the positioning of the hair on the fake horses Miguel de Cervantes and Sancho would ride in the prison which flipped wildly back and forth throughout the scene, he allowed the actors to go with the choices they had made. His notes of the past were often still relevant, so he would pull from those, and he would make only slight adjustments to the style. Most of the show notes this late in the rehearsal would be about timing and speed or were related more to lighting, sound, set design, and other backstage issues. Nobody spoke with him except the assistant director, stage manager, and lighting and sound directors. Everyone else did their jobs and avoided eye contact.

But not tonight.

As soon as the door opened to the theater, and Jackson walked in, Professor Zed put his medium latte and pencil down,

took off his glasses and crossed the room. Jackson really didn’t want a scene, and Professor Zed knew that. He opened a stage door and motioned for Jackson to follow him. Jackson was unsure of what was going to be said, and he was worried for the show. Hesitantly, and sheepishly, Jackson walked through the door into the backstage wings. He could hear chatter coming from the other actors, now seated in the audience waiting to rehearse. A familiar voice came from the front of the house. It was the stern voice of Morgan, the stage manager. She was getting everyone in line to begin rehearsal to distract the cast from Professor Zed and Jackson’s exit, stage right.

Professor Zed shut the stage door, muffling Morgan’s directives and recap of the previous night’s rehearsal notes. He crossed his arms and turned back to Jackson. His long slender features created an imposing feature against the black curtains. He just stared at Jackson for a long moment.

“Are you ready?” Professor Zed said in a backstage whisper.

“Ready for what?” Jackson replied.

Professor Zed reached across and grabbed Jackson by the shoulders. “Ready to dream.”

Jackson dropped his head unsure of how to respond.

“Professor,” his voice hushed so it wouldn’t carry through the megaphonic proscenium. “I don’t know if I can do it.” He motioned towards the seated cast in the audience.

“With Micah gone and Diego out…” His voice trailed off into a discouraged sigh.

“I just don’t know if I can do it alone.”

Professor Zed leaned forward and spoke softly into his ear.

“I believed in you when I cast you, Don Quixote.” The name tingled in Jackson’s ear as Professor Zed returned to his full stature in front of him.

“It wasn’t because of Micah that I gave you the role. You know I don’t risk a show, even for one of my best actors. It was because I saw a man who wanted the world to see him as he should be. I saw Cervantes when I looked in your eyes. I saw a man who was willing to joust with giants and faced his own Enchanter.”

The red eyes from Jackson’s dream flashed before Jackson’s mind’s eye.

“And now, I see a man who has lost the vision of who he is and needs to see himself the way his best friend always did.”

The student and the master gave a quick embrace.

“I have an idea,” Professor Zed held up his finger and walked towards the stage. “Wait here just a moment.”

Thiscan’tbegood .

Jackson felt a chill slide down his spine as he heard Professor Zed’s voice come from center stage.

“Cast and crew,” he waited until every voice was silent. “As you know, Diego has taken ill and will not be performing as Miguel de Cervantes for ManofLaManchanext week. As such,” Professor Zed raised his arm towards Jackson, “Mr. Marshall,” he waved his hand for Jackson to step on stage, “will be taking the role of Miguel de Cervantes for the duration of the run.”

Professor Zed began clapping and the cast and crew joined in, albeit half-heartedly.

“I have asked that Miguel de Cervantes start us off tonight with a recitation…” Jackson’s eyes got wide as the icicle returned to his spine, “of the ‘Life as it Is’ monologue from Act II.”

Professor Zed applauded once more as he stepped from the stage to where the rest of the cast was seated. Jackson stared out into the sea of faces as the lighting changed. The faces disappeared into mist of indiscernible shadow as the stage lights washed over him.

He started, his mind racing trying to read the script in his memory.

He cleared his throat and tried again.

This time, as he spoke, the words melted the sheet of ice his back had turned into. His eyes wandered through the darkness trying to place a face to speak to as he continued reciting the monologue he knew so well.

Partway through, Jackson dropped his gaze, his lip trembling. Images of Micah smiling and flashes of his sheet-covered body jumbled together in his mind as he told of Don Miguel’s life and his hardships. He stood almost motionless for a moment until he could return his gaze into the brilliant lights in front of him. He now spoke to his audience, not as Don Miguel de Cervantes, but as Jackson. He wasn’t acting anymore.

His eyes latched onto the contours of a familiar shadow in the crowd he could only assume was Savannah. His voice lowered into a deep animus and built into an almost manic frenzy, matching the energy in his speech until he stood in silence before his fellow students.

He stared into the black fog before him, the echo of his voice hanging in the balcony. Whether it was the stage lights or his blood pumping adrenaline through his body Jackson didn’t know, but his face felt like he had just pulled it out of an oven. Slowly from the darkness, a figure gained definition as it approached the stage.

“Don Miguel de Cervantes has just shown you why he is the principle of this story,” Professor Zed’s long frame echoed as it came into focus. “What one man calls sanity, or what one may see as madness, is, to another its opposite. Cervantes’ pain in losing his friends and comrades built a pit of misery he had to dig himself out of. One can choose to see existence as an uncaring, unfeeling, and indifferent universe or deity, or to see life as an adventure with all of its giants, castles, fair maidens, and knight-errants.”

Professor Zed turned and moved in close to Jackson.

“And that performance, my boy, is why I decided to have you portray him.”

Professor Zed turned back towards the rest of the cast and shouted, “Places for a complete run-through! We’ve got a week to nail this down!”

Jackson slowly shuffled his feet, realizing the confidence his director had. As the other actors passed to their respective places on- and off-stage, many of them gave passing nods or gratuitous gestures of acknowledgement as they crossed in front of Jackson.

Walking out of the auditorium, Jackson had a couple of the actors stop and express obligatory condolences about Micah. One set of eyes, though, remained staring at the stage as the prison emptied of her condemned. Savannah pondered the painted stones and plywood walls. She saw the nails, the flaws, the poorly hidden wheels, and the places that needed a few finishing touches.

Jackson crossed between her gaze and the stage, his head filled with the handful of notes Professor Zed had given him, specifically one about his confrontation with the Enchanter. “Great fear of the Enchanter,” he wrote, “but remember that Don Quixote has prepared for this fight and is ready for it. Don’t let the audience know you will lose this battle.”

“Jackson?” she uttered, barely loud enough to hear. Jackson lifted his head from his notes and locked eyes with her.

“Hey, Van,” Jackson stepped back and towards her. “What’s up?”

Savannah pointed toward the stage.

“Do you see it?” she said sounding like she’d just taken a hit off a bong.

Jackson turned toward the stage. He looked at the set, not sure what he was supposed to be looking for.

“See what?” he said, turning back to her.

“What do you see?”

The players had left the set as it was at the end of the play—the prison scene.

Jackson’s face contorted in visible confusion. “It’s the stage—the prison. I’m not sure what you mean.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Do you see the castle?”

During the play, the scenery would rotate from the walls painted to look like stone to transform into the inn with walls inspired by the Venta de Alfarnate in Malaga, Spain. The character Don Miguel puts on a performance and sets the stage and pretend the prison is an inn. In his performance, Don Quixote sees the humble inn and its occupants as a beautiful castle, with battlements, maidens, courtiers, and not-so-noble knights. Nowhere, however, does the set change into a castle.

“What castle?” he said, thinking someone had perhaps painted a castle on one of the walls.

“The castle! It’s right there.”

“What are you talking about, Van?” he kept looking at the stage. “Are you high? I don’t see a castle.”

She walked over to him and waved her hand at the stage. She spoke with a strange determination, “Do you see Don Quixote’s castle in the prison?” She touched her shoulders. “What do you see when you look at me? Savannah? Aldonza? Dulcinea?”

Jackson started to understand. “I mean, I guess I can see it,” he said, humoring her attempt at depth.

“Do you really see it?” she pressed. “Can you look past what your eyes are telling you and see with the mind of Don Quixote?”

Consideringhewasutterlybonkers…Jackson thought to himself.

Savannah was getting gently frustrated. She jumped up on stage and flung her arms out wide.

“Why does Aldonza insist Sancho call her Dulcinea at the end of the play?”

Jackson shook his head a bit and said, “I don’t know, hope.”

“Ugh,” she sputtered exasperatedly as she paced across the stage. “Aldonza was a scullery maid and a whore. That’s all she was for so long. Then, out of nowhere, comes this nutjob who calls her the name of a virginal maiden—someone who, through his own madness, saw something in her that nobody else saw; someone who believed she was better and more than a scullery maid and a whore.”

She walked towards the front of the stage directly in front of Jackson. “Don Quixote had given her a gift that nobody had ever given her. He gave her value. He gave her the ability to see something other than the trash everyone else saw. And with that gift, he elevates her name from the kitchen maid’s name of ‘Aldonza’ to a lady’s name of ‘Dulcinea’. He called her his ‘Sweet One’. And now, the only person who saw her as someone worth anything is gone, and all she is in the world, to anyone, is ‘Aldonza the whore’. The only value they place on her is the coin they pass her as they sleep with her. But she didn’t want to be that, anymore. She wanted to be what Don Quixote saw.”

She sat down on the edge of the stage and spun around to face the set.

“When Professor Zed had you do your monologue at the beginning of rehearsal, I only saw you.”

Jackson’s shoulders fell in disappointment and rolled his eyes.AnothergreatpeptalkfromSavannah,he told himself.

“Thanks, Van,” he said as he turned to leave.

“I only saw you…at first,” she finished. She bowed her head and looked at her twiddling fingers. “I wasn’t entirely sure you could be,” she waved her hands in front of her like to accentuate his name and title, “Don Quixote de La Mancha.” She returned to twiddling her thumbs. “You were so scared and lost. I kind of thought the show was doomed, to be completely honest. But then, out of nowhere, you weren’t just Jackson, anymore. You were something else—someoneelse. You kind of reminded me of Micah, honestly.”

Jackson shifted at the statement. He could never be as good an actor as Micah.

“You made me believe what you were saying. Like, actually get it.”

She turned once again and hung her legs off the edge of the stage.

“What you were saying wasn’t just lines in a play, anymore. They were your own feelings, and it showed.” Her head lifted in thought. “The only other person at this school that I ever saw do that was Micah.”

Now it was Jackson who was looking down.

“He was all I could see during that monologue.” Jackson looked up and chuckled softly, “Well, him and Peter O’Toole.”

Savannah smiled at the joke. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”

“Thanks, Dulcinea,” Jackson finally said, parroting Professor Zed. “I mean that. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Don Quixote.”

Chapter 9

It was Thursday—the day Jackson both looked forward to and dreaded at the same time. He looked forward to seeing his second parents but dreaded seeing his second parents in pain.

Micah’s mother, who Jackson came to know as “Mama Bear,” had taken Jackson in as one of her own children after The Crucibleand helped him emotionally after he come out to his parents. Mrs. Stevenson acted as a surrogate mother for Jackson. Having already had her own son come out to her, she had learned from her mistakes and was able to better console Jackson. He even spent the last Spring Break at their home.

Mama Bear, Deidra Stevenson, was a strong-willed woman with shoulder-length black hair that framed her face. She preferred to wear skirts or dresses. She called herself a feminist but thought the movement had gotten hijacked by man-hating women who lost themselves trying to be equal with men in every aspect. She didn’t like when women swore on television, and she really didn’t like women who sought to “overthrow the patriarchy.”

“What good does it do to put a matriarchy in the place of a patriarchy? It just changes the sex of the taskmasters without fixing any of the problems,” she yelled at the television. “The sexes are different on purpose, and we need to work together to fix the problems of the world. Women aren’t made to do what men can do. They’re made to do what men can’t do.”

Micah’s father, Brennan Stevenson, was an anesthesiologist. He joked all the time that putting people to sleep was the only thing he was good at. He was a tall, thin man with limbs like tinker toys. He loved a good practical joke and always had a

smile on his face. Micah had gotten most of his looks from his father, though Mr. Stevenson’s hair was blond. He had a square jaw and kind eyes. He wore a pair of frameless reading glasses, though usually on his shirt collar or pocket rather than his nose. He had Lasik surgery years before, but, as he got older, he had difficulty focusing close-up. He contemplated repeating the procedure, but Mrs. Stevenson told him she liked the glasses.

The two formed a pair not to be matched in their neighborhood. They would periodically invite neighbors over for dinner and hosted autumnal parties with spiced apple cider and rum punch. Their Christmas party, though, was the event of the year. They would put two small Christmas trees on their front porch and then would cut down a large Douglas fir and set it up in the main entrance of their home.

To call it a house would be to do a disservice to it. Micah’s home was a multi-million-dollar remodeled and modernized Georgian-style estate that sat on a ten-acre lot in northern Massachusetts. The entrance had a high plasterwork ceiling that opened at one end to the second story of the house. It had a way of making one feel small. The parquet floor in the entry and the acoustics inside the dome, Micah had explained, made it very difficult to sneak in or out the front door in the early hours of the morning.

The rest of the house always felt like home. Though the furnishings cost more than Jackson’s college tuition, the family treated them like they were nothing special.

“If I wanted more decorations, I’d buy more paintings,” Micah’s father would say. He had money, but money didn’t have him. His wealth was not going to make him uncomfortable in his own house, nor would it make anyone else. For example, the

family ate more dinners on the couch than at the dining table because it was more comfortable. “Homes are made to be lived in, not looked at.” It was this mentality that made Jackson feel at home.

Micah’s mother enjoyed giving tours to visitors as a way of helping them find their way around without having to ask which way the bathroom was. There was a half-bath connected to the kitchen around the corner from the dishwasher and another down the hall from the main living area—second door on the left.

The family bedrooms were all on the second floor by way of two sets of stairs, one a winding spiral staircase and another a grand staircase from the main living area, with a second family area where the domed ceiling opened from the main entrance. It quickly became a family rule that sliding down the banister was prohibited after Anna broke her arm one morning coming down for breakfast, though Micah tested the limits of the rule from time to time.

The exterior of the home was blue with white trim. Micah’s mother and father worked hard on the immaculately kept yard surrounded on all sides by trees. Through the main living area, Micah showed Jackson the back terrace with a barbecue and outdoor dining area. The large backyard made him feel miles from civilization. It was the peace he needed away from people. Nobody and no problems.

There were a few outbuildings behind the main home near the trees including a remodeled summer kitchen, which now housed a large pantry of canned and dry goods, and what had most likely been servants’ quarters, which had been converted into a guest house. That’s where Jackson and Micah stayed while there. Micah’s room had been converted into a

home gym, but he didn’t mind. The guest house was bigger, and he could come and go as he pleased.

Mrs. Stevenson pretended to respect the boundaries of the guest house while the boys stayed there over spring break. She would leave cookies or food on the counter while they were gone as well as knock on the door when they were there just to check on them. When she first met Jackson, she grabbed him in a big hug and squeezed him so tight. This hug, partnered with the black bear figurines around the home, led to Jackson referring to her as Mama Bear. She fell in love with the nickname and Jackson.

Micah had learned his pretensive manners from his mother. He would pretend just as poorly to be embarrassed by her when she would knock on the door of the guest house. Jackson was grateful to have someone care so much, especially after coming out to his mother. Perhaps it was because of his need for an outpouring of motherly kindness that Mrs. Stevenson tried so hard to be there for them as well as attempt to give them space.

“How did your mom take it when you came out?” Jackson asked as he picked up a cookie.

“Not as bad as your mom,” Micah chuckled, “but not as good as I would have liked.”

“What happened?” Jackson’s mouth was half-full.

“She didn’t really talk to me for, like, a month.” He looked out the window to see if his mother was coming and then turned to face Jackson. “She would be so embarrassed if I told you.”

“Ouch.”

There was a knock on the door. It was Mama Bear.

“Hey, boys,” she said as she peeked her head through the door. “I’m just here to check and see what your plans are for today?”

The two boys exchanged glances and shrugged shoulders. Planning ahead was not really either of their strong suits.

“Well,” she said as she squeezed into the room through the partially opened door, “if you boys would like, we were thinking about going down to Boston. Your father needs to meet with one of the hospitals down there and though you boys would like to go. Maybe see the sites?”

Jackson looked at Micah like a hungry puppy.

“We’d love to, Mom,” Micah said.

“Great!” she said. She turned back to the door to get ready.

“Mom?” he said. She stopped and looked back. “Jackson and I were talking about the month you learned I was starring in LaCageauxFolles…”

Jackson’s face contorted into confusion. “What’sLaCage auxFolles?” Jackson mouthed.

Micah winked at him with a half-smile before biting into a cookie. He nodded his head towards his mother as if to say, “Watch this.”

Mrs. Stevenson threw her head up in the air with a groan. “Oh, my goodness!” She rolled her eyes and faced Micah square in the face. “I was such a dummy.”

“What’sLaCageauxFolles?” Jackson repeated, aloud this time.

“LaCageauxFollesis a musical about a man who runs a nightclub in Saint-Tropez,” Mrs. Stevenson said.

Micah decided to amend her sentence, “adragnightclub in Saint-Tropez with his ‘wife’ Albin and their ‘maid’ Jacob.”

Mrs. Stevenson threw a loving and reprimanding glare in Micah’s direction. “Thank you for that, my oldest.”

Micah gave a cheesy grin and stuck out his chin. “You’re welcome, Mommy dearest.”

She continued with her story, “That’s what Micah and I call the day he came out to me, or rather, the day I found out he was gay.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jackson said.

She let out a heavy breath and sat down. “Well,” she said, “I had just gotten home from the grocery store with a few things for a special dinner Micah was going to help me prepare for his sister’s birthday party. I went to Micah’s room to let him know I was ready to start cooking, and when I opened the door…” She trailed off and her face turned a bright shade of maroon.

“I,” Micah continued, “was…enjoying myself…” finishing the sentence with embarrassed amusement.

Jackson’s eyes widened with schadenfreude as he tried to stifle a laugh. He had been caught once or twice “in the act” by his own mother.

“It wasn’t so much that I caught him…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “I know teenagers do that—” she quickly said as she shook her head to clear the image out of her head, “It was what he was doing it tothat surprised me.”

“What was it?” Jackson mouthed to Micah who gave him a sideways glance and a smile focused on the image in his memory. His mind raced with the embarrassing possibilities.

“Let’s just say it was not what I was expecting,” Mrs. Stevenson responded. Micah melodramatically rolled his eyes with a half-grin and a groan.

“And I regret my reaction ever since,” she stressed looking at her sarcastic son.

“I mean, breaking my laptop and threatening conversion therapy was a bit of an overreaction,” Micah glared. Jackson sat back, his face blank in shock.

“I didn’t break your laptop!” she snapped.

Micah laughed heartily, “I know you didn’t, but Jackson didn’t know that, and the story always needs a bit more spice.”

Jackson threw a pillow from the couch at Micah.

“But you did threaten conversion therapy,” Micah said to his mother.

“It was an overreaction, but it made sense…at the time.” Mrs. Stevenson flattened out the ruffles in her dress. “We weren’t sure if we’d have to shun you or if you’d be excommunicated.”

“Shunned?” Jackson asked.

“Mennonites shun what they see as abominations or ‘worldly practices’,” Micah said. “Depending on the ordnung— the rules we live by in our congregation—homosexuality may or may not be seen as an abomination.”

Jackson’s eyes shot back and forth between Micah and his mother. Aren’tMennonites,like,Amish?He thought. He didn’t dare ask such a stupid question aloud.I’lljustGoogleit.

“Anyway,” Micah said, hitting his hands against his knees to stand up. Last time he brought up his religion to a friend, his mother had overexplained and rambled about how she wore dresses because her mother was from a stricter ordnung and it just kind of stuck. “Boston?”

“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Stevenson shook her head and grabbed at the air trying to regain a few minutes. “I had better get your sister.” As she walked out the door, she shouted back, “Five minutes!”

Micah shouted back, “Thank you. Five!” as if he were calling back to a stage manager. “We’d better get ready.”

The family would go to Boston to see major theatrical productions. It was a big part of why he wanted to do theater, and Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson encouraged him every audition and callback. They went to every opening night and every closing night. When Micah went to school, they would fly in to see each opening night when Micah was the leading man. They were big donors to the school’s theater department, so Professor Zed always treated them with reverence. The money for the new sound and lighting system for the theater had come from them, as well as enough money for an outdoor amphitheater for reenactments of Greek plays, though it was mainly used for outdoor lectures by the philosophy department or a lunch spot for students.

The amphitheater was all Jackson could picture as he walked up to two of the airport’s escalators that sat on either side of a large, curved mural entitled “Masquerade Ball”. It was a modern art depiction of a gathering of people in different masks, from tribal masks from Africa to Mardi Gras masks and even masks of Greek and Egyptian deities, the masks having been attached to the wall, rather than painted. In the artists words, it

was meant to describe airports as a “meeting of cultures to exchange customs and learn from people with different backgrounds, religions, and customs, while celebrating our similarities.” Jackson thought it looked like the artist had a hard time painting faces and this was an easy cop out, but he still enjoyed looking at it.

That was, about, the only thing he was enjoying. The Stevenson’s plane had been delayed by an hour, so he sat near the exit lane and waited for the plane to land eating his fast-food breakfast sandwich. He sat and watched the people pass by him. A family of seven walked past him and he could tell they had just gotten home from Orlando; the two girls and one of the boys wore Disney shirts and the other two boys were hitting each other with their Harry Potter wands. But it was the look of exhaustion on the father’s face and the mother’s elation to be home that gave away the end to their family trip.

IguessDisneywouldn’tbetoocrowdedthistimeofyear .

He felt a gentle tremor in his left front pocket. It was a text from a contact named “Cum Gutterz”.

“Hey Jack”

That was it—the whole text. There were no other texts before this one. A couple of seconds passed and another text came in.

“I thought I would see how you were doing.”

Who,thehell,is“CumGutterz”andwhyaretheytextingme? Jackson thought hoping nobody saw the name that had popped up on his phone.

“I’m good. Just at the airport. U?”

He figured that was vague enough to apply to anyone. His phone buzzed again.

“The airport?! I didn’t scare you off that badly, did I? Haha!

“Where you goin’?”

Jackson’s mind was swimming trying to figure out who was texting him and how they got his number.

“I’m actually pickin’ up people,” he responded.

“Nice”

Jackson didn’t know how to respond, so he typed out, “Yeah” and hit send. An elderly woman dragging a roller bag ran over his foot, knocking her purse on the ground. Jackson shoved his phone into his pocket to help her pick it up. He just knew she knew the name of the contact he was messaging. When he got back to his seat, he pulled his phone back out and covered the edges of his screen with his hand.

“I know it’s probably too soon, and if you’re still not comfortable that’s okay, but I was wondering if you might want to grab some dinner. I’d really like to get to know you when you’re sober.”

Finally, Jackson knew who was texting him.

“Is this Gavin?”

“Yes lol I wondered how long it would take for you to realize who ‘Cum Gutterz’ was.”

Jackson felt his face turning red. “Please say you put yourself in my contacts that way”

“Nope. That was all you. lol”

“Oh hell I’m so sorry” Jackson really wished he was leaving on one of the planes.

“Dont be. I work hard for those”

Jackson felt guilty, but he couldn’t help but picture Gavin shirtless.

“So, is that a yes or a no on getting something to eat sometime?”

Jackson stared at the screen. He couldn’t decide what to do.

“I pretty busy for the next couple of days”

“Oh ok”

He hated getting texts like that. He always read them with disappointment, even though he knew they couldn’t all be out of disappointment.

A familiar voice resonated through the terminal. “Jackson!”

It was Mama Bear. Though her eyes were visibly puffy, her hair in what once might have been a tight ponytail, and her makeup gone, a broad smile crossed her face as she rushed toward him dragging her carry-on luggage quickly down the exit lane. Far from her everyday dress, she wore a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie. She had dressed for physical comfort. Mr. Stevenson, who trailed a good ten paces behind his wife, carried a softsided briefcase and another carry-on. In stark contrast to Mrs. Stevenson, his appearance was much more rigid. His hair was brushed back and he wore a button-down shirt and blazer, dressed more for a business meeting than a flight.

Jackson quickly tucked his phone back into his pocket just in time to stand up so Mrs. Stevenson could give him a tight hug.

“It’s so good to see you, Jackson!” she said, running her hands through his hair and along his cheeks.

He looked back at her, trying to muster the energy to match her. “I’ve missed you, too, Mama Bear.”

By this time, Mr. Stevenson had closed the gap between the couple. He stuck out his hand. Jackson noticed how red his eyes were.

“Hey, Jackson,” he said, matter-of-factly, balancing out his wife’s energy.

“Good morning, Mr. Stevenson.” Jackson grabbed his hand, matching his firm grip.

The three made small talk about the flight and the drive to the airport as they made their way towards baggage claim. The early morning flight had experienced fog on incoming making for a bumpy landing but was otherwise uneventful. After grabbing their luggage, Jackson led them to his car and put it all in the trunk.

While his surrogate parents piled into his car, he pulled out his phone to get the GPS ready. His messages were still open to Gavin’s texts. Though he was still hesitant about going on any type of date, the idea of having someone to talk to about something other than Micah was inviting.

“How about Sunday evening?”

He opened his maps app and started plotting in the course back towards the school. He sat in the front seat and put his phone in its window cradle to follow the GPS.

Just as he was pulling out of the airport parking lot, his phone shook in the air.

“Sunday it is, then!”

Highways are interesting things. Caravans of cars speed past each other making the area just outside of the doors a blurred jumble of colors and streaking lines. It’s enough to make some people nauseous. When the focus is shifted to the horizon, however, the shapes were steadier, clearer, and constant. The cars whizzing past often see each other as hinderances to the journey, unless two cars happen to be traveling down the highway for a long stretch of road. Then, they leap-frog one another in a roadside reel. When one of them finally pulls off the road, the other car feels like they just lost a lifelong friend, waving goodbye as they pull off the exit. No name or face can be attached to the people in the car, but a kinship develops along the ride.

It’s even stranger to get back on the highway after having stopped for a pit stop. First of all, there’s merging, which is always a nightmare because nobody knows how to move over when someone is trying to enter the highway, and even if someone does want to move over, there’s a high likelihood there will be a stubborn windowless van in the next lane that doesn’t know how to speed up enough to get around them, so each car tries to gauge what the other is planning on doing enough so they don’t have to call their insurance companies. Then, after you successfully get into the lane, you’ve got to ram your foot against the ac-

celerator just to pick up speed because the asshat in the convertible behind you who’s trying to use the left lane to fly past the people in the middle doesn’t like to pump his brakes enough to not climb up your tailpipe.

Next comes the left lane—the fast lane—or at least it would be if Grandma Moses wasn’t trying to control the speed that everyone else was driving by going three miles per hour below the speed limit. Just get over, especially if there’s a car coming up on your tail. Everyone knows the fast lane is for ten miles per hour over the speed limit, the middle lanes are for five over, and the left lane is for the speed limit or below and merging, that is, unless there’s a state trooper anywhere nearby. Then everybody suddenly feels they need to go five under the speed limit, like going the speed limit will get them pulled over.

As you cruise down the highway, you start passing the same semis you passed half an hour before you pulled off to get gas and use the toilet. You kind of hope they recognize you; it goes back to that whole “highway friendship” thing. You also secretly hope they don’t recognize you, because then they know that you pulled off and are able to fly past them, again.

Jackson had been playing leapfrog with a red Toyota with Kansas plates since he pulled out of the airport. It was an hour and a half from the airport to the school. He knew the drive would be a tough one, but he didn’t realize how strange it would be.

Mr. Stevenson had pulled out a legal pad and a disposable fountain pen and looked to be writing something while he sat in the back seat. He occasionally would look up from his pad just long enough to assess the surroundings and take a swig from his soda. He would pull his glasses off his face and rub his eyes periodically, trying to regain focus on his project.

Mrs. Stevenson sat in the front seat. She would get car sick, so she needed to have an unobstructed view of the horizon and the air blowing in her face. She had taken some Dramamine, but that was before they had taken off in Boston and she was worried it might not last much longer. This gave her the opportunity to talk to Jackson, and she talked. She told Jackson about the flight and the cutest little elderly couple who had sat in the row next to them.

“They were just so precious,” she said. “You could see how much they loved each other as he would pat his napkin on her cheek.”

She talked about everything and anything but Micah. Jackson didn’t know if he should bring it up or just let the ghost of Micah silently ride in the back seat until he wanted to make himself known.

At one point, she stopped talking and focused on a large tree out the front window. Mr. Stevenson happened to look up at the same time and noticed she had gone quiet.

“Everything alright?” Mr. Stevenson said, leaning forward between the front seats.

She turned her head slightly, careful to keep her eyes out the front window. “Yes, Love. Just got a little light-headed for a bit.” She pursed her lips and let out a slow and metered breath.

Mr. Stevenson took this moment to interject.

“How’s the play coming, Jackson?” he wasn’t the best at small talk. “You’re the understudy for the lead, right?”

“Actually,” Jackson said sheepishly as he glanced at Mr. Stevenson through the rearview mirror, “I’m not the understudy, anymore.”

Mr. Stevenson tilted his head. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” His voice held a mild disappointment.

“Diego got sick, so the part is mine.” Jackson feigned excitement, though the mere statement made his sides tingle.

“That’s great, Honey!” Mrs. Stevenson turned to look at Jackson with a quick smile. Her eyes got wide and turned back to the horizon.

Mr. Stevenson put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll do great, and I’m sure Micah is proud of you.”

The car fell silent except for the sound of the air through the vents and the tires on the road. Jackson replayed Micah’s voicemail in his head.

Ijustwantedtotellyouthatyou’lldoamazinginthe show , Micah’s voice seemed to say from the empty back seat.

“I’m sure he is,” Mrs. Stevenson said, her voice forced and short.

Mr. Stevenson looked at his wife. He saw through the happy face she put on. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

He sat back and returned to his writing. He stopped short, though, and said, “Don’t forget, Deidra, Nate and Christine want to have dinner with the three of us tonight.”

The last 20 minutes of the drive to their hotel were filled with questions about classes, potential dates, and other small talk, not uncharacteristic of the Stevensons, but uncommonly hollow.

Jackson only had two classes on Thursdays—Art History with Dr. Guthrie at 9:00 AM and Philosophy of Language with Dr. Jones at 11:00. Picking up the Stevensons had kept him from Dr. Guthrie’s class this morning and put him back just in time to miss Dr. Jones’ class. Even if he had made it back in time for the class, he didn’t have the energy to debate Dr. Jones about whether abstraction was necessary for human understanding or not.

He stood in the shower, allowing the hot water to cascade over his head and back. The rushing water put him in an almost trance-like state. He moved slowly under its soft pressure. Showers always seemed to melt stress away. He decided to sit down and face the showerhead. The steam filled his lungs with warmth as he closed his eyes and sat there. Time didn’t exist— nothing existed beyond the darkness and the water.

A knock on the door jolted Jackson from his stupor. “I’ll be right out,” Jackson shouted toward the door. He had no idea how long he had sat in the shower, and the drop in temperature of the water was the only indication he had that he had sat for a considerable amount of time. He got up, wrapped himself in a towel, and went to his room.

He laid naked on his bed staring at the ceiling for a good while.CanIjustdisappearuntilafterthememorialservice?he thought. He was too antsy to take a nap or lay around all day.

He stood up and walked to the refrigerator. He stared at the various plastic containers with indistinguishable food stuffs inside them. One, he was pretty sure, had been there since he had moved in. He grabbed an armful of them and hurled them into the garbage. He looked, again, and saw a half-empty bottle of soda. Ethan was always leaving them around the house. Jack-

son pulled it out and chucked it into the garbage as well. Armload after handful, Jackson threw containers of food and slightly molded items from the fridge. By the time he was done, all that remained in the refrigerator was a six-pack of beer, an unopened package of sandwich ham, a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of Worchester sauce, and a few other condiments.

Well,there’snothingtoeathere,he thought as he shut the fridge. His airdrying body walked back into his room barer than he had left the refrigerator, slamming the door behind him.

After a minute or two, he reemerged, fully dressed.

“I’m going to the mall. Don’t know when I’ll be back,” he hummed to nobody in particular, flipping his car keys around his fingers. “Don’t follow.” Jackson opened and closed the door almost gleefully.

Only one of Jackson’s roommates had been witness to these events. He had tried not to watch, but his eyes had watched, aghast, as Jackson had torn through the fridge and paraded as naked as the day he was born. He didn’t dare say a word to Jackson or anyone else in the apartment about what happened, not because he was afraid of embarrassing Jackson, but because nobody would believe him.

Jackson stared at the people passing him from one of the mall massage chairs. He had put five dollars into the dumb machine—definitely wasn’t worth it. He sat in them almost every time he went to the mall, and every time he did, he regretted it. These things always left him with more tension than when he

got in. The moving balls were too hard, and they never hit his body in the right places. The worst was when it would get onto his shoulder blades. When it would start to bounce vigorously, he would sit forward as it climbed up towards his neck. He just knew he would walk away with a headache if he didn’t. But he wouldn’t get up from them. He spent the money and he was going to use it, no matter how much he hated it.

He and Micah would people-watch for a good half-hour each time they went anywhere there were people around. They would get something to eat at the food court and then plop themselves down on a bench just to stare at people. Micah always came up with interesting backstories for each person, like he was directing a play about their lives. Jackson, on the other hand, could make up something about someone, but it was usually just superficial.

“You’d be surprised how much we telegraph about ourselves when we don’t think anyone is looking at us,” he whispered to Jackson.

“Take this woman,” he gestured with his eyes. “The one in the leather boots and pencil skirt.”

Jackson looked over, trying not to be obvious. He saw a thin woman with long black hair wearing knee-length leather boots and a tight red dress under another long beige jacket. She wore large, dark sunglasses that took up most of her face. Her hair was cut with bangs that sat directly above her brow, meeting her sunglasses.

“I’d say she’s meeting a Tinder date and wants to be able to scope out the place and see if he matches the picture,” Jackson speculated.

“Look how she walks,” Micah said in fascination. Jackson coyly watched as she crossed in front of them. “She holds onto her purse so tightly under her arm, like she’s afraid of it getting away.” Jackson hadn’t noticed it until Micah had pointed it out.

“Do you think she’s been mugged before?” Jackson asked.

Micah shook his head, “No, I don’t think so,” he countered, “but I bet she listens to true crime podcasts. Just look at her ear.” Her hair was pushed back behind her ear revealing an airpod lodged snugly in her left ear.

“As fascinating as true crime podcasts can be, it may make someone who feels exposed a little wary of strangers, which would probably explain her long coat and sunglasses inside.” Micah pulled his neck back from stretching it to catch the last glimpse of her as she turned the corner. “She’s probably got a thing of pepper spray in her bag, too. Just in case.”

That’sonethingI’mgoingtomiss,Jackson thought, taking a bite from his gyro.

A couple of teenage boys sniggered to each other as they walked by the Victoria’s Secrets. One of the boys held out his hands in front of his chest, accentuating not existent breasts. Teenageboys,he thought.Can’tlookatbraswithoutthinkingof whatgoesinsidethem.Jackson was certain the closest they had been to a bra was when their mothers had nursed them; they, most certainly, weren’t touching them in the laundry by the looks of their shirts. He also thought how sad it was that they probably got their understanding of sexuality from pornography or Hollywood.

A bunch of middle-aged soccer moms passed in a brisk powerwalk—two of them were pushing strollers, though one had a baby and the other had a teacup chow chow. Jackson

couldn’t stand tiny dogs. Animalsaren’taccessories,he thought, especiallydogs.Dogsaremeantforcompanionshipandprotection.Ifit’ssmallerthanitsfooddish,it’snotadog,it’sarat.

A couple walked into the Bath and Body Works. Jackson knew they were a couple because he was holding four large bags from various stores he would never have shopped at while she held a cup of pretzel bites they would both pick from.

Once, Savannah had dragged Micah to the mall for her birthday, so Micah dragged Jackson along as a buffer. It was right before Jackson’s birthday, so Savannah wanted to get him something, or at least make him buy something she could say was from her. The three of them walked around the mall, looking at everything from coats to chameleons. Savannah would say, “What do you think about this?” as she pointed to something that probably cost four times its actual value. Micah would give a different cheeky remark to each suggestion and turn down the item.

They did this in almost every store, except for one—Bath and Body Works. Savannah had stepped away from Micah and Jackson to look at the wallflowers and find her new favorite scent she would demand Micah purchase, leaving Micah and Jackson in the sliver of a men’s section to find a lotion or cologne that would complement her typical aromatic style.

“Which one do you like best?” Jackson said, staring at the seven vaguely named scents.

“I don’t think it will matter which one I pick,” Micah said grabbing one of the metallic bluish-gray boxes of cologne and tube of lotion. “They all smell pretty much the same—amazing, but the same—and no matter what I choose, she’ll probably tell

me it’s wrong and spray me with each bottle just to see which one she likes best.”

Jackson chuckled and picked up one of the tester bottles and spritzed it onto a tester strip. He waved it to let it dry a bit and then stuck it up to his nose.

“I really like this one,” he said offering the tester strip to have Micah smell. Rather than taking the strip, Micah leaned his face toward it and took a deep whiff.

“Finding everything okay, today?” came the voice of a girl wearing the blue and white checkered uniform apron.

Jackson responded as he normally did, “Just looking around.”

The girl’s gaze darted quickly between the two young men when Micah said, “My boyfriend is just trying to help me find a scent for my birthday.”

Jackson could feel his face getting hot. He didn’t mind playing a good prank, just so long as he was in on it before the prank took place. Micah put his arm through Jackson’s and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Jackson played along. The salesgirl didn’t miss a beat, though.

“Well, happy birthday!” she said as she reached past the two and grabbed a metallic red bottle of cologne, the same bottle Jackson had just put back on the shelf. “You’ll want to try our newest scent for men. It’s really been popular and has an earthy sort of smell to it.” She pulled a tester strip from her apron pocket and sprayed a mist over it and waved it around to dry, making small talk for the five or so seconds it took to dry off.

“Is today your birthday?” she said, looking at Micah.

He told her his birthday was the next week, but that the two of them were planning a getaway trip for the occasion and that Jackson had wanted to get him something before they left. Micah put his head on Jackson’s shoulder.

“That is so sweet!” she said as she pushed the now-dry tester strip towards the “happy couple”. “Tell me what you think of this one?”

The two leaned in and sniffed.

“Oooo,” Jackson said, trying to pretend they hadn’t been talking about this scent three seconds before she appeared, “I really like this one.”

Micah agreed and they said they would consider buying it. Jackson, in his role of Micah’s boyfriend, decided to ham it up and to get back at Micah for not letting him in on the prank before executing it. He looked at the salesgirl and said, “Would you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Micah, here, with me?”

Not waiting for a response for fear of her rejecting the request, Jackson turned to Micah and began singing. The salesgirl came in halfway through the first “Happy birthday to you!” By the end of the song, the entire store had joined in singing, albeit very out of tune and with no volume control. Everyone applauded and Micah thanked them all.

It was about that time Savannah got back to them. Micah slyly let Savannah in on the prank and she decided to play along just until they got out of the store.

They went and purchased the items and left.

“Man,” Micah said as they left, “I didn’t even get a discount on this stuff, even with it being my birthday!”

Jackson looked away from the store and towards the escalators.Thatwasafunday.

He felt a vibration on his leg. By now, the massage chair had finished and Jackson was able to recognize the vibrating of his phone. The name showed “Mama Bear” as he slid his finger across the screen to answer the call.

“Hey, Mama Bear,” he said as usual.

“Hi, Jackson,” came a masculine voice, though twinged with a sad vibrato. “This is Brennan,” Mr. Stevenson clarified. “What are you up to?”

Jackson stood up from the chair. “I’m just walking around the mall. Did you get settled in at the hotel? And how did your meeting with President Cox go?”

“We’re still with President Cox, actually. I just stepped out to give you a call.”

“I always appreciate a call from you, Mr. Stevenson,” Jackson said, almost getting hit by a child on a motorized dinosaur. “How’s the planning going?” He couldn’t help but think of how unhelpful he had been during the last planning session with Dr. Lopez and President Cox.

“It’s going well. We’ve got just about everything set. President Cox told us he mentioned our request to you…” her voice trailed off waiting for an acknowledgement or response from Jackson.

“Yes, he did.” Jackson still didn’t know what he was going to do. He leaned against a railing and looked down at a cellphone repair store on the floor below. He had been debating and dreading the idea of talking about Micah in front of the school, let alone Micah’s parents.

“Will you do it for Deidra and me, Jackson? For Micah?” There was a desperation in his voice Jackson had only heard a couple of times before.

He let out a sigh, “I’ve thought about it, and,” he took a deep breath, “I’ll do it, but only becauseyouasked me to.” Mr. Stevenson never asked for anything unless it was important. Rejecting him at this point would be like not talking into the toy phone he had been handed by a toddler.

“Thank you, so much, Jackson. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but I don’t think there could be a more fitting person to speak about my son,” Mr. Stevenson paused. “I don’t think I could do him justice.”

Jackson had always known Mr. Stevenson to be prepared, prim, and proper. He was always punctual and had presented great speeches—a trait he passed down to his son. He also carried himself with confidence, knowing just what to do and say in any given situation. It was not like him to be self-deprecating.

As if by reflex, Jackson responded, “I highly doubt that.”

The two began to end the call when Mr. Stevenson abruptly interjected.

“Oh, Deidra asked me to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. Six o’clock at Salinger’s on the top floor balcony? We’ll have you finished before you have to be at rehearsal.”

Jackson assured him he would be there and expressed his love and gratitude for them and ended the call before he put his phone away.

As he looked up, he realized he was standing in front of Bath and Body Works.

IthinkI’lltryoutsomecolognebeforeIheadout.

Nathan leaned out of the doorway. “Did he agree to speak?” he asked.

Brennan nodded as he wiped his mouth, feeling his five o’clock shadow. He wiped the bit of dried saliva off his hand and looked up at Nathan. “He said he would.”

“That’s great,” Nathan said, holding the door open for Brennan to re-enter the room. “That just leaves one last detail to iron out.”

Brennan shook his head, almost awakening him from a trance. “Ah, yes. The matter of Micah’s wishes.”

He walked back in the room, followed by Nathan. He crossed over to Nathan’s desk and sat in the large leather chair next to Deidra, who he nodded to in answer to her unspoken question, which Nathan had asked for her.

Another man sat behind Nathan’s desk, one Kevin Hardwick. He was the Stevenson’s lawyer who had flown in the day before.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson, as you know, Micah had spoken with me regarding a few matters. It would be best if Mr. Marshall were present at this time, but I think it best to finalize everything with you before we speak with Mr. Marshall tomorrow afternoon.”

Nathan closed the door and sat down next to his wife Christine.

Chapter 10

Salinger’s was a swanky sort of pub on the east side of town between a flower shop and an Episcopal church. It had hanging plants from its second- and third-story balcony overhangs and ivy growing up its high bricked walls. They served anything from chicken wings to filet mignon, but everyone who went there went for the history of the place. It had been a speakeasy during Prohibition, and everyone who walked in felt like they had stepped back to the 1920s. The lounge, especially, made if fee like Al Capone could be sitting in the next booth.

The bar and lounge were nestled in the large basement below the general store and a druggist front with the upper stories being apartments. Since alcohol could be prescribed by a physician, any alcohol that happened to sneak out was able to be covered by a “prescription”. Most often, though, the alcohol stayed below the main shop floor, using a manually-operated elevator to take patrons to the rathskeller, so long as they had a “prescription” which they could obtain from the counter.

The tradition of carrying a “prescription” was still used. When anyone walked through the front door, the host would ask, “What ails ya?” as they would list a few old-timey ailments, from typhoid to tuberculosis. Responding in the negative would get a table anywhere on the above-ground seating, while a party with everyone getting a prescription could get access to the basement. They even used the old elevator, though it had been expanded to the whole building during the 1990s—they even kept the cage front, though they had installed plexiglass to prevent little fingers from being pinched when the door was being opened or when passing the different floors.

The upper levels were more casual dining geared towards being family-friendly while still holding to the 1920s style. Pictures of Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Curly Lambeau, and other great ball-players were plastered all over the walls right next to pictures of John Barrymore, Gloria Swanson, Charlie Chaplin, Valentino, and Lon Chaney. Memorabilia, film-reels, and metal signage everywhere. It reminded Jackson of a 1920sNew York City equivalent of a Cracker Barrel, but he ate it up. Besides, the food was worth the post-Great Depression prices.

“Pneumonia,” Jackson said to the host at the front door as he held out his ID.

The host wore a dapper white shirt with arm bands, a black vest, and a long apron covering his black pants, leaving just enough room for his patent-leather shoes to stick out from underneath. He asked, “Are we wanting a seat in the lounge?”

Jackson declined and indicated he was meeting the Stevenson’s on the third-floor balcony. The host directed Jackson to the elevator and hurried to the next patron with the traditional “What ails ya?”

The elevator cage shut Jackson in with a loud group of girls who appeared to be starting a bachelorette party early. Luckily, they got off on the second floor, leaving Jackson alone in the slow-moving cage with the attendant.

Man, Jackson thought,thatmustbeoneoftheworstjobs inthiswholeplace .

The cage screeched open as the elevator jolted to a stop on the third floor. Jackson could already see Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson out on the balcony waiting for him and he made a beeline to them, dodging a waiter on the way.

“Jackson,” Mr. Stevenson stood as soon as he saw him. He was sipping on what looked like a whiskey on the rocks. Mrs. Stevenson had a glass of white wine. Jackson waved in acknowledgement.

“Sorry it took me so long to get up here,” he said. Mrs. Stevenson looked at her watch, “It’s 6:05, Jackson. Five minutes is not late.”

One of the smartly dressed waiters approached the table and handed Jackson a menu.

“Scotch and soda,” Jackson said, holding up his prescription. “And a Coke.”

The waiter darted off to put in the drink order. Mr. Stevenson returned to his seat in sync with Jackson.

“We’ve already got our orders in,” Mr. Stevenson said in a surprisingly cheery voice, “so don’t worry about waiting for us. And no looking at the prices; dinner is on us.”

Jackson looked at the menu and the prices immediately jumped out at him. He couldn’t help it. When the waiter came back with Jackson’s drinks and Jackson ordered a sirloin, medium rare, with asparagus and mashed potatoes. It was just pricey enough to make Mr. Stevenson think he wasn’t paying attention to the price, but also not so expensive that he felt bad for ordering it.

The three began with simple pleasantries as they snacked on their appetizer. Jackson reached into the bag he had brought with him and handed them the bottles of cologne and perfume he had purchased at the mall for them.

“Those were his favorite scents,” Jackson said. Mrs. Stevenson choked back tears as she thanked him.

Mr. Stevenson tried to change the subject before they all began crying in public.

“Don’t you just love this view?” he said, gesturing to the vista before them.

Salinger’s was in the oldest part of town. Jackson and Micah would just walk the streets down there in the evenings, just to look at the architecture and feel the history. The Episcopal church was one of the first buildings there. Some of the streets had been turned into walking paths with brick and cobblestones instead of pavement. The road in front of Salinger’s was one of these. It made it feel like they were leaving the world behind. That was, kind of, the idea behind Salinger’s.

During the meal, the Stevenson’s talked about the play and how excited they were. They talked as little as possible about the arrangements for Micah’s memorial service the following day.

“Do you know what you’re going to say, yet?” Mrs. Stevenson said, taking the last sip of her white wine. Jackson had tried to come up with something since Mr. Stevenson had asked. He had known it was coming, but he kept pushing it away. If he didn’t think about it, it wasn’t real.

“I have a few things put together,” he lied. “But we’ll see what comes out of my mouth.”

Just about that time, Mr. Stevenson gestured to the waiter to bring their bill.

“Can I get the…uh…?” he trailed off as he motioned for Mrs. Stevenson’s bag. She jumped with a startled surprise as she turned to grab her large purse and handed it to Mr. Stevenson who began sorting through the labyrinth that was his wife’s purse.

When the waiter walked up, rather than pull a credit card from Mrs. Stevenson’s purse, Mr. Stevenson pulled his wallet out of his coat pocket and retrieved a card from there. He then returned to the bag in front of him.

After a couple of shifts of the contents, Mr. Stevenson lifted his head from the bag.

“Jackson,” he said with a heavy breath. “You know that we went to Micah’s apartment today, right?”

Jackson thought that they were supposed to go tomorrow after the memorial, but he shook his head in acknowledgement.

“Well,” Mrs. Stevenson said, “We found this on Micah’s dresser with your name on it.”

She looked to Mr. Stevenson as he pulled a sealed envelope from the purse.

“You don’t have to open it here,” Mrs. Stevenson urged as she grabbed Jackson’s hand. “One, we don’t know what’s in it, and two, we wouldn’t want whatever’s in there to hold your brain hostage for rehearsal.”

Jackson looked at the envelope held out in front of him. The paper wasn’t new. It looked like it had been folded in half a few times, and the edges were worn. Even the name on it looked like it have been written weeks before. All he knew was it was Micah’s handwriting.

Whatthehellisthis,Micah?Jackson thought as he grabbed the envelope.

Mrs. Stevenson looked at Jackson. Her face was flushed, and her eyes held two small tears in their corners, but they didn’t fall. She wore a tight smile as she studied his face.

“Well,” Jackson said, tucking the mysterious delivery into his pocket. “I had better get to rehearsal. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mr. Stevenson caught a glimpse of his watch as he put his credit card back in his wallet.

“It is about that time,” he said as he handed Mrs. Stevenson back her purse. “We had better get going, too. We will see you tomorrow morning, Jackson.”

“Do you ever wonder what it’s going to be like to die?” Micah said as he looked down at the road in front of him.

Jackson looked up at him and pulled his coat around tight him. “Yeah. I mean, occasionally, but I can’t say I’ve really sat down and thought about it.” The chill bit at the openings of his warm coat. “I just hope it’s not cold.”

“I guess it would all depend on how you die.” Micah kicked a rock off the road.

“Well, yeah,” Jackson said, “A gunshot victim would probably have a different death experience than a little old lady who passed away in her sleep.”

“Do you think we’ll all sit around and talk about how we died?” Micah laughed.

Jackson chuckled along. “Like it’s some sort of competition.”

“I would hate to be one of the Darwin Award winners and have to say something like that.”

“You tripped on your own underwear and hit your head on the corner of your dresser.”

“Or like that guy who did that documentary of the bear that ended up eating him.”

They laughed hard reciting more and more idiotic and outlandish ways to die.

“I want to die peacefully in my sleep,” Jackson finally said, “like Betty White.”

Micah looked behind them to ensure a car wasn’t coming down the road behind them. All this talk about death made him extra alert to the possibility of being hit by a distracted teenager.

“I wouldn’t mind dying in some interesting way. Just as long as I didn’t die from some stupid disease.”

Jackson nodded, “I wouldn’t want to die from cancer or something.”

“Yeah. None of us make it out of this life alive, so we’ve got to go somehow.” He kicked another rock. “Might as well get an interesting story out of it.”

The night sky was clear, which made it even colder, but Micah couldn’t help but stare up into the patchwork firmament before him. He darted between the various stars drawing his own constellations as he went.

“Do you really think there’s something after this?” he said, his eyes still reflecting the lights shining down on them.

“I don’t know,” Jackson shrugged. “Sometimes it makes things easier to take, but I’m not really convinced one way or another, really.”

Micah pulled his eyes from the sky. “I’m not too sure, either. There may be an afterlife, but I’m not on the idea of God. Maybe gods, but I don’t know about one god.” He started swirling his hands around, churning the air. “All of the world religions basically tell the same story, just with different names. Only, like, two have a single god. The rest have pantheons.”

“There’s usually a chief judge, though,” Jackson debated. “And most Christians have the saints and look at it as the Trinity.”

“Yeah, but that’s like saying the saints are lesser deities to the Christian god making it polytheist or that the Trinity is a tritheism, and good luck trying to get pretty much any Christian to agree with you on that, except maybe Mormons or Seventh-day Adventists. The idea of one God just doesn’t sit with me. It leaves too many unanswered questions. Like, ‘Where did God come from? Was He just lonely, existing all by himself, so he decided to create everything?’ or ‘How can one God listen to everyone’s prayers?’ I’m not even close to asking the questions like ‘Why would an all-powerful God create things like cancer or let horrible things happen?’”

Jackson was still looking up what “tritheism” was on his phone. “These are starting to sound more like questions for Dr. Jones’ Philosophy of Religion class. I definitely don’t have answers for them.” He put his phone back in his pocket and tried to recall some of the topics from a religious anthropology course he had taken the year before mixed with episodes from Ancient Aliens and a lecture series on the Bible by Jordan Peterson he had watched on YouTube.

“You’re right that most religions that originated in the Middle East have a very similar story, and some will say it’s all

based on Sumerian beliefs in the Anunnaki or Ancient Egyptian mythology or even aliens—”

“I might be able to get behind the Ancient Alien theory,” Micah interrupted with a bit of a laugh.

Jackson continued, “But just because the stories are basically the same with different names, does that mean they’re all made up? The same argument that says they’re all fake because they all come from one story could say they all have the same amount of truth because they all come from one truth, be it God or alien. What’s really the difference between God, or even a council of gods, and some undying alien, or aliens, who lives in some galaxy far, far away?”

“Besides one having to deal with a Death Star and the other being some extra-universal essence outside time and space?” Micah half-joked. “Not much. They are both some sort of space wizard that can do things regular humans can’t that have guided human history and remain mostly in the wings of the annals of history to let humans do what they do—good and bad— except I think Jedis would probably intervene more.”

“It must be after midnight,” Jackson said. “Our conversations always get super deep after midnight.”

Jackson looked at the envelope in his hands waiting for the clock to turn midnight. Anything Micah had to put in a letter would have had to qualify for an after-midnight conversation. They could say almost anything to each other, and the last time a letter had been exchanged between the two of them was when they had fought and Jackson had apologized. Any other conversation could be denied, forgotten, or ignored. Letters were real. Handwritten letters, especially, were living and left for serious things.

He had tried his hardest to keep it out of his mind during rehearsal, but it was about as easy to avoid as the spotlight. Professor Zed made a comment about how distracted he seemed at Intermission, but Jackson hoped he would just associate it with the memorial service in the morning.

After rehearsal, he went for a long walk to clear his head to his normal pondering place, a large rock on a roundabout downtown. He liked this spot. It wasn’t too far from campus and there wasn’t a whole lot of traffic, especially at this time of night. Even when a car did drive past, the whoosh it made was almost peaceful.

The folded edges of the thin envelope were worn and fraying, allowing the missive inside to peek through. Jackson could see it wasn’t a lengthy message, having no more than a couple of pages of writing inside. The folds and wrinkles it bore carried evidence of it being a constant presence in Micah’s pocket. How many times must he have wanted to give it to Jackson? And how long had he held onto it?

Jackson just stared at it, willing it to open…or disappear…or something. But it sat there, waiting for him. It was like Micah was in the envelope, but it wasn’t the Micah he remembered; it was the Micah from his nightmare, or the body on the table.

He kept counting down from ten, telling himself he would open it.

Finally, he grabbed the envelope and took a deep breath. He slid his finger along the sealed edge. The sound of the paper ripping sent an electric shock through his brain. He grabbed the paper and pulled it out and unfolded it in front of him. He didn’t

dare open his eyes, but he forced himself to look at the words before him.

His eyes adjusted as he manipulated the page into the right light coming from a lamppost behind him. Micah’s penmanship was eloquent and refined. The words were scrawled out in a deep purple ink on a blank white sheet of paper.

Jackson, I’ve thought about how to tell you this, and I’ve gone back and forth for some time, but it never seemed like the right place or time, so I decided to write it down—maybe then I can get the courage to hand it to you and tell you.

Don’t worry, this isn’t me confessing my undying love for you. I love you, but not in that way. You’re like my brother, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. You’ve been there at some of the hardest times of my college career, even if you didn’t realize it. I tried really hard to be strong, especially around you. I knew you needed it more than I did most of the time.

You always had this ability to carry on, even when you had shit happen to you, like the whole thing with your mom when you came out and juggling work and school. You’re a rockstar. I know you don’t see it, but I do. You’re stronger than I could ever be.

Now to the hard part of my letter. I’m dying. Well, we’re all dying, but I’m doing it, now. I’ve been dying for quite a while, but the pace just picked up and I wanted to tell you. I’ve had cancer since I was in high school. It was always mild, and I went into remission just before I came to college, but it came back with a punch over the summer. I told my dad I didn’t want to go

through the chemo and radiation, again. It was worse than dating Savannah ever was. Now, don’t feel sorry for me. I know you’re first thought’s gonna be that you wish you knew, but nobody really knew. I didn’t even tell my parents it had come out of remission until my dad noticed I had a prescription waiting for me. I don’t know if he told my mom or not, but I didn’t tell her. I don’t want her to worry.

Talking with you last night about dying made me really think about it. Cancer is mean. It destroys everything in its wake until it finally swallows up its host. I don’t want to go out like that. I don’t want to let this thing eat me.

The doctors don’t give me very long to live— maybe a year out of a hospital bed, if I’m lucky, and then just a couple more months in one. I’ve talked to my lawyer about a DNR and my doctor about the possibility of an assisted suicide. I know it sounds bad, but it’s better than suffering through the cancer. I don’t want that to be my final scene. I want to be able to decide when my curtain falls. I haven’t decided when that is, but I want it to be on my terms, not cancer’s.

I’ve already seen so much of the world. I’ve seen just about all of it I’ve wanted to see. The world is full; see the rest of it for me. Live the life I won’t be able to.

With all the brotherly love I can muster,

Micah E. Stevenson

Jackson let the letter fall from his view. He didn’t know how long he sat there, unblinking.

The street seemed eerily quiet as he walked back to his apartment, its shadow looming across the darkened landscape. Micah’s words swam through his mind.

Whydidn’thetellme?

He tried to pinpoint moments in his memory that he could have changed something or helped Micah out. He wished he had known before. He looked for signs, some of which seemed to be glaringly obvious to him, now.

HowdidImisssomethingthatbig?

He glanced at his watch. It was 1:55 AM. The memorial service was at 11:00.

Holyshit!Theserviceisinninehours!

He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say as he rushed up to his room. Maybe Micah would be able to put something into his head—something worth saying to remember him by. But, for now, he hoped would be able to get to sleep so he could speak.

“Jackson,” the voice of his mother was soft and kind. “Wake up, Jackson. You’re gonna be late.”

Jackson was in his bedroom at home, but it was different. It was situated like his college apartment, but he knew he was home. His desk was in the same place. His bed was made up the same, but it was home.

The door opened slightly, “Come on, Jackson. We have to go!” It was his sister. “You had better hurry.”

He walked out into the hall. The wood floor was warm against his bare feet. He made his way down the stairs to the kitchen and saw the shape of his mother and his sister leaning against the back of the sofa. The light coming through the curtains cast streaks of bright yellow light that played with the dust particles in the air and around his mother’s frame. He couldn’t see her face, even though he could see his sister clearly.

“Are you ready?” his mother asked. “We better get going or you’ll never make it in time.”

Jackson didn’t know where he was headed, but his stomach filled with butterflies of excitement as he nodded his readiness.

The three walked through the front door and into an empty airport. He was now accompanied by Anna, Micah’s sister, but she was his sister, and his mother. Jackson had a large suitcase to his right, a backpack, and a large black dog on a leash to his left. He was ready to board one of the planes, but he was unsure of his destination. He turned and gave Anna a hug and then turned to his mother. He could now see her face. She was smiling and happy.

“I love you, Jackson. I hope you enjoy your trip.” This was the first time she had said anything that wasn’t coupled with a rebuke in years.

“I will, Mom.” He squeezed his mother tightly as he felt the excitement grow within him.

Jackson turned away from his mother and walked between Savannah and Gavin, who had appeared from nowhere, but had been there the whole time.

“Are we ready?” Savannah said, looking at Jackson and Gavin. They nodded and walked down the terminal. “I am so excited!”

Gavin and Savannah both put an arm around Jackson and leaned in and kissed him on each cheek. The large black dog walked ahead of the group towards the planes.

They disappeared into the light as Jackson woke up.

He looked at his phone and saw the time was 8:47. He had plenty of time to get ready and head over to meet the Stevensons and President and Mrs. Cox before the memorial service.

The morning sun made the marble walls of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian glisten like Apollo’s chariot. The intricate marble and cedar work made the building warm in stark contrast to the cool Spring morning. A slight breeze flipped a nearby flag and created a solemn cadence to the processional it witnessed. The

field, which normally chittered with the sound of students caravanning from one class to another, playing a game, or slacklining between the trees, played its somber requiem through the budding leaves.

The doors of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian were flanked by the faculty and staff as Jackson walked in a few steps in front of Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson. Most presented a solemn grimace, while some, like Professor Zed, were visibly affected by the sight of the procession. One of the econ professors appeared perturbed at the disturbance to his schedule, but he quickly mimicked the expression of his colleagues.

As they crossed the threshold, Jackson’s eyes were drawn towards the apse, where the fresco of Saint Sebastian’s martyrdom was painted, his head twisting his eyes upwards in prayer while his hands, tied behind his back to a crumbling column, were unable to free him from the execution order to be left for dead. Arrows protruded from several spots, though none pierced his vital organs. At his feet lay the armaments he carried in battle. On either side, Sebastian was surrounded by pelicans and peacocks amongst the rubble of Palatine hill.

The entire congregation stood in reverence as they walked in. Jackson hated all of the eyes on him, but he knew many of the students weren’t looking at him. They were looking down at their phones or across the aisles to someone from their class or someone they knew.

Opposite the pulpit stood a large photograph of Micah. It had to have been supplied by the Stevensons, because it was his mother’s favorite portrait of him, though he had always hated it. It had been taken as a one of his first attempts at headshots. He had craned his neck over his shoulder to look at the camera, but he felt like it looked like he was taking glamour shots. All he was

missing was his hands up against his face. Jackson smirked when he saw it just before they sat in a pew near the front.

After the Stevensons sat, the sound of coughs and creaks from the pews filled the resonating chapel. President Cox stood at the pulpit and welcomed everyone.

“Good morning, students, faculty, staff, and visitors. It is my honor to welcome you all to this sacred occasion in remembrance of our dear son, friend, and classmate, Micah Edmund Stevenson. The Stevensons have asked Mrs. Georgina Lopez, wife of Dr. Leonardo Lopez, to give the invocation today.”

Following the prayer recited by Mrs. Lopez, President Cox continued with the general formalities and outline of the services, including a musical number by Savannah and a speech by Professor Zed. Savannah sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” from Carousel . Professor Zed’s speech played off Jacques’s “All the world’s a stage” monologue from Shakespeare’s AsYouLikeIt . He tied in some non-theatrical allusions and vague religious motifs, but he couldn’t help but rely heavily on his theatrical training. It was surprising that he wasn’t crying through most of it, considering the state he was in when Jackson walked into the chapel just a few minutes before. This soliloquy must have been carefully rehearsed and every emotion controlled, as an actor in his spotlight.

Jackson tried to pay attention to the words of those who spoke, and he did, for the most part, but he couldn’t help but notice how superficial everything felt—everything except for the occasional shaking from Mrs. Stevenson’s knee. She held a piece of tissue in her hand, though it was slowly falling to pieces with splotches of black and red from blotting her tears from her cheeks. Mr. Stevenson had his arm around her, providing her some sort of a sanctuary, his eyes fixated on the speakers. He had

no tears, but the corners of his mouth turned down in a sullen glower.

President Cox returned to the pulpit and expressed his gratitude for Professor Cox and Savannah. He looked over at the portrait of Micah and then to Jackson. He began to speak softly, though steadily.

“It will shortly be our privilege to hear from our concluding speaker, Jackson Marshall, but I would like to take a moment to express my gratitude for all of you in attendance, today. If I may be so bold as to speak on behalf of the Stevenson family, your presence here, today, shows the impact one life can have on another. You could be anywhere else, this morning, but you are choosing to be here, and that speaks volumes.

“For those of you who feel so inclined to, Dr. Lopez has arranged for counseling sessions for those who feel especially impacted by the loss of one of our own; sign-up will be available discretely through your student portal or you may sign up with Dr. Lopez outside following the service. If Micah’s passing has taught us anything, it is that we never truly understand what someone else may be dealing with or the burdens they may carry. If you feel that you need someone to talk with, please reach out. But it is not only the responsibility of those who bear the burden, but it is incumbent upon all of us to ensure that each person in our circles of influence feels needed, wanted, and loved. Reach out with loving kindness to the person next to you. Let them know they are not alone, and that our loads are not so burdensome we must carry them alone. Burdens are best born on more shoulders than our own.

“Following Jackson’s remarks, these services will conclude with the singing of ‘God be With You Till We Meet Again’ followed by a benediction by Melissa Barton and we will dismiss

this memorial service. Again, on behalf of the Stevenson family, I thank you for your presence and attendance here this day.”

President Cox gave a nod to Jackson as he stepped down from the pulpit. Jackson could feel his blood course through his next to his face. His chest tightened as he rose to ascend the pulpit steps. He carried no notes. His mind flooded with words and anecdotes he had no intention of sharing. The wooden pulpit creaked under his feet, each step building the anxiety in Jackson’s mind.

As he reached the zenith of his climb, the congregation before him came into view. This was different than being on stage. Nothing was hidden in the penumbra of the spotlight. The chapel splayed in front of him creating a gallery of mourning figures. He saw every face, every set of eyes staring back at him. He saw the smiles and frowns—every line—of each individual mouth. Each face waiting with expectation of the monologue Jackson was about to deliver.

Jackson stopped and looked down at the podium before him. He placed his hands on the aged pulpit. The wood was smoothed from the hundreds and thousands of sermons delivered from its stand. It calmed him to think of others who he had heard speak from this very spot on which he now stood. His gaze returned to the crowd before him as he took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Good morning, everyone,” his voice was steady. All his nerves melted away into a comforting calm. “Today is not an easy day for any of us, but it is particularly hard on some of us. We all knew Micah in some way, either seeing him on the stage as one of our favorite characters, in one of our classes, as a friend,” his eyes met Mrs. Stevenson’s and he swallowed hard, “or as a son. As President Cox said, he touched all our lives in

one way or another. To me, Micah Edmund Stevenson was a best friend and a brother. He was there when I was at my lowest points and some of my fondest memories were of times I spent with him.

“Micah didn’t know a stranger. He loved all he same, even if he didn’t always like you.” The congregation gave a stifled chuckle. “And he would let you know he didn’t like you.” The chuckle grew slightly louder. Jackson chuckled along with that one. “But he didn’t stay mad at anyone for long. He was generous, kind, and truly concerned with the wellbeing of those he met.

“Micah would say, ‘Each person is dealing with their own pile of problems at any given moment—you may never really know if the other person is just being rude, or if this was the worst day of their life and they just happened to be taking their pain out on you. I can choose to retaliate to their rudeness, or I can be a bright spot in their day. They may not care, but at least I can know I tried.’

“He was great at that kind of stuff. I would lose my temper or breakdown over something, and he was always so calm. I guess that’s why we made such great friends. He was there…”

Jackson paused, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell this story and be this exposed to the student body, but Micah’s voice seemed to come from behind him saying, “I’m right here with you. If you don’t want to say it, don’t, but you’ve worn a mask for so long. Let them see you. Some may deride you, but others will love you. You’ll never know unless you let them in.”

Jackson took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “He was there when my mother almost disowned me and tried to fix me. He was the first person I could be vulnerable to. We could

talk about just about anything. We had no…almost no secrets from each other.” His lips began to quiver as he thought about the letter he had read, just hours before. “There were things I didn’t know about my best friend. I didn’t know how much he was hurting.” The lump in his throat grew as his voice cracked and his eyes began to water. “I didn’t know what he was going through. He never told me, and I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention to notice it. But Micah was a great actor,” he said with a forced smile through his tears.

Jackson looked down again thinking about what to say next and to calm the waters of his mind. “Micah,” he said through a saliva bubble. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Micah was a good person who had what seemed to be a blessed life. He had it all, at least at first glance. But he had a struggle he had to deal with. He dealt with it almost entirely alone. He did so by choice. I wish he hadn’t. Maybe it made it easier if he pretended it wasn’t there, I don’t know. Either way, he carried it alone.

“Micah shouldered everyone else’s burdens, especially mine. He carried me when I thought I would have to give up.

“I told Micah, once, about how much I hated the poem about the footsteps in the sand. I said, ‘I would have probably told Jesus that I had been doing fine on my own, and it wasn’t until He carried me that it got hard. He should have just put me down and let me walk.’” Jackson chuckled as he sniffed back a tear. “But Micah gave me a better perspective on that poem. He said, ‘Maybe you can look at it this way. Rather than the times the footprints disappeared being the times he carried you, what if those are the times you were walking in his footsteps and walking the path that he walked?’ That changed it for me. I’m not always sure what I believe in, religion-wise, and I know Micah had

his own way of looking at things, too, but I really liked the image of the hard times in our lives being the times we were walking the path that Jesus walked before we did, the whole time he’s there cheering us on, his feet bleeding from blazing the trail ahead of us.

“Somethings we can’t explain, like why good people have bad things happen to them, or why people make the decisions they make, but I know we can be there for each other and make the burdens of others lighter along our paths. In those times where there are two sets of footprints, lets share the burdens of those we walk with. Then, when there is only one, know that they are cheering us on.

“Micah has had his final curtain call, and now he gets to be in the audience. I don’t know if there’s life after this one, but I hope there is. And if there is, I know Micah will be there cheering us on in our individual plays, like Professor Zed talked about. We’re not on the stage, alone, though. We have co-stars,” he said as he looked at Savannah, her makeup all but wiped from her face, “directors, times in the spotlight, and times as supporting cast. Sometimes, we may even need to be a stagehand. But we’re all going through this together. It’s not easy, and none of us make it out of this life alive, but if there is any way I can help you through the burdens of your life, I want to do that, because Micah can’t anymore. And I would hope that you would be there to help shoulder the burdens I bear. Thank you.”

Jackson stepped backwards and down the wooden steps, returning to the pew next to Mrs. Stevenson. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly, her eyes were red from weeping. Mr. Stevenson reached over and patted him on the leg.

After the hymn and prayer, the entire congregation stood to exit. Jackson and the Stevensons moved to the exit, while the

rest of the chapel’s assembly stood in reverence. As they passed, Jackson had a hand reach out and pat him on the arm. Another girl smiled, her face red with tears. Dr. Lopez stood at the entrance with a humble smile.

The sun had warmed up the courtyard in front of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian as students, faculty, staff, and others poured out into it. Dr. Lopez had stationed a table near the door with a couple of students from the student body government to write-down the names of those who wished to meet with someone. Not surprising, the line at the table had only a handful of students lined up for the chance. Jackson thought, most likely like everyone else, that talking with someone would result in him walking out less than satisfied and feeling no more listened to than if he had sat alone in his room.

Mrs. Stevenson clung tight to her husband’s arm as they crossed the open field. President Cox had invited them, Jackson, and the Lopezes to his home for a lunch following the memorial service. Mrs. Cox had put together a simple meal for the group so they could decompress together. Jackson wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to go, but Mrs. Stevenson’s other arm was latched onto him, so he was going wherever she went for the next few minutes, which meant he was going to the Cox’s for lunch.

The President’s Mansion, as it was called, was a large white house with tall white pillars out front. Two benches fringed the main door to the large home that had ivy growing up its aging portico. The ivy and pillars added to its elegant grandeur. Once inside the structure, a large entryway broke off into

two wings, one side a spacious front room with a beautiful stone fireplace; the other side housed a regal dining room capable of catering to large parties. This floor was made for entertaining, while the upper floor retained the main living quarters for the Cox family, or whoever the current president of the university was at that time, with five bedrooms and two bathrooms as well as the master bedroom and ensuite. There was no wonder it was called the Mansion.

As the party entered, they were directed to have a seat in the front room until the lunch was ready to be brought out. Those members of the student body government who were not at the table outside the chapel had been volunteered to act as servers for this luncheon. The front room had large bouquets of flowers from fellow donors who knew the Stevensons from various fundraisers as well as two smaller bouquet, one donated by the theater department and the other by the graduating class both in memory of their classmate.

The group mingled, hugged, cried, and told some lighthearted jokes to pass the time. Jackson looked around the room at the knickknacks and statuettes on the bookshelf nestled between authors and thinkers like Chaucer, Dickenson, Jefferson, and Plato. He even noticed a leatherbound copy of Miguel de Cervantes’DonQuixote. The large room felt somewhat empty, even with the several people milling about, seated on the sofa, or pacing back and forth.

Mrs. Stevenson sat in a large wing-back chair, alone in the corner, accepting condolences from Mrs. Lopez. Jackson walked over and stood next to her, not intending to interrupt, merely to be close. Mrs. Lopez looked up towards him and extended the condolences to him, as well. Once she stepped away to speak with Lenny, Jackson spoke up.

“Hey, Mama Bear, how are you doing?”

Mrs. Stevenson looked up to Jackson, her eyes still puffy. “I’ll be alright, Jackson. It still just doesn’t seem real.”

Jackson crouched beside the large chair, resting on his heels.

“I know the feeling,” he said softly.

Mrs. Stevenson shook her head, “I don’t know if you do, Jackson.” She put her hand on his, which was sitting on the arm of the large chair. “I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh, I’m sorry.”

Jackson grabbed her hand.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Stevenson,” the formality felt weird in his mouth. “I know it has to be different. He wasn’t my son.”

Mrs. Stevenson looked back at him, her countenance gray. “It’s not even that.” She pursed her lips. “In the Mennonite faith, suicide is a sin which precludes someone from heaven since he can’t confess and be forgiven of the sin of murder.”

Jackson saw the pain behind her eyes; this pain was a pain of immeasurable and eternal weight.

MennonitesbelievesuicidesgotoHell…Jackson’s brow recoiled in realization. ShethinksMicah’sinHell.

“I’m so sorry, Mama Bear,” he leaned his head against the chair. He had no other words. Nothing he could say would begin to lift such a burden.

“He’s gone forever,” she breathed. She squeezed Jackson’s hand tight and swallowed her pain. “But that’s God’s. That’s up to Him, and He knows better than me, so I’m leaving

that to Him.” She forced a painful smile. “I’ll be okay. How are you?”

Jackson wasn’t surprised at his surrogate mother’s reaction. Micah’s ever-caring nature, even through pain, had come from his mother.

“I’ll be alright,” he said letting out a cumbersome breath. “I’m glad the service is over.”

Mr. Stevenson walked up and grabbed the wing of the chair.

“It looks like lunch is ready,” his words were formal but soft. “We should go have a seat.”

Friday afternoon felt like time was stretched to its maximum. The Stevensons had been sharing stories of when Micah was younger, some even Jackson hadn’t heard, and the party reminisced on the joy they all shared. As the day wound down, the Stevensons were left alone with Jackson in the front room. The conversation was one of love, memories, and peaceful talking about Jackson’s future.

The remaining group was enjoying coffee as the grandfather clock in the main entry chimed and the doorbell to the Mansion rang. Mrs. Cox’s heels clacked against the hard tile flooring in the entryway as she pulled the doors open. In stepped a man with a long tweed overcoat draped on his left arm and a briefcase in the other.

“Kevin,” Mr. Stevenson said, noticing the man who had just stepped in, “come in.”

The presence of the man caused them all to put down their coffee. He was tall and stocky making him appear larger than he really was. He had a professional grin on his face as he shook Mr. Stevenson’s hand. He sat and opened his briefcase on his knee. He rifled through papers and file folders until he found the one he was searching for, shooting Mr. Stevenson an “I’m ready when you are” look.

Mr. Stevenson sat forward in his chair and put his elbows on his knees as he glanced at Mrs. Stevenson who gave him a ready nod.

“Jackson,” Mr. Stevenson said, “this is Kevin Hardwick. He’s our family lawyer.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hardwick,” Jackson said. The man acknowledged Jackson, “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Marshall. I’ve heard lots about you.”

Mr. Stevenson grabbed Mrs. Stevensons hand and began to speak.

“Jackson, I don’t know if Micah had told you or not, but when he was in high school, he was diagnosed with a type of cancer called Ewing sarcoma. He underwent treatment through his sophomore year, and it went into remission, but it came back about a year ago,” Mr. Stevenson looked to Mrs. Stevenson, who must have been told since she did not seem surprised.

Mrs. Stevenson spoke up. “Soon after his cancer returned, he started talking to Kevin and the oncologists about his possibilities going forward. He didn’t want to go through the treatments, again, and we didn’t want that for him, either.”

“And so, he started to prepare for the end,” the man spoke. “He had talked about assisted suicide with his doctors, and he had signed a DNR with me.” He handed the open folder to Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson. “He also discussed what to do with his estate after he passed. This wasn’t an official Last Will and Testament, but it was his last wishes.”

Mr. Stevenson’s hands were signing paperwork in the folder as Mrs. Stevenson held the pages for him. The man’s eyes were set on Jackson.

“Jackson,” Mr. Stevenson said, “Micah loved you like a brother, and we basically see you as our own son.” Mr. Stevenson held a pregnant pause. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. A few months ago, after his cancer had come back, he told us what he wanted to do with what we gave him, and we agreed wholeheartedly.” He closed the file folder and handed it back to the man. “With your permission, and per Micah’s request, the entirety of Micah’s savings, as well as the remainder in his college accounts, are to be turned over…to you, effective immediately.”

Jackson didn’t know, exactly, what to say. He didn’t want Micah’s money. He didn’t want the Stevenson’s money. It wouldn’t bring him back, and it wasn’t his. He sat staring at the three adults in front of him.

Mrs. Stevenson chimed in, “There was one stipulation, though.” She grabbed Jackson’s hand and looked him in the eye. “Jackson,” her motherly tone pierced the tears Jackson was forming, “Micah said you can’t say ‘No’, and you can’t let this change who you are.” Her eyes filled with tears as Jackson started shaking his head in disagreement.

She put her hand on his cheek to stop him. “Honey, Micah cared about you more than anything else in the world. We care about you more than words can say. Micah wanted you to be able to see the world, and this will more than allow you to do that after you graduate. This isn’t our gift to you. This is his gift.”

“And what if I don’t accept it? You guys should have it.” Jackson couldn’t believe what was being handed to him, and he didn’t feel right accepting it.

“Should you refuse, the money is to be given to the school,” the man explained.

Jackson shook his head. “Then give it to the school. They could probably do more with it than I could.”

Mrs. Stevenson reached into her purse and grabbed something. It was another letter. This letter, unlike the other letter Jackson had gotten from her, was crisp and unblemished and had “Mom & Dad” written on it.

“I think you should read this.”

Jackson opened the envelope and read the few sentences the tearstained page held.

Dear Mom and Dad,

They say people always write a note. Well, here’s mine, I guess. I’m at peace with this decision. It’s scary, but no scarier than going on stage for each show. I know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll spare you details.

I will call the ambulance, just in case it goes wrong, he’ll be my first call after I do it; he won’t be able to talk me out of it and it won’t be his fault, because it’ll already be done. He deserves more than I can give, but I can give him what I have left. If he takes it and runs, I can’t stop him, but that’s up to him, and he won’t. He’s better than that. He’ll use it to bless others. Besides, he’d do a better job at it than the school would.

I’ll love you forever; no matter what,

Micah

P.S. Tell Jackson he can’t refuse a dying man’s request. What kind of a person does that?

A single tear dropped from Jackson’s eye to the page before him.

“So,” Mr. Stevenson said, “will you accept what Micah has offered you?”

Jackson stared at the page until he couldn’t anymore.

“Mr. Stevenson, I can’t…” he paused. “I can’t take your money.”

Mr. Stevenson shook his head. “It’s not my money. It’s not Mama Bear’s money. It was Micah’s. He built it up and saved it. Some was allowance from us, but it was his to do with as he wished. Now, he wishes you to have it.”

Mrs. Stevenson was still holding Jackson’s hand. “Please?” she asked. “For Micah?”

Jackson sat silent for a good moment, until he felt something warm on his shoulder, as if Micah was saying his final farewell to his best friend.

“Okay,” he finally muttered.

The pen shook in Jackson’s hand as Mr. Hardwick put the papers he had just finished signing into his briefcase. He couldn’t believe Micah had done this. What’s more, he couldn’t believe he had signed the papers. He still didn’t feel right about it, but he felt worse disregarding his best friend’s final wishes.

“Oh,” Mr. Hardwick stated, reopening his briefcase. “There is one more thing in here for you, Jackson.”

Mr. Hardwick held out a small, purple object. It was a velvet bag with a small tag that read “Please give this to Jackson”. Jackson reached out and took it.

“It appears Micah wanted you to have this, as well. It must have gotten knocked under the bed by Micah’s dresser during cleaning or something. We just found it this morning, but it has your name on it.”

Jackson held the pouch in his hand. It didn’t have much of a weight to it, but he could feel something dense inside. He pulled out the small figurine inside, and he could barely contain his emotions.

“What did you do this summer?” Micah asked Jackson. Jackson had spent the entire summer doing the same thing he did during the schoolyear; he worked washing dishes.

“I visited China,” Jackson shot out dripping with sarcasm. “What do you think I did?”

“I mean, did you do anything fun while I was gone?” Micah had spent a month traveling through Europe and into Egypt before his final year of college. He wanted to see as many of the Seven Wonders of the World as he could.

Jackson shook his head, “Not unless you count the exciting time T. sent me to get alcohol because we were out, and I was the only one she trusted to get it. Almost got into an accident on the way back to the restaurant.”

Micah laughed. “That would have been hilarious!” He began imitating Jackson, “No, Officer, this alcohol isn’t mine. I promise.”

“Shut up,” Jackson chuckled as he punched Micah in the shoulder. “How was your adventure? See anything fun?”

Micah began telling him about the different sites he had seen, from the Louvre and the Mona Lisa to the Great Pyramids and Karnak, paying particular attention to the pieces of art he knew Jackson would be interested in.

“Here,” Micah pushed his backpack towards Jackson and gestured for him to hold it, “I brought you a couple of souvenirs.”

He opened the bag and began pulling out small trinkets. He pulled out a small statue of Isis and Osiris, an engraving by Gustave Doré from the Divine Comedy, and a German stein.

“Oh, wow!” Jackson said, looking at the gifts. “Thanks, man. These are great!”

“I knew you’d like them,” Micah flung his backpack over his shoulder. A small velvet pouch fell to the ground as his backpack landed into place. Micah hurriedly grabbed it.

“Everything alright?” Jackson saw Micah’s worry.

Micah opened the pouch and emptied its contents into his hand. A bronze figurine, about the size of Micah’s palm, fell out. Micah flipped it right side up to reveal a gryphon, lying on its side like a watchful lion. “It looks like it survived. It belonged to my grandfather. He loved gryphons.”

He bounced it around and stared it down as he lifted his hand close to his face.

“He gave it to me just before he passed away. He told me that as long as the gryphon watched over me, he was with me and nothing could hurt me. I try to keep it with me whenever I travel. Makes it feel like he’s traveling with me.”

He put the gryphon back into his velvet bed and back into his backpack.

“I know it’s silly, but…”

Jackson shrugged, “Hey, I think that’s pretty cool.” He resituated the three gifts he had received to avoid dropping them. “I better go find a place for these. Want to go see Candy in, like, half an hour?”

Micah sniffed under his arm. “Make it closer to an hour; I’d better shower before.”

The miniature gryphon sat on the table above Jackson’s almost untouched plate. He could almost hear it, but he didn’t know if gryphons purred like lions or chirped like birds. He preferred the idea of it purring, but he knew chirping made more sense. Either way, it sat, unmoving, before him.

Inside the pouch with the gryphon was a folded up sticky note that read, “See the world for me. MES”. Jackson had unfolded the note and placed the gryphon on top of it.

“Everything alright, Sugar?” the familiar and sweet voice of Candy said as she approached the table. “You’ve barely eaten anything.”

Jackson sat up straight and stretched his back in his seat. “Yeah,” he lied. “I’m just a little preoccupied.”

Candy leaned against the table. “Is this about your buddy, Micah?”

Jackson nodded. She had seen through his gossamer excuse.

“I heard about that. I guess the whole town’s heard about it. It’s hard to see what people won’t show us.” She was trying so hard to be caring, but her words felt rough. “I’m sure gonna miss seeing the two of you in here together. I guess it’s just gonna be you in here for a while, huh?”

Jackson gave a half-grin and nodded.

“Do you think I could get the check?” he said.

“Ain’t no check to be had, Sug. This one’s on me, tonight. You just take your time.”

Candy walked off to help the next person. This small act of kindness stung and soothed the loss of Micah. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

He sat for a few more minutes and picked at his plate. He then scooped up the gryphon and stood. Candy waved at him and blew him a friendly kiss as he put on his jacket.

“You take care, alright? We’ll see you soon.”

Chapter 11

Tessa gave Jackson a tight prolonged squeeze as he hung up his apron. Since he had been off work for most of the week, he had spent Saturday morning and afternoon making up some time. Sandy and Tessa had told him to take as much time as he needed, but Jackson had started getting antsy. His mind felt like it was going to burst from the thoughts filling it. He needed the distraction of spraying water and mind-numbing work. Plus, Sandy and Tessa always made him feel loved.

“You let us know if you need anything, okay, Baby,” Tessa said as she released Jackson from her bearhug.

Sandy was standing next to her and she grabbed Jackson and brought him in close. “Now, don’t you worry, Auntie Sandy will take good care of you. If you need time off work or anything else, you just tell me.” She gave him a quick hug and sent him home.

Jackson pulled his keys out to unlock his door. With his other hand, he checked for notifications he may have gotten while at work.

A Facebook notification, a game notification, and a text were the only notifications he saw. He swiped open the text message before he turned the key in the ignition. It was a text from Savannah that read, “Can I talk to you before rehearsal?” The message had come in about halfway through his shift, so he shot back a quick text.

“You still want to meet up? Sorry I was at work when you texted”

He started the car and drove back towards his apartment.

It was early enough in the day that the sun was still above the horizon, but it was low enough to be within his field of view. He hated when the sun sat between the edge of his visor and the horizon. It made it nearly impossible to see the oncoming cars. He always wondered if there was something he could put up to block the piercing light without blocking the traffic, but, until he found that thing, he would just squint and put his hand in front of it while holding the steering wheel.

In the holder on his dash, his phone lit up with a notification. It was Savannah. Jackson grabbed it from its holder and quickly glanced between it and the road. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the road for too long, but he also wanted to read what she had said.

Above his car’s automatic “I’m Driving,” response he read, “That’s okay. If you want to meet me at the theater 30 min before call that would word” followed immediately by a correction “work*”.

She then sent another message acknowledging he was driving and not to text her back. He quickly put the phone back in its holder and turned the air conditioner up high. The dishwasher always made him sweat, and the cool air felt good against his face.

Jackson wasn’t sure what Savannah wanted but showing up to rehearsal half an hour earlier wouldn’t kill him.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Savannah shouted, rushing towards the stage five minutes late. “My roommate had a date and wouldn’t get out of the bathroom.”

Jackson waved her down from her apology, “You’re good. I was afraid I would be late, so I got here a bit early, anyway.” He sat in one of the auditorium seats. “What’s up?”

Savannah leaned up against the stage and threw her bag into a chair. She took a quick deep breath. “So,” she said like a starter gun, “I was thinking. What if we ask Professor Zed dedicate opening night to Micah. We could have concessions and ticket proceeds go to fund suicide awareness on campus or, like, get a seat in the theater dedicated to him.” She clapped her hands together excitedly. “What do you think?”

Youcouldn’thavejustsaidthisinatext?he thought but stopped himself from saying out loud. He figured he had upset her enough the other night.

“If Professor Zed thinks it’s a good idea, I guess that would be kind of cool,” he managed to say.

“I thought you might like it.” Savannah started pacing back and forth like a drill sergeant examining his troops. “I think this,” she pointed to an aisle seat in the front row, “would be the perfect seat to dedicate to Micah. It would be like he was at every performance, cheering us on, like you said in your speech yesterday.” She stopped her mania and looked back at him. “Oh, by the way, you did so good on that.”

Jackson nonchalantly shrugged. “Thanks. You did good on your song, too.”

“Thanks,” she grinned widely.

Jackson could sense there was something else she wanted to say to him but didn’t care too much about asking. If she didn’t want to broach the conversation, then why should he push it?

“Well,” he said as he stood from the chair. “I guess I had better get headed down to the dressing room a little early.” He turned to leave.

“Jackson,” she interrupted.

Jackson stopped and looked back at her without saying anything.

She coyly continued, “I really appreciate what you said yesterday. I didn’t know that stuff about your mom, and I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“I also really liked what you said about that poem. I hadn’t thought about it like that.” Jackson started to see the soft, squishy person Savannah became when she was vulnerable. “Micah probably told you,” she said as she rolled her eyes, “but high school wasn’t easy for me. I got made fun of for something stupid, and I got picked on a lot. Micah helped me process a lot of that stuff. But, it wasn’t until yesterday that I could see what I went through in a positive light.”

She sat back into the chair she wanted dedicated to Micah.

“People were so mean, and I felt so alone. I turned into this,” she motioned to herself from her head to her toes, “and I became mean and cold. I know people call me the ‘Ice Queen’ in the green room, but I’m really not. I though God was punishing me for what I had done, so I threw it back at him and became what everyone said I was. Micah showed me how to draw on those experiences and use them for my characters, which was great, and I’m grateful for it, but it didn’t change me. It only changed me on the stage. I still hated everyone in school. They were all such assholes.”

Jackson leaned up against the stage in front of Savannah. Her eyes were surveying the ground in front of her.

“But, yesterday,” she looked up at Jackson. “Yesterday, you made it make sense. You gave it an almost sacred purpose, and it made me forgive them, somehow.”

Jackson was confused. “I just thought it made more sense when it came to the poem.”

“Don’t you see it?” Savannah stood and looked into Jackson’s eyes, darting back and forth. “In the Bible, it says that Jesus tread the winepress alone for us and trampled the nations in his anger so much that his clothes were stained with their blood. If he is The Way, and he says to follow him, then we are supposed to walk in that path that he made when he walked through the winepress. What I did was wrong, but I was fixing it, and everyone made fun of me. When I was a goody-goody, people made fun of me. People didn’t make fun of me when I was a bitch.”

Jackson cocked his head to the side in a you’re-not-wrong sort of way.

“I’m not saying I’m anything like Jesus, and I’m definitely nowhere near perfect, but if the hardest times of my life—the times I was trying to be good and fix my mistakes—were the times when I was walking in his steps, then it means he understands what I went through. He gets me, and he’s cheering me on through all of it. Sometimes I wish he would make it all better, but you don’t get stronger walking on the soft sand. You get stronger walking on the rough rocks.”

Jackson didn’t quite understand what she meant, but he was glad she had found something that helped her. “I didn’t really think about all that, but it’s good you did.”

“Jackson,” she was back to the excited person she was just moments before, though tone held a serious weight, “penance isn’t an easy process. Fixing what we’ve done wrong is hard— like, insanely hard sometimes—but maybe that’s one way God

lets us know when we’re on the right track. People don’t make fun of people who are just as bad as they are.”

“Eh…” Jackson hated the whole “bullies pick on you because their jealous of you” shtick he had been taught in school.

“Shut up,” she said kindly followed by a little giggle. “The muleteers didn’t make fun of Pedro, right?” her speech was picking up speed. “They made fun of Don Quixote! If they thought Don Quixote could kick their asses, do you think they would have made fun of him? Of course not! They would have hung out with him. People are like that. They like to make people they think are doing the right thing miserable because misery loves company. In school, because of what they said, I was misery, so I decided to make everyone else miserable, too. I don’t have to be miserable, anymore, because God wasn’t punishing me for what I did or for trying to do better. That was everyone else. Jesus was mocked, tortured and killed, but he wasn’t being punished. Maybe I wasn’t being punished, either.”

A light turned on in Jackson’s mind as he tried to wrap his brain around the abstract concept she had extrapolated from his relatively short speech. “I guess I can see that.”

Savannah walked behind and grabbed the back of the chair she wanted to dedicate to Micah. “See what you think of this seat.”

Jackson sat in it. He didn’t like that he had to crane his neck back and couldn’t see the entire stage. He stood up and walked toward the back of the auditorium. About two-thirds of the way up, he stopped. “What about here?” he asked as a smile curled one corner of his mouth. “I think this is a better seat.”

Savannah ran towards him and nodded. “Perfect.”

“You’re all dismissed for the night,” Morgan, the stage manager, stated matter-of-factly. “We will see you all next week for final dress rehearsals!”

Jackson lingered a bit until the theater emptied. It seemed to take longer than usual. He had a couple of the cast members come up to him, pat him on the back, express their condolences, and say how much they appreciated his words at the memorial service. One of the girls asked if Micah’s parents were still around. Jackson explained that they were leaving Sunday after Micah’s body was finalized for transport. He walked back and forth like he was doing this or that until the whole auditorium was empty. He, then, walked up to the seat Professor Zed had agreed to designate as Micah’s seat with a name plate purchased with a portion of the ticket sales from opening night. Professor Zed had also agreed to designate the remainder of the ticket and concession sales, along with other received donations at that showing, to suicide awareness and prevention on campus.

Jackson sat in the seat next to “Micah’s seat” and stared at the stage.

“Fuck you, Micah,” he said, but it wasn’t in anger. Jackson realized how little he had sat still this entire week—how much time he had alone. His eyes started to water as he stared at the stage in front of him. All he could think of was how he wasn’t going to have Micah in the audience.

“I needed you to be here,” he said aloud. “I wanted to see you sitting out here. I wanted some sort of an anchor out here, and you were the only anchor I had, and you ripped that away.”

He punched the cushion down and it bounced back into place. He wanted to be mad at Micah. He wanted to hate him for leaving him, but he couldn’t. He hated himself for hating Micah. He looked at the empty seat beside him and let his imagination take over. He pictured Micah sitting there, leaned up against the arm, his elbow on the armrest and his hand near his mouth.

“You done being mad at me?” the imagined Micah said. “You done being sorry for yourself? Because I can wait if you’re not.”

“Even my imagination is mad at me,” Jackson said to himself.

“I’m not mad at you,” came the false Micah voice. “You deserve to be upset at me. I hid things from you, and I quit this life before you had a chance to tell me goodbye. I didn’t even wait for opening night of your first major role.”

Jackson stared at the stage.

“I’m never asked for you to pity me, Jackson,” the ghost said.

Jackson spoke softly to the air, “You didn’t ask for cancer, either, and you sure got enough of that.”

He stood up and started down the aisle, heading out the door. He knew someone would think he was having a psychotic episode.

He imagined Micah speaking from the seat, again. “You know I’ll be here, right?”

Jackson stopped and stared at the empty seat. The gryphon in his coat pocket felt heavy and warm.

“My grandfather gave that gryphon to me so he could always be with me. I gave it to you so I could always be with you.”

Jackson hung his head.

“I’m gone, Jackson. What’s done is done. You may wish it wasn’t, cut it is, and nothing’s going to change that.” The voice was sympathetic. “And that’s okay.”

“Life is life, and death is death,” Jackson said. “But it’s a lot harder to do than to say.”

The voice answered back, “That’s only because of love. Not romantic love, but pure love. You loved me, and I loved you. That’s why it hurts. Love hurts. Love heals. Love makes it

all worth it. I don’t know if I’m really out there somewhere, if I’m really here, right now, or if I ended the second my heart stopped beating, but I do know one thing.”

Jackson sarcastically answered the shade back, “Oh, yeah, what? That I’m still alive?”

“Okay,” the shade answered, “I know two things. One is that you’re still alive and have so many more chances to love, and, two, that I still live in your heart, my parents’ hearts, Van’s heart. I live in the hearts, minds, and memories of everyone who ever loved me. Whether I’m a spirit somewhere or not, I’m there, and I will always be there.”

Jackson looked back to the chair once more. “Well, you gave us a whole lot to love.”

The shade didn’t answer this time. The chair was empty. Like waking from a dream, Jackson came to himself and walked out of the auditorium.

Jackson usually slept in and watched Netflix or Hulu on Sunday, but his bed was empty and his television was turned off. Jackson had pulled himself out of bed, showered, fixed his hair, and gone to church.

When church let out, he met up with the Stevensons to take them back to the airport and say his farewells. He knew, somewhere in the airport terminal, was Micah’s body in a shipping container, ready to be put on a plane and sent to Boston. Micah’s parents had requested to escort the body.

Mrs. Stevenson hugged and kiss Jackson, telling him how great he was going to do in the play, and Mr. Stevenson shook his hand with similar sentiments. Mr. Stevenson was not an emotional man, but he teared up saying his goodbyes to Jackson.

“You know how to reach us if you ever need to talk to us,” Mrs. Stevenson said, “and we still expect you to come visit us. I’m still your Mama Bear, you know.”

Jackson nodded and told her he planned on coming as often as he could.

As they walked through the airport checkpoint, he waved and blew them a kiss before turning to walk back to his car.

“You look nice,” Ethan said between bites as Jackson walked through his kitchen. “You got a date?”

Jackson didn’t know whether to lie or not. He had spent the last half hour trying to get his hair to cooperate and look half decent. He had put on a red and black plaid shirt and black denim skinny jeans. He argued about rolling up his sleeves or wearing them long, a decision he only just finalized moments before; he decided to wear them down.

“As a matter of fact,” he decided, “I wouldn’t call it a date, but I am going to go get something to eat with someone.”

Ethan choked down the last bite of his burrito. “Have a good time.”

IhopeIwill , he thought to himself as he grabbed his leather jacket, jingled his keys into his pocket, and walked out the door.

Jackson pulled up to the restaurant at 8:05. He had told Gavin to meet him at 8:15, but he was so nervous. He was always early when he was nervous. It didn’t help that Gavin had chosen S & T’s to eat. It was Gavin’s favorite restaurant, so he couldn’t say no.

Ofcourse,hewantstoeathere.

Jackson walked in and the hostess greeted him.

“I didn’t know you were working tonight, Jackson,” she said with surprise.

Jackson took a deep breath and said, “I’m not. I’m actually meeting someone here. Is it busy tonight, Em?”

Emily, the hostess winked, “I’ll get you a table as fast as I can. Do you want to sit in Josh’s section or Kim’s?”

Jackson like Josh as a person, but he though Kim was a better server, so he asked for Kim. He sat to wait for Emily to get back. His knee bounced frantically as he played with his hands. He just knew Tessa would walk out at any moment and try to hug him. He just hoped he would be seated before she came out.

The door opened and a cool breeze rushed in with Gavin. He wore a blue button-down shirt under a suede jacket, and black pants. Even with the slight breeze, he had managed to keep his hair neatly in place, a feat Jackson hadn’t been able to accomplish quite as well. Jackson couldn’t help but think Gavin looked more nervous than Jackson was. Gavin’s eyes looked towards the seating area, wondering if Jackson had already been seated. He wrang his hands together. Jackson could almost hear the skin squeaking as they rubbed against each other.

“Gavin,” Jackson said, standing up and waving at him. Gavin turned sharply in surprise.

“Oh, you’re already here,” he was visibly nervous. Jackson sat back down and patted the seat next to him. “I just got here,” he said. “And they’re getting a table ready for us as we speak.”

Gavin sat down. The cushion’s squealed made Jackson smile. That cushion always squealed, and Jackson could hear someone comment that the noise hadn’t come from them when he would step out to the bathroom. It always made him chuckle.

Emily walked up to Jackson stifling a knowing grin behind tightened lips and two menus. “Your table is ready, Jackson. If you’ll follow me.”

The pair stood and Gavin stretched his arm out, indicating Jackson should lead the way. Jackson couldn’t help but feel all eyes on him.

Theythinkwe’rejustfriendsouttoeat,he repeated to himself like a mantra.

Emily led them to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant away from rubbernecks.

“Kim will be right with you,” she said, winking surreptitiously to Jackson who turned beet red.

The booth had hooks on either side where the customers could hang their coats. Jackson didn’t really notice, having rarely sat in one of the booths, let alone sat on this side of the kitchen door, before, and he wouldn’t have noticed if Gavin hadn’t hung his up and offered to take Jackson’s coat to hang it up, as well.

The two sat across from each other and looked over the menus, not that either of them really needed to, since they both were extremely familiar with the menus, but anyone looking at them would think neither had never seen a menu in their life.

Gavin hummed and perused each column of each page like he was looking for something to catch his eye, while Jackson studied the menu like he was preparing for midterms.

“Well, hey there, Stranger,” a familiar voice with a thick Southern drawl came from behind Jackson, “how are you tonight, Gavin?” It was Kim, the server.

Ofcourse,heknowsKim,Jackson thought, feeling his face getting hot.

Gavin spoke to Kim like they had known each other for years until Kim turned and noticed Jackson.

“And you’re here, too,” she said like she had just found a matching pair of socks. “Well, I didn’t know you two knew each other. I’ll go ahead and get your drink orders. What’ll it be?”

Gavin ordered a Diet Coke with lime; Jackson asked for a Coke with lemon. Kim made a couple of scratch marks on her pad to remind her and then looked back up at the two of them.

“I’ll go ahead and get these ready for ya. Any appetizers? Y’all ready to order, or do you need a minute?”

Gavin looked to Jackson and said, “I think I’m ready. You?”

Jackson nodded and ordered T’s Shrimp Po Boy and Gavin ordered a Creole Gumbo.

“I’ll get that right in for ya!” Kim said as she turned towards the kitchen.

Jackson sat and looked at Gavin. He hated first dates; he never knew what to talk about. Small talk seemed too impersonal and vague, but there was never anything of substance he could talk about without feeling like he was either prying or divulging too much information for a first date. Lucky for him, Gavin started talking.

“How did the thing go for your friend?” Gavin showed real concern.

“It was good.”

As the words came out of Jackson’s mouth, he felt like he had just spoken the verbal equivalent to a “K” text. He tried to continue to add some sort of depth to the response. “A lot of people were able to make it. His parents flew in, too.”

Gavin nodded along, “Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Jackson could feel his shoulders beginning to relax. “His parents are great, most times I like them even more than my own parents, to be honest.”

“I get that,” Gavin said. “Parents can be tough to deal with.”

He shook his head. “My parents are still in denial about me being gay.”

He laughed.

“My dad doesn’t understand how a rough and tough guy like me can be all…” he lifted his hand and flicked his wrist while cocking his head to the side.

They both laughed at the practically universal symbol for a gay man.

“See,” Jackson said, pausing for a moment while Kim placed their drinks down. “I don’t even know, really, what I am.”

He took a quick sip of his drink.

“I know I’m not 100% straight, but I also know I’m not 100% gay, either.”

Gavin took a long swig from his drink. “Oh, that makes perfect sense. A lot of guys who identify as bi are somewhere in that same sort of feeling. I’m kind of like that. If I had to put numbers on it, I’m probably, like, 90% gay and 10% straight. I just say I’m a ‘my-sexual’. If I’m attracted to them, I’m attracted to them, but if I’m not, I’m not. I tend to be more attracted to men, but I can find a woman attractive, too.”

That made sense to Jackson.

“Besides, where I want to put my penis is my business, not theirs,” Gavin straightened his silverware to make a place for his dinner.

Jackson coughed, choking a bit on his drink. He hadn’t expected that remark.

“You alright, there, Jack?” Gavin chuckled. “Don’t die on me, yet.”

Jackson cleared his throat.

“I’ll be alright,” Jackson coughed out. “Just surprised me a bit.”

The two continued talking about how Gavin came to terms with his sexuality and learned more about each other until Kim brought out their food. Between bites, Jackson told Gavin about his classes, the play, and his favorite subjects. Gavin told Jackson that he was a landscaper and contractor.

“I’m not sure, exactly, what I want to do with the rest of my life,” Jackson muttered, his mouth half-full of shrimp and bread. He took a drink and swallowed. “I’ve thought about teaching, but I’m not sure.”

Gavin scooped us a spoonful of gumbo and blew on it.

“You’ve got plenty of time to figure all of that out. Besides, who says you have to do one thing for the rest of your life?”

Jackson contemplated that.

“You like politics, why not try your hand at that? You like teaching. Teach for a while. You like art history. See what it would take to write an article or something. The only thing keeping you back from exploring is the mindset that you have to have one career until you retire or die.”

Gavin reached into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, handing Jackson a small card. “This was my business card two years ago.”

On the small white card, he read the words, “Gavin Lee, Realtor.”

Jackson handed Gavin back the card.

“You sold houses?”

“Yep,” Gavin said, putting the card back in his wallet. “Still can, technically. And I was damn good at it, too.”

“Why did you stop if you were so good at it?” Jackson couldn’t believe he would up and change career paths like that.

“Because I got tired of it. I wanted to build houses. Not just sell them.”

Jackson admired, “That’s pretty cool.”

“And maybe in two more years I’ll try something else.” Gavin wiped his mouth of the last bit of food. “My point is, I’m not stuck doing one thing for the rest of my life. Sure, it may be painful to switch, or I may have to make certain sacrifices to do it, but I’m not locked into anything. My ‘career’ is whatever I want it to be at any given time.”

Jackson winced in confusion.

“Does that not feel…unstable?” Jackson asked. “I mean, don’t you get tired of starting over all of the time.”

Gavin shook his head. “I don’t really see it as ‘starting over’ so much as having a new beginning. Like I said, I could still sell all the houses I build—be my own realtor—or not. I’m not starting a new book, just a new chapter. I’m building a wider variety of skills while still keeping the ones I had before. You know the saying, ‘Jack of all trades, master of none’?”

Jackson nodded.

“Did you know we don’t finish it? It used to be ‘A jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one.’ It used to be a compliment, saying that a jack-of-alltrades may not be an expert at all of the things he does, but that’s usually better than having one specific skill set. Think of a genius who doesn’t know how to change his own oil, or a master mechanic who can’t balance his own checkbook. I’m a jack-ofmany-trades. I can do most things for myself and help others in the process. I may not be an expert at all of them, but I am building towards it.”

Kim walked up and asked, “Y’all wantin’ any dessert? Or ya finished up?”

Gavin looked to Jackson, who shook his head.

“We’ll just take the check.” Jackson said.

“Same check or separate?” Kim asked.

“Same,” Jackson blurted out without thinking.

“Alrighty then. I’ll be right back.” Kim turned and walked off.

Gavin motioned to pull out his wallet, but Jackson thought of the, still unknown, amount of money he was going to receive from Micah, the gryphon almost squawked at him from his coat pocket.

DamnMicah.

Jackson waved Gavin off, “I’ve got this one.”

Or,rather,Micah’sgotthisone…andeveryoneafter this…he thought to himself.

After paying, the two got up, got their coats and walked out into the wind. Jackson caught a glimpse of Tessa and Sandy, who were busy directing traffic in the kitchen to notice him walking out the front door, but he told Emily to tell them he said “Hi”.

Jackson and Gavin stood next to Gavin’s pickup truck.

“Well,” Gavin sighed. “It was great to talk to you—sober this time.”

Jackson chuckled and looked down at the concrete. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. His stomach was in knots and he felt lightheaded. He wanted to, both, run away from Gavin and jump into his truck.

“I had a great time,” Jackson finally managed to eke out. Gavin fumbled with his keys. “I did, too.”

The pair stood awkwardly for a moment.

“Maybe we could do this again sometime,” Gavin said. Jackson let out a long sigh. “I’m still trying to figure everything out with me. I don’t think I’m ready to date anyone, right now…”

Gavin’s crestfallen eyes turned towards the truck.

“But if you wanted to come to the show on Friday, you’re welcome to come watch.”

Gavin half smiled as he “found” his truck key.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you Friday, then.”

Jackson closed his eyes as a pang shot through his mind. His stomach churned and he winced. He grabbed Gavin’s arm and said, “Thank you for everything, Gavin. I really did enjoy myself.”

Gavin shrugged.

“Thanks to you, too, Jack.”

Jackson hugged Gavin. The warm squeeze was calming and friendly. Gavin’s scruffy cheek felt oddly comforting to Jackson. They held each other for a second or two, until Jackson decided to steel his nerves. Just as he began to pull away from the embrace, he turned his face enough to give Gavin a quick peck on the cheek before he pulled completely away.

Gavin looked at him and unlocked his truck.

“We’ll see you Friday, then, Jack.” This time, his eyes smiled back at Jackson.

There’s a distinct feeling of waking up with an alarm, especially for an early class. It’s a mixture of sleepiness, anger, and dread all rolled into one. It’s not a pleasant feeling and hitting the snooze button only prolongs it. What compounds this is setting multiple alarms in sequence to ensure one of them is effective.

After missing all of his classes for a week, Jackson couldn’t bare for his first class back to be Dr. Matthews, Ph.D. That was not the atmosphere he wanted to be the first he had after Micah’s service. He didn’t need a lecture. He didn’t want to be corrected. He still felt he needed time to process everything that happened on Friday, and, especially, what happened between him and Gavin the night before.

So, when his series of alarms started to sound, he groggily rolled over and turned them off one by one, staring at the ceiling between alarms. His mind was swimming with thoughts, too cumbersome to allow him to return to whatever sort of sleep he could get within the 15-minute gaps between his alarms. It gave him time to decompress and to just exist without rushing from this appointment to that class to work and then to rehearsal. He knew he should be in class, and he knew Micah would have been mad at him, but Jackson didn’t care.

At 8:08, Jackson got a text from Ethan.

“U coming to class” the text read.

Jackson dismissed it. He decided to pretend it never came and laid there with his thoughts.

He played back the past week in his mind.

Hasitonlybeenaweek? Jackson thought, going over the cacophony of events that had pummeled him since the cops showed up at work telling him about Micah. It felt like a lifetime since then.

Today, though, he felt…different…than he had the last week. Every day of the past week, he had woken up, in a hurry, confused, scared, pissed off, sad, or numb. But, today, he felt…different. There wasn’t a numbness to him. It was almost like he had woken up from a nap on the beach. It was warm and somewhere between comfortable and uncomfortable. The only way to describe it, really was that he woke up feeling orange. Not that he felt like he looked orange, but how the color orange made him feel. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but he wouldn’t say it was the best feeling, either. He just felt…orange.

Finally, about 8:30, he sat up and decided to take a long, hot shower, after which he got dressed and drove to get breakfast from McDonalds, something he didn’t often get the chance to do.

After eating, he drove around a bit and decided to see if there were any movies in the theater he wanted to see. There was a show staring Ryan Reynolds that Jackson thought looked good, but the matinee wasn’t for another couple of hours, so he drove around some more.

He found himself driving up a hill. When he crested the peak, there was a scenic overlook parking lot where people could get out, take pictures, and survey the land around them. Jackson could see miles in some areas and cascading hills in others.

He’d been up there many times before, but this time was different. The colors in the midday sun seemed more vibrant, more alive. The cool air filled his lungs as he breathed deep.

He just stood there and looked out on the landscape in front of him. He felt alone, but it wasn’t painful. He missed Micah, but he didn’t hate him. He was still a bit mad at Micah and God for what had happened, but it was muted.

Another car pulled up, cuing Jackson to get in his car and leave, which, luckily enough, gave him just enough time to grab lunch and then head to the theater for the Ryan Reynolds’ movie.

After the movie, he went home, shut himself in his room until rehearsal.

After rehearsal, he went back to his apartment, ate dinner, and went to bed.

Some would say this day was unproductive, or that he should have just gone to class, but Jackson believed these days were necessary. He called them “mental sick days”. He figured that we sequester sick days to physical illness, but mental health is just as important, if not more important, than physical health, so he could justify adding taking one more day for his mental health. It also helped that his first class in the morning would be Dr. Guthrie’s class—his favorite class. He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

“How was your monologue, Micah?” Jackson said as he met Micah outside the theater. Micah was auditioning for a local theater production, and he told Jackson to come get him to “celebrate the start of a wonderful career.”

“Tragedy or comedy? Go!” Micah answered.

“That’s easy,” Jackson said. “Comedy.”

“Gay,” Micah said, jokingly. “Tragedy is way better.”

“You like to be sad, is that it?” Jackson stared back incredulously.

Micah chuckled, “No. Tragedies are harder to write.”

Jackson scoffed.

“Anyone can make a happy ending,” Micah said. “Think about it. ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ Little kids do it all the time. Writing a sad ending people can still be okay with takes serious talent. Even people like Stephen King struggle.”

“But they’re all so sad,” Jackson said.

“This coming from the guy who likes horror movies.”

Jackson tried to justify his movie choices. “Horror movies usually have good endings, though…like the family escapes the ghost and everyone’s fine, or the murderer gets it. They end happy. Not all horror movies end likePetSematary.”

“And people hate the end ofPetSematary.”

“Exactly!” Jackson said. “Tragedies suck!”

“No, they don’t. Hold on.” Micah scrolled though Apple Music, trying to find a song. “Okay, Mr. Greek Mythology. Is it, or is it not, true that the story of Orpheus and Euridice is one of the best love stories ever told?”

Jackson thought for a second. “Well, yeah, but—”

“But what? Isn’t it a tragedy? Doesn’t it have a sad ending?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point of the story,” Jackson said.

“Oh, what’s the point?”

“You know full well that the point is to teach people to trust their spouses. Orpheus questioned whether or not Euridice was actually behind him the whole way out of the Underworld, and he trusted her until just before Euridice was free of the Underworld. If he had waited just a few more steps, his love would have been by his side. Instead, she was forced to go back to the Underworld.”

“Correct. All tragedies have the main character deserve their ending. Oedipus, Creon, Orpheus, even Macbeth…they all get what they deserve in the end because of who they are or what they choose to do with their lives. Greeks usually did pride because everyone is proud in some way. The point is we learn more from sad stories than happy ones. All tragic heroes are tragically flawed, and that’s why they get what they deserve and why those stories teach us lessons. Here, listen to this.”

Micah put an air pod in Jackson’s ear and pressed play. It was a song from the soundtrack to Hadestown . Hermes is singing about the story of Orpheus being sad but singing it anyway because we hope it might turn out this time.

“This is how we always feel at the end of tragedies. The story is sad, but we tell the story anyway, knowing it will end up sad, but maybe this time he doesn’t turn his head. Think of The Patriot.”

“You’re really trying to make me cry, aren’t you?” Jackson loved that movie.

“When Gabriel goes to kill the British officer, we hope that it’s different this time. We know it’s not, but we hope that maybe it will turn out differently. That’s tragedy. We go into

something, knowing the outcome but hoping they’ve learned the error of their ways.”

Jackson thought for a moment. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Plus, catharsis is a real thing. Sometimes you need something to cry about.”

“I knew you really just liked being sad.”

Micah punched him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Food?” Jackson perked up.

“When do we not get food?” Micah responded.

“Great. And you never answered my question. How’d the monologue go?”

“Let’s just say, I deserved my ending.”

Jackson grumpily pulled on his coat. He was mad at himself for being selfish the day before, like him healing even the slightest, so soon after losing his best friend was somehow spitting on Micah’s memory or that he didn’t care anymore, and he knew everyone was going to try to cheer him up today, only adding to the regret he felt. He felt bad that he didn’t feel bad, today.

He couldn’t imagine anyone deserved the ending Micah got. If anyone deserved this kind of an ending, it was Jackson. He could almost hear Micah rebuking him for skipping classes, but he just couldn’t bring himself to go to Dr. Matthews, Ph.D.’s class.

The morning rain drenched Jackson as he walked to his first class since the memorial service.

“What are you crying for?” he spoke to the sky. “You have him. I don’t.”

Jackson knew he would have been perturbed if the sun had been shining and the weather was perfect, saying something like, “What do you have to be so cheerful about?” He felt that he deserved to be miserable.

He walked past freshmen holding their bookbags over their heads and running between buildings. A young lady held an umbrella over her wheelchair-bound boyfriend as she pushed him towards the Dining Hall. A group of girls huddled under an awning taking selfies and pictures of their galoshes for Instagram. #rainyday A group of soccer players were enjoying a muddy, morning game in the rain on the practice field.

Howcantheybehappy?he thought.Don’ttheyknow? Don’ttheyfeelanything?

Jackson approached his classroom hall, dodging the odd umbrella tip, and shook the water from his hair and jacket. The sound of squeaking wet rubber soles on the floor made the hallway sound like someone was chewing on a balloon. Jackson tried to ignore it and push through the crowded flock of anxiety and hormones to class.

As he rounded a corner, just a few rooms away, he was met by coffee splashing on his feet as its owner pulled back his cup to avoid a collision. It was Dr. Matthews, Ph.D.

Heshouldhavespilleditonhimself,Jackson thought.

“I’m sorry, Jackson. I should have been more careful coming around the corner.”

Jackson was mildly stunned.Didhejustapologizetome?

“It’s alright Dr. Matthews,” Jackson said as reflex. “I’m lost in my own thoughts today. I should have been paying more attention.”

Dr. Matthews looked at him carefully and said, “When does your next class start?”

“I have Art History with Dr. Guthrie in about five minutes. Why?”

“Could I have a quick word with you in my office?”

Jackson was not in the mood for a lecture.

“I should probably get into class so I’m not late.”

“Okay,” Dr. Matthews responded. “Um…Could you meet me after your class? I have office hours then and would really like to have a quick chat with you.”

Jackson knew turning him down a second time would result in a never-ending search of a time to meet, so he gave in and went to class.

Dr. Guthrie was one of Jackson’s favorite teachers. She was a tiny woman of about sixty with a dyed-blonde perm which she would often wear in a rather messy bun showing her graying roots. She never wore makeup, except for a deep red lipstick that so contrasted her pale skin it looked like all the blood in her body filled her lips. Her glasses sat either on the top of her head, where they made an almost permanent residency or squarely in front of her eyes, making them appear twice as large as they really were. She stood slightly stooped from years of leaning into paintings and papers and her clothes draped her aging, yet energetic body.

“Jackson,” she said with surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you in class today.” She was obviously referring to the words he spoke at Micah’s memorial service.

“You know I couldn’t miss your class, Dr. G.,” he said with an involuntary smile. Jackson really enjoyed her class. He loved art history and symbolism. He would watch Netflix and Amazon Prime documentaries about Egypt and Greek art. He even thought about making it his minor, just for the chance to delve into it. The only thing keeping him from it was dates. He hated memorizing dates.

Besides Dr. Guthrie, the room had only one other student sitting in the corner with airbuds in typing furiously. Shouldhave finisheditlastnight,Jackson thought.

“Are you going to be alright?” Dr. Guthrie asked quietly.

“I think so,” Jackson said as his eyes wandered to his normal seat on the left side of the classroom and to the seat behind it, where Micah always sat. This was the one class the two shared this semester, and this is the moment he would have to face if he was going to be okay. He walked over to his desk and took off his bookbag and coat and sat down. Dr. Guthrie stood at the white board at the front of the classroom and looked at him. Jackson stared blankly at the empty desks in front of him. Before he knew it, the class was full.

Whyaretheysohappy?he thought, his eyes now fixated on a spot on the back of the shirt in front of him.Nobodyeven noticeshe’sgone.Theywereallintearsatthememorialservice, butnowtheydon’tevencare.Howcantheynotnoticehe’s gone?Howdotheynotseethegapingemptinessbehindme? Jackson took out his notebook and pen and began scribbling. There was no rhythm to his cadence, no aim to his designs. He was writing the language of loss and loneliness discernable to no one including him. But he kept scribbling as if writing a doctoral dissertation.

“Mr. Marshall?” Dr. Guthrie spoke. Jackson looked up to meet her eyes as the entire class shifted to look at him.

“Yeah?” he responded.

“Could you tell me what this symbol is?” She had drawn a cross with a loop replacing the top post.

“That’s an ankh,” he said.

“Could I get you to explain the symbolism of the ankh?”

“Aren’t we on the Baroque period?”

Dr. Guthrie tilted her head towards the board. “Yes, but I asked you about the ankh.”

“Well,” Jackson started, “the ankh was used as a symbol for life in Ancient Egyptian art. Nobody is certain about its origins, but one of the more commonly accepted theories is that it is some sort of a knot of reeds or cloth because it bears a striking resemblance to the knot or girdle of Isis.”

“What else can you tell us about the ankh?” Dr. Guthrie was obviously searching for a specific answer and Jackson was sure he knew what it was.

“The ankh was usually held either by a god or pharaoh in art, who was a god on earth over the land of Egypt. There are images of the ankh being given by the gods to pharaoh which symbolized life after death and resurrection.”

Dr. Guthrie turned her back to the class and drew Ττ on the board.

“What are these, Jackson?”

Jackson looked puzzled. “They’re ‘T’s?” he said.

“Actually,” she said flashing a triumphant smile, “these are the Greek letter ‘tau.’ Does anyone know what this letter symbolized in Greek art?”

Jackson raised his hand, guessing from his previous answer.

“Life?”

“That’s right. The letter tau was used in Greek art to symbolize life and resurrection, just like it’s counterpart, the ankh, in Ancient Egyptian. Now, does anyone recognize this symbol?” She turned back to the tau and drew a small line coming out of the top about the size of half the crossbar.

“That’s a cross,” some freshman said quickly wanting to get the obvious answer correct.

“Yes, it is. What does this usually get associated with?”

Jackson contemplated being facetious and saying that to the early Romans, it would have symbolized death and torture as the tool of crucifixion for criminals and traitors, but he decided to let someone else answer.

After a few seconds of heads searching for someone to answer, Dr. Guthrie answered her own question.

“For most of the modern world, the cross gets associated with Christ and Christianity—which I’m sure you all know— though it is not known whether Jesus was crucified on this type of a cross, a tree with a crossbar, or a tau cross. If we draw a line between all of these similar shapes, we see that though our symbols morph and change, their meaning remains relatively unchanged. In Ancient Egypt, the ankh meant life and resurrection. In Classical Greece, the tau held the same meaning. In current

Western Civilization, the cross brings us the image of the death and resurrection of Jesus.”

She stopped and turned around suddenly and stuck her arms out.

“Could it be because of the similarity to ourselves?” She put her arms back down at her sides and returned to the board.

“In fact, the equivalents of the letter ‘T’, in many languages, have been used as very significant letters. In Hebrew, for example, the letter tav,” she drew the letter ת on the board, “has great significance. Tav is the last letter of the Hebrew word ‘emet’, which means ‘truth’. ‘Emet’ is made up of the first, middle, and last letters of the Hebrew alphabet aleph, mem, and tav.” She wrote the word תמא on the board. “Sheqer, or falsehood, on the other hand, is made up of the three penultimate letters of the Hebrew alphabet making truth all-encompassing, while falsehood is narrow and deceiving. In Jewish mythology it was the word ‘emet’ which was carved into the head of the golem to bring it to life. There again we see the letter ‘t’ associated with life.”

Dr. Guthrie moved away from the board and began walking up and down the aisles, between students, and stopped in the back of the room. She paused for a moment.

“Jenny,” a girl with curly brown hair sitting in the back of the room lifted her head to Dr. Guthrie, “what does the letter ‘tav’ look like to you?”

The girl looked puzzled and embarrassedly said, “I don’t know.”

“Well, Ezekiel thought it looked like a door. He told of a vision he had where the tav played a Passover role similar to the blood on the lintel and doorposts.” She motioned to the top and

sides of the letter. “In Ezekiel’s vision, the Lord has his angels separate the proverbial wheat from the chaff by going through Jerusalem and inscribing a tav,” she walked over and moved her thumb across the forehead of Jackson and two other students, “on the foreheads of those who mourned the abominations done to them. Then, the Lord goes about counting tav-marked Israelites to spare them. Those without the tav were counted as critical and not worthy of saving. Those with the tav lived and those without were destroyed. Again, this letter is associated with life.”

Dr. Guthrie continued for a moment about how Hebrew letters held great symbolism while Latin letters and their descendants hold very little symbolic meaning as she walked back to the front of the room.

“We as humans have woven the concept of life into the fabric of our language, our art, our religions, and our history. We hold its place sacred, and many believe that it continues in some form after death.” She gave a kind sweep around the room with her eyes. “We cause death to preserve life. We fight wars to avert deaths. We strive to cure diseases to prolong life. We celebrate birth and mourn death. It is central to everything we do. It connects us to each other, to our ancestors, to people we have never met, and places where magnificent and horrible events have taken place.

“Life has fascinated us and confused us. We don’t know how it works; we just know it does. Depictions of Trees of Life are found from Mesopotamia to Mesoamerica. Life and its wonders have brought people together to understand one another. It connects us and drives us. This brings us to Apollo and Daphne…”

Dr. Guthrie turned off the lights and projected the image of Bernini’s statue of Apollo and Daphne. She began pointing out

the details of flesh being pressed in by Apollo and the growing laurel leaves from Daphne’s hands. Jackson mind returned to the empty seat behind him. His chest felt heavy with loss, but there was a tranquility in what Dr. Guthrie was saying. He knew her referencing to the ankh, tau, and tav as well as her bringing in the Trees of Life and cross were meant for him and had little to do with Apollo and Daphne, but he appreciated her indirect way of saying things will be alright.

As the class ended, Jackson waited for a moment for the room to clear before the next class filled the seats. He stood and gathered his things. Dr. Guthrie stood at the board erasing the various scribbles of explanation and diagraming as Jackson walked towards her.

“Do you think Apollo ever wept for Daphne?”

Dr. Guthrie stopped erasing for a moment and looked at Jackson. “I don’t doubt he did, though he is often viewed as the villain of the story. But he did something better than mourn for her.”

“What’s that?” Jackson asked.

“He honored her and enshrined her in legacy even to this day.”

Jackson’s face showed his confusion.

“Why do you think laurel branches are used to signify poets, victors, and even in the flag of the UN? Because of the God of the Muses, Apollo, Daphne lives forever as a symbol of life, wisdom, and the ideals we strive to live by as humanity. In her death, Daphne was reborn by the one she left behind.

“I know you and Micah were close and it is never easy to lose someone you love, but you don’t have to let their physical

end be their end. You don’t have to beat yourself up about going forward. Create a golem and write ‘truth’ on its forehead. Feed the ankh to his memory. Plant a Tree of Life near his grave that though he died, his memory may bring life to others, and bring life to you. It doesn’t mean you didn’t care for him. If anything, it shows how much you cared for him.”

For the first time since the news of Micah’s death, Jackson felt peace. He had tears in his eyes, but these weren’t tears of pain. These tears brought purification of his soul.

Jackson knocked on Dr. Matthews, Ph.D.’s door.

“Come in,” the voice echoed from behind the door.

Jackson creaked the old, wooden door to the office open. Dr. Matthews sat at his desk, which took up most of the cramped office space. Dr. Matthews was staring down his nose at his computer screen, his fingers typing vigorously.

As the door came to rest against the doorstop, Dr. Matthews peeled his eyes away from the screen and noticed Jackson. His fingers stopped their typing and he spun in his seat to face Jackson.

“Jackson!” he said, “Take a seat.”

Dr. Matthews gestured to the small seat in front of his desk. Jackson sat and put his backpack next to him on the ground.

Dr. Matthews reminded Jackson of Milo, from Disney’s Atlantis , except Dr. Matthews didn’t have glasses and had the demeanor of Harry Potter’s Professor Snape. On his desk were pictures of his wife and three daughters as well as stacks of papers to grade and a textbook or two he had been looking over. The walls of his office were covered with newspaper clippings, pictures, and his diploma.

Jackson didn’t know what to expect from this condescending man who sat before him.

“How are you doing, Jackson?” Dr. Matthews said, his hands clasped together on his desk.

Jackson flinched, “I’m doing fine.”

Dr. Matthews sat back in his chair. “I hope so. I was going to talk to you, yesterday after class, but since you weren’t there, I wanted to make sure everything was okay, what with Friday, and all.”

He reached over for his cup of coffee and took a sip. After setting his cup down he leaned forward again and rested his elbows on some papers.

“I know I’m hard on you, Jackson,” he started. Jackson couldn’t help but think that was an understatement. “But it’s because you grasp the concepts better than most. You’re so bright, and to see your grade slipping worries me.”

Jackson knew he was going to get some sort of a lecture.

“I’ve had a lot going on recently,” Jackson began.

“I know,” Dr. Matthews said. “I’m sorry you lost Micah, but this doesn’t have anything to do with him. This is about you. Not having you in class made it really…” he held his hands out grasping for the right phrase. “It was just boring.”

Jackson felt like he was just hit by a two-by-four. “Boring?”

“Yeah. I mean, you fight me on concepts. You don’t like Keynesianism, so you find its flaws. When I fight you with on free market theory with Keynesianism or Modern Monetary Theory, you push back.”

Jackson spoke up, “That’s because those ideas are stupid.”

“See!” Dr. Matthews lurched forward with reaching towards Jackson. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“You make me feel like I’m disrupting class, not helping it,” Jackson sat back.

“Well, you are.” Dr. Matthews said. “When you’re not discussing the actual topics, it detracts from the class, and it makes it tough, but your knowledge of the topics is amazing. In order to fight an idea, you have to know the topic you’re fighting against as well, if not better, than the topic you’re defending, and you do that so well. You would do well if you were an econ major, but you’re not. I spoke with your advisor, and he said that my class is the only one you’re struggling in. I don’t want one bad grade to affect your student career. How can I help you improve your grade?”

Dr. Matthews looked across his desk, his gaze locked on Jackson with a crumpled brow. This was a different look than Jackson saw in class, in fact, a different look than he had ever seen from Dr. Matthews. This was a look of genuine concern. The person he thought hated him was now praising him!? He was waiting for Micah to pop out of the woodwork and say he was on some massive prank show or to wake up from some weird dream, but this was real. Dr. Matthews was being nice—to Jackson.

“I’ll do better,” Jackson excused. “It’s some personal stuff I’ve got to work through, but I promise I’ll do better.”

Jackson and Dr. Matthews talked about extra credit and makeup assignments he could do to raise his grade to a level they both thought Jackson had earned and deserved.

Walking out of Dr. Matthews office, Jackson had a strange feeling. It was like the world beneath his feet swapped poles or jumped four inches to the right. Instead of the world being full of people who were laying traps to grab him and pull him down to the depths of despair, though he was sure there were those who couldn’t wait to do so, the world felt filled with people who were just trying their best. People like Savannah, who felt like the world was against them, so they put out barbs. Or like Micah, who had all the spotlights in the world on him but left a shadow behind them he didn’t want the world to see. Or Dr. Matthews, whose attempts to push a student were taken incorrectly.

Jackson walked across the courtyard in front of the Chapel of Saint Sebastian. The rain had stopped, and the sun was beginning to disperse the overcast sky. He looked at a couple of students rushing past him. One of the girls dropped a book and Jackson knelt over to pick it up. It had fallen near a budding flower. Jackson could almost hear Micah whisper, “Jackson, life is life and death is death. If you let death, even my death, encroach on life, you’ll end up with a whole lot of life unlived and die before you ever meet the grave.”

Jackson handed the girl her book and she smiled and thanked him. When Jackson looked up, he saw President Cox looking down from his office window. President Cox waved and Jackson waved back with a smile. As Jackson walked adjusted his

backpack, the gryphon in his coat pocket nudged him as if urging him forward.

“See the world for me…”

Jackson’s thoughts had a sudden heaviness he hadn’t expected. He pushed his hand deep into his pocket and grabbed his phone.

Micah had been such a great support to him through everything. He had depended on him for so much.

Jackson’s finger scrolled through his contacts until he saw it. The screen showed “Micah Stevenson”. He thought about deleting the number from his phone, but he sat and stared at if for a moment.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn't delete Micah from his life like that.

His focus softened until it rested on another contact in his list. He saw “Mama Bear” and thought of how much she had done for both he and Micah over the past few years.

“Sorry, Jackson, but my mom is my best friend,” Micah would say whenever she would do something for him, whether that was a package on his birthday or even just calling to say “Hi!” after a long day.

Jackson envied their relationship, but he loved Micah’s mother just as much as Micah did.

“My mother didn’t always agree with my choices, but she always loved me,” Micah had said.

“That’s what moms are supposed to do.”

Jackson clicked off his screen but hesitated before putting it back into his pocket. He hit the power button and turned the

screen back on. He tapped out a series of numbers and then hit send.

The phone rang.

It rang once more but was cut off halfway through with a soft female voice on the other side.

“Hello?” the woman answered.

Jackson swallowed hard as a tear formed in his eye. This was a new variety of tear than those of the past week. This tear was warm and soft. Their warmth filled the broken pieces of his heart with golden threads of light. His voice cracked softly as he began to speak.

“Hey,

Mom…”