Page 33

What-Ifs

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

I walk away, caught off guard, and sit on the bench near where Major’s snoozing.

Pressure builds behind my ribs, where my heart used to beat steady and true.

Isaiah follows. He sits beside me, setting the basketball in the grass, propping his sneaker on it. There’re those pink stars, a miniature galaxy twinkling on a scuffed toe. “I’m curious,” he says. “I’m trying to understand.”

“I know. It’s just…not easy to talk about.”

“I get that. I shouldn’t’ve—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. Drawing a breath, I come right out and say it: “Last year, on the twenty-second of November, my boyfriend died.”

The light behind Isaiah’s eyes blinks out, and I worry that I’ve stolen something—his spark, his spirit.

“Jesus, Lia. I’m sorry. I had no idea. You’re—you’re so steady.”

“No. I’m miserable, like you said.”

“You knew him in Virginia?”

I nod. “And Washington and North Carolina. His dad’s in the Army, like mine. Our parents have been friends since before either of us was born.”

I have no idea why I’m offering unsolicited details. That day in the hallway, a rash kiss, a few weeks of Ceramics, and a few Art Club meetings…my time with Isaiah is a collection of moments. We have a connection—I can admit that now. But it’s nothing like the years of shared experiences, the tome of inside jokes, and the lifetime-spanning history Beck and I had.

Still. I trust Isaiah.

More than that, I don’t hate the butterflies-in-my-stomach feelings of excitement and tenderness and hope I experience when I’m with him.

My heart aches as I think about how Beck would feel if he knew that I’ve been experiencing prickles of attraction for another boy.

Once, when we lived in Colorado, when my dad was getting ready to leave for Afghanistan, I heard him and Mom talking behind their closed bedroom door. Mom was crying. The sound of her sorrow stopped me in my tracks.

“What if you don’t come home?” she asked, voice trembling.

Dad’s tone was gentle, but his response was firm. “Then you’ll find someone else.”

“I could never.”

A moment of heartbreaking quiet passed before he said, “Hannah, I’d want you to.”

I went to my room and cried myself. I pitied my parents; how excruciating to be forced into such a conversation. Beck and I never spoke of what-ifs—we were young, spontaneous, invincible. Yet time and again, I torture myself with this incomprehensible question: If it had been me who died, would I expect him to suffer forever?

Or would I want him to rediscover love?

“What happened to him?” Isaiah asks.

“He had a heart attack,” I say in a small voice. “A sudden, massive heart attack.”

“God. How old was he?”

“Eighteen.”

“Had he been sick?”

“Not at all.”

He draws a heavy breath. “Shit, Lia. I’m so sorry.”

The wind ruffles my ponytail. Major sighs and curls into himself. I look at Isaiah, who’s gazing out over the court. His profile is angular. Broad forehead. Thick brows. Sharp cheekbones. His nose has a bump on its bridge that might bother a vainer person. His mouth is downturned, making his expression weary.

He’s like Beck in this way. His features make his emotions public.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He meets my gaze. “Not really. You?”

“I haven’t been okay in a long time.”

He swivels, drawing his knee up, turning to face me. “I feel like an asshole. Knowing now what you’re going through… I should’ve given you space.”

“You have.”

“Bullshit. I hugged you before I knew your name. I followed you into a closet. And here I am in your fucking neighborhood. You must think I’m out of my mind.”

“Isaiah, if I didn’t want your attention or your friendship or your company in art supply closets, I’d tell you. I swear I would.”

He bends to smooth his hand over my dog’s head. “What’s his name?”

“Major.”

“He’s a good boy.”

“Isn’t he? My dad brought him home last year, hoping he’d make things better.”

“Has he?”

I consider. “More survivable, maybe. I can’t check out, even on the really bad days, because I have a dog who’ll eat my shoes if I forget to walk him. For a long time, I needed that sort of incentive.”

Isaiah says, “The bad days can really stack up.”

I want to ask how he navigates his bad days. I want to know how he came to live with Marjorie. I want to know his favorite junk food and his least favorite book and his post-high-school plans. But the sun is beginning to drop, and my parents are probably expecting me. Still there’s something I can’t leave unsaid.

Looking at the stars on his shoe, I confess, “I want to see you outside Ceramics too. I’m just—I’m still figuring stuff out. I don’t know what right looks like yet, but I’m trying to get there.”

“You’re telling me to be patient,” he says.

“I’m asking you to be patient. I’m telling you I like you.”

He smiles. “Then you set the speed. I’ll hang beside you.”