Page 112 of As You Walk On

We’re still not really talking, but I know he’s there. Always. When I wake up on the sofa after falling asleep studying, there’s a blanket draped over me. On practice days, I find two Gatorades on the kitchen table before school. Freshly washed, folded clothes at the foot of my bed after school.

“I hate thinking about a world where he doesn’t know the real me.”

Every Pride, I ache for Granny. I wish she would’ve been around when I came out. I think she knew back then. But I couldn’t tell her. She was sick and dealing with so much. Always worried about Dad and me. The last thing I wanted was to add another thing to the pile—the fear of what might happen to her gay, Black grandson if she wasn’t around to protect me like she always had.

“Devaughn’s the only reason I told my parents I’m enby,” admits River.

I squeeze them tighter.

“I was nervous. He swore they’d get it, just like Katie would.” River sighs wetly, bottom lip shivering. “My parents still struggle. Still get it wrong sometimes. They forget to correct relatives. But they try so hard to get it right. For me.”

I hear the choked breath before the tears come.

Seconds later, my face is damp too.

“Losing a best friend sucks,” they say, half laughing, half sniffling.

I shiver and listen.

“Why do I miss him all the time?” River stares down at the flowers. “I’m doing my best to move on. Hell, I spent a night hanging with the greatest group of people I’ve met since him.”

Another stab of shame wrecks my chest.

“And I still felt so guilty afterward. Like I was replacing him,” they whisper. “Is that how moving on is supposed to feel?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

I think about Darren. How he’sencouragedthis apology tour. He’s okay with sharing our dares with others if it means I’ll feel a little more like myself.

“Maybe you’re not replacing him,” I finally say. “Maybe we have room to share our real selves with more than one person. Maybe not every friendship is The One. When things don’t end the way we hoped, maybe shutting ourselves off isn’t the answer?”

River wipes under their glasses, snorting. “When did you become a philosopher?”

I laugh softly. “I wish there was a Wikipedia entry you could skim through for a solution.”

“The TL;DRversion.”

The skyline begins to gray. The clouds are fuller too. A storm is in our future.

“We’re all figuring this shit out, Riv. Devaughn was one step for you,” I say after a minute. As hard as I fight, I think about Jay. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want you to stop there.”

River squeezes out more tears.

“You don’t have to forget him,” I whisper into their hair. “Let him know you miss him. You’re trying. Going forward.”

Birds take flight. The breeze changes directions. A small group in all white crosses the endless yellow-green grass toward another headstone. But time stands still for River and me. I hold them close. Ignore the dampness on my T-shirt as they cry. Pretend my own tears over Granny and Jay and the relationship Dad and I had before the party don’t exist.

Eventually, we sit on the ground.

Together, we say goodbye to what was.

Maybe we say hello to what could be too.

As we walk out of the cemetery, dusting grass from our clothes and scrubbing tears off our cheeks, River asks, “Who’s next on yourSorry for Being Shitty, Help Me Be a Better Person tour?”

“Wow,” I say, eyes wide. “Is that what they’re calling it?”

“So, you’re assuming you’re cool enough to talk about?”

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