Still Here

14

Michael takes me up on my offer and visits at 3 again, this time in the afternoon. The guilt he carries with him is so painfully evident, he wears it like it's his shirt. He won't even face me completely - I see only half of him.

"Hey," I say, when he sits in the chair next to my bed. He's left the door open.

"Hey," he says.

And it's awkward.

"How was, um, school?" I ask, shifting uncomfortably.

He gives me a fake half smile. (I spot those easily.) "Everyone's talking about you."

"Oh?"

And then he turns, so I see him completely. I gasp.

"Your eye," I say.

"It's black," he comments.

"And purple. Oh, God."

"Everyone's talking about me, too," he says, laughing hollowly.

Instinctively and idiotically, I reach out and touch him. He blushes and looks away, which causes me to shrink.

"I'm sorry about your eye," I say softly.

"You don't have to be sorry about anything," he says. His voice is thick with pain. I want to console him, but I don't know how.

Guilt pulls at me mercilessly. I want to spill my guts to him. But I don't. I can't.

The knowledge of his black eye sinks in and sets something off inside me. I start talking about the assholes at school. Angry words pour out of me, which are surprising, because I didn't realize how strongly I disliked almost everyone until now.

At some point, I comment, "There's a lot of assholes, Michael, but you're not one of them."

I expect him to say something self deprecating, but he just says, "Neither are you."

And we spend the next few hours talking. It's different now, because we aren't just talking about the good. In fact, we rarely talk about the good. It's all about the bad. All about the truth. It's nice to know he doesn't take things with a sugar coating anymore. The whole conversation is freeing, and I can't help but feel like I'm being cleansed. Though it would be more pleasant if we weren't both being eaten alive by our own guilt.

It's late by the time he tells me that he has to go to work. The news saddens me. And it's so weird for something that isn't earth shatteringly devastating to feel like it is.

"I'll see you later, then?" I say.

"If you want to," he says uncertainly.

"I do."

His smile is small - almost not there - but it's real. And that's what matters.

"Then definitely," he says.