Greenline

19

Tuesday, June 10th. 7:43 pm.

Isaac's phone hadn't stopped lighting up with calls since that morning, and I was honestly surprised it hadn't been his parent's immediate reaction to him being gone. He was growing annoyed and was convinced they were being overprotective, unwilling to let me explain the reasoning. We knew exactly why they worried so much.

For one, three days ago we had gone on a date and decided to go on an impromptu road trip to another state with zero planning whatsoever. I still felt the urge to throw up when I thought about it, and how much trouble we would be in when we returned.

For another, Isaac was sick with a practical death sentence. It was all I could think about after I realized why he pushed so hard for this. A tension had grown silently between us, as he knew I was taking us back northeast to where we began this adventure, and he wanted to delay that return as long as possible.

At the end of a long day of driving aimlessly out of Arizona, he had pointed out a lake that he wanted to visit. I agreed and pulled into the area, shutting off the engine before turning to my boyfriend. He hadn't seemed right today, and it worried me. I knew better than to mention it, though. When he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped into the warm evening air, I threw the car in park and followed.

The sun was falling behind the trees, painting the clouding sky pink and orange. It reflected beautifully across the murky green water we stood in front of, the banks a mix of sand and dark red dirt. Bugs sang out in the haze of the summer evening and made patterns across the surface. We tried to soak it in, but it did not last long.

Neither of us were surprised when Isaac's phone rang again. He did surprise me by answering it, though. The last call he had tried to answer had ended in a screaming match between him and his mother.

I hung back awkwardly as they began terse greetings. I found a splintering picnic table to lean my weight against, enjoying the view of nature and the boy who loved it more than survival. The slight breeze coming off of the lake sent ripples through the fabric of his red t-shirt. There was a pleasant floral aroma in the air that I later learned to be honeysuckle after a powerful experience with sense memory.

I watched Isaac dreamily, even as he spoke harsh words into the phone. I didn't have to listen in to know the conversation being had. His parents wanted him home, with the doctors and the needles and the medicine. He would have rather jumped off of a bridge.

And yet, with all of the dramatics I had witnessed from Isaac Kingsley, I did not expect him to rear back his arm and chuck his phone into the lake.

I started forward and raced to his side as it sank, like I could somehow have brought back time and his bubbling device from the middle of that muddy plunge. e"What the hell?" I questioned, unable to grasp what I had just seen. I blinked rapidly. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking at me blankly. "What did you just do?"

"I threw my phone in a lake," he deadpanned.

My mouth fell open and I tried and failed multiple times to speak. The only thing I could find myself able to say was, "Why?"

He just shrugged.

It was my turn to give him a blank look, one that I could tell made him nervous. Frustrated and unsure of what to do, I looked back to the water, its surface still disturbed. In the long run, I knew the "why" already. It was the same reason he kept swiping away text messages and missed calls.

He didn't want to go back home. In all of the schemes he created in his head, not one of them involved us driving back to Greenline.

I remember looking at him like he was the sun, and I was the one who had to snuff out his light. "Isaac," I spoke slowly and carefully, much in the way he spoke to me when seriously bringing up his death. "You know we have to go back, right?"

By the end of my sentence, he was frowning and trying to turn away. I closed the gap between us and caught his wrist before he could, and I don't think I ever realized exactly how thin it was before that moment.

He broke down so quickly, gazing down at me with watery eyes. "I can't, Ethan," he croaked as if the words actually hurt him.

"Isaac, we can't just run away from everything, okay?" I told him harsher than I meant to.

"Why not?" He raised his voice, beginning to close himself off to the world.

"Because you'll die!" I shouted desperately, my eyes wild. I wanted so badly for him to see the situation as I did. I would have given anything for the guarantee of another month together. I couldn't fathom seeing him leave my life too soon.

But he clearly didn't share my thinking. "I'm going to die, anyway," he hissed, shaking his head. "And if I have to go back there and suffer through more useless tests and drugs, I'd rather–" He cut himself off, staring at the ground as he balled his hands into fists.

The angle of the day's last rays of sunlight allowed me to see the trail of tears falling down his face. I felt close to crying myself as I wondered what he had been about to say. "What?" I snapped. "What would you rather do?"

He glared at me with glossy eyes, words slow and calculated like he was spewing an insult. "I'd rather kill myself, Ethan."

I don't remember my exact reaction, but I stood there blinking at him for a long time. I felt like someone had hollowed out my heart and it was the weirdest sense of empathy I had ever experienced. The idea of him dying, and me possibly waking up one day without him here, I had found ways to cope with. But the idea of him leaving on account of his own choice hurt every bone in my body.

I suppose it was selfish to believe that he sounded selfish at the time. I never knew how much pain he was in, physically or emotionally. He never let me know, but that wasn't his fault. It was just a piece of Isaac Kingsley that I never got to know. Sometimes, when I dwell on this event, I find a bigger underlying issue: would I have been okay if the only way to cure Isaac of his troubles was death, and he chose that cure? I like to think yes, but often I believe that's solely for the sake of my own conscience.

Because at seventeen, there was absolutely nothing that seemed worse to me than the idea of losing the love of my life.

Isaac waited until I found the ability to look him in the eyes again before muttering, "You don't have to stay, but please don't take me back."

Any discomfort I held towards him dissipated, and I closed the space between us. "You think I'd honestly leave you?" I asked incredulously.

He was shocked. "I-I thought–"

I didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but I knew at that moment that I needed to hold him, to show him that I needed him. To give him no doubt. "Never," I interrupted. And then, I kissed him harder than I ever had. It was not healthy, it was not what either of us needed in a mature standpoint looking back. But in that moment, in the breath we shared as we held each other tight, we believed it was our oxygen. The only way to continue on in the admission of such pain and wish to cease existing.

And then, for lack of all better judgement, we kept going. He clawed at the back of my shirt so hastily and dragged us back to my car, where I lost every bit of that nagging sense of responsibility that he was so good at sweeping away. My back was against the hot metal door, then down on the rough fabric seat as he fawned over me, and I him. We lost ourselves in each other.