When We Were Young

XXXVII: stay

"Well, if he's not coming to find you, then who's to say that you can't find him?"

He looks down with furrowed eyebrows contemplating the idea.

I can't imagine the curiosity of not knowing who one of your parents were and potentially having a whole side of your family that you're unaware of. He's never received closure from his mother's death and the only way he can do that is by fully understanding her good and bad. Finding his father can do that for him and I will be a hundred percent supportive.

"I have a box," he begins. "Of mom's old stuff when she died. I think I went through it when we were moving, but I can't remember what was inside. That whole time period is a blur. Anyways, we can take a look there?"

The spark of hope in his voice makes me smile in spite of the grim situation.

I nod. "That sounds like a great place to start."

He's looking a little antsy, so I continue, "But not tonight. You need sleep, you look horrible."

It's true. His face is as pale as the white walls and there are dark outlines underneath his eyes from what must've been nights of sleeplessness from his nightmares. Maybe he'll actually be able to get some quality sleep now that he's shared some of his troubles with me.

"Impossible," he jokes weakly.

I give him an inch my smiling widely, which he returns. "Go to bed."

As I'm pushing myself up, he grabs my wrist. "Stay?"

The smile is gone and he looks terrified. He looks as though if I leave, he would be overcome with darkness and I'm not sure he's wrong.

Suddenly, I'm acutely aware of his shirtlessness and what he's asking: for me to sleep in his bed with him. Never in our thirteen years of friendship have we shared a bed before because that would be inappropriate. It is inappropriate.

But, I can't bring myself to leave him like this, so I say, "Okay."

He scoots backwards onto the left side of his queen-sized bed. I prop myself a safe distance away from him on the pillow he was thrashing around on not too long ago. He offers me some of his blankets and I pull them on top of me.

His smell is everywhere. That distinct fresh cinnamon smell of his aftershave.

He settles himself so that we are both facing each other and the centre of the bed, the safe distance maintained.

I'm about to close my eyes when he says softly, "Tell me about your day. I feel like I've talked so much tonight and never asked about you."

I can tell that he's scared of sleeping and wants to be distracted, so I play along. "Eleanor wants me to apply for this scholarship that she won like a decade ago. The person selected gets their full tuition paid for."

He raises his eyebrows and his chocolate eyes get wider. "Wow, that sounds like a big deal."

"Except it's for history majors."

He nods, immediately understanding my conflict. "And momzilla would be horrified if you transferred."

"I don't even know if I want to transfer." I bury my cheek deeper into his pillow.

"Mave, you love history. You suggest history documentaries every single movie night and you've been more excited going to your job than I've seen you doing anything, ever. And you're clearly gifted at writing."

Sighing, I concede, "I've never admitted it to myself before."

"Why don't you apply for the scholarship first and then see what happens. If you get it, you can make a decision then," he suggests. "And if you want, I'll come with you to see momzilla when you tell her you're switching majors."

I look at him gratefully. That's a good idea. That way I can buy myself a bit of time to really think about it. "I'll ask Eleanor."

"What else happened today?"

I push the scholarship thoughts out of my mind to recall the rest of my day. "It was pretty boring until the party... and you know how that ended."

He purses his lips. "You two hardly ever fight and certainly never that viciously."

"It was wrong of me to go into all that with her at her birthday party." Quickly realizing how our sleeping arrangement may look to Tate in the morning, I lift my head up slightly in alarm. "Wait, when I come out of your room tomorrow, Tate's gonna think..."

He smiles amusedly at my allusion. "She's at Lola's. I drove the both of them over and Tate wanted to help her out. Lola was very... out of it."

Slowly, I lower my head back onto the pillow. "Okay, that's good."

I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. With Gray's tense body next to mine, I find it hard to relax myself.

Opening my eyes again, I see his brown ones scanning the wall behind me.

"Can't sleep?" I question, unconsciously inching a bit closer to him.

"I can never fall back asleep after a nightmare. I can't get my mind to stop thinking about it." He presses his eyelids together before reopening to look at my face. "You should sleep, though."

I wonder how many hours of sleep he's missed out on since the nightmares started. No wonder his undereyes look like that. "I'll tell you a story."

He looks at me curiously, but doesn't say anything.

"This is the story of when I nearly broke my ass."

He raises his left eyebrow, squishing his forehead into the pillow. "I was there for that. It's a story I know already."

"If I chose a story you didn't know, you would be too caught up in it to sleep. Just listen to my voice. And close your eyes," I demand.

He does as I say and I begin recalling the story from when we were nine and fourteen, respectively. "It was the summer before you went to high school, when you were still this short, lanky little boy."

His eyes fly open and he jokes indignantly, "Hey!"

I give him a stern look and he closes his eyes again. "Anyways, my dad dropped me off at your house and we immediately went to the park, as usual. Your friend came with us, I don't remember his name... he had curly brown hair and was deathly pale. He brought a bunch of baseball stuff because his dad was a coach, so we went to the diamond. Me, being extremely unathletic, was bound to have an injury that day."

I leave out the part where Lily had made us a lunch of grilled cheese and cucumbers, deciding it would bring him more grief than relaxation.

"It was a steep learning curve, but I eventually realized that I was really good at hitting the ball with the bat. So, you, Tate, and curly-pale boy were in the field while I hit the ball. I think curly-pale boy was the pitcher and you were at first base. Tate was just as clueless as me, but still way better at catching than I was.

"Curly-pale boy pitched to me and I missed quite a few times. I think he was feeling bad, so he didn't strike me out. I finally made contact with the ball and it bounced towards you. Your hockey-playing ass ran towards the ball like your life depended on it and grabbed it. I was running my hardest to our makeshift first base, but my tiny legs were no match for your lanky, long ones. We reached the base at the same time and because of all the momentum in your stride, you completely tackled me.

"My shirt and pants were covered in rubble and sand. I landed on my ass with you sprawled on top of me. I swear, I heard a crack. It wasn't broken, but there was a brown bruise for the next week and it was painful to even sit down. And the worst part was that you and curly-pale boy laughed at me! You guys laughed! Only Tate was there to help me up and wipe the sand from my ass. I guess you did make it up to me later by giving me the last ice cream sandwich, so at least there was that."

I look over at him, realizing that I had been completely in my head while telling my story, I didn't even check up on him. Luckily, I could hear his soft breathing and see his lightly closed eyes, telling me that he had fallen fast asleep somewhere in the story.

This makes me smile and I let myself fall as well.