Remember My Name (5 page)

Jackson

My phone didn’t make a sound
for three days after we worked out together, until this morning when he texted
to ask if I wanted to hang out. I was convinced I would never hear from him
again, and the look of shock on my face was so transparent that Dad even asked
if one of my friends had gotten in an accident. In the end, I had to plead to
get the day off from working at Dad’s greenhouse business in town, to which he
grudgingly agreed.

Beside me, Matt pushes his
sunglasses up a little higher on his nose at the same moment that a grasshopper
bounds out of the clover, landing on his chest. Grateful for the excuse, my
gaze passes over his bare chest as he flicks the bug away. His skin is tan, and
the contour of his pecs and abs makes him nice to look at.

Neither of us had any ideas
of what to do, but how we ended up sunbathing in a field near my house is
anyone’s guess. Brilliant sunlight spills over us, lapping at our faces and
working to fulfill the promise of being another hot summer day. Eyes half
closed, only a slit of blue sky is visible through my lashes. The alfalfa field
we’re lying in is almost ready for its last harvest of the year, so the
flattened vegetation beneath us protects us from the rocky ground.

Our shirts are off and spread
out under our backs, filling in where a blanket would have been nice. Who would
ever pay for a tanning membership when you could have this? Midwest summers are
the best. They’re the only reason that anyone even lives here. We pay for it
with eight bitter months of winter, but it’s worth it.

Matt turns his head, eyes
hidden behind his sunglasses. I should have worn a pair too, so it would have
been easier to get away with checking him out. I shouldn’t be so worried,
especially since I caught him doing something similar at the gym.

“It’s too bad summer is
almost over,” he says. “Last year, college dragged on forever.”

“Speak for yourself,” I say.
“I want to finish high school and get out of here.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I
don’t mind it so much here.”

“Here, as in Northfield? Or
here, as in–” My sentence comes to an abrupt stop as I consider my next
words.

“As in?” he prompts.

“Here with me?” I didn’t
really mean it as a question, but it definitely came out that way. My chest
tightens in anticipation of his response. The time we’ve spent together so far
has been fun, and it’s not a stretch to think of ourselves as friends, but that
voice inside that has wondered since the beginning if it could be more than
that… it’s still curious as ever.

Matt stares back but doesn’t
answer my question. No way am I about to let him go that easily. I feel bad
forcing this, but only a few days are left before he flies out East for school.
Before he goes, I really want to know what this is, or what it could be. The
more time we spend together, the more the tension grows. Right now the air
between us feels so thick it almost hurts to breathe.

“You’re sweating,” I say,
trying to read the eyes behind those sunglasses.

He swallows, turning to look
at me. “It’s hot.”

Reaching across the space
separating us, I trail my index finger over his skin just below the collarbone.
His muscles tensing under my touch, he only hesitates a moment before pushing
my arm away. “Um, dude?”

“Sorry, just messing
around,” I say quickly, withdrawing my hand and turning my head so it faces
toward the sky.

A breeze whisks through the
field, carrying with it the scent of late summer mingled with clover and
alfalfa. Everywhere it touches me, coolness replaces the heat, soothing the
redness on my chest and arms warning me that I might have a burn tomorrow.

When we were on the roof,
even when concentrated wholly on the work, I always felt something. And since
the moment we finished, I can’t stop thinking about that simmering intensity in
him that I can’t figure out. I’ve never done anything with a guy before and I
have no idea how that boundary would be crossed, but I’m dying to find out.

As though talking to no one
in particular, Matt announces, “I’m straight.” His voice cuts between us,
sounding a little too high and a little too loud. Sheesh, even he doesn’t sound
convinced.

I pause, afraid of saying
something that might send him running. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

He seems to relax, at least
a bit. After a few minutes of the wind whispering to us, he says, “It’s cool if
you’re… not.”

I guess it wasn’t
technically a question, but he’s watching me expectantly. How to answer this
one? Can you know you’re into guys even if you’ve never been with one like
that? Closing my eyes, I mentally chastise myself for being stupid. Of course I
know what I like, and it’s stupid to pretend otherwise. If Matt is going to
bail on me or hit me or whatever, it might as well be over with sooner rather
than later.

Opting for the diplomatic to
soften the blow, I simply say, “I like spending time with you.”

“I like being around you
too,” he says innocently.

He better be acting obtuse
on purpose, because I’m being really clear. “You don’t leave for a few days,” I
point out.

He smiles. “That’s true.”

*     *     *    
*

I pause, my fingers on the
handle of the refrigerator. I’m not really that hungry. Thankfully my phone
saves me from my indecision, choosing that moment to vibrate in my pocket. It’s
a text from Matt. After he left yesterday, I hadn’t gotten a single message
that night or all day today. I was worried that it would be another three days
before I heard from him, at which point he’d already have flown back East for
college. Curiosity winning out, I drag my thumb across the screen to open the
message.

Free tonight? Thought we could
watch a movie or something.

My focus shifts to the time
on the microwave. It’s only five thirty-two. Still several hours left in the
day.

A movie is fine, but another
part of me is dying to know what the “or something” could be. I still don’t
even know if he’s into that, but I would love to find out. At the same time, it
kind of scares the crap out of me, but that’s not enough to stop me from seeing
him again.

Releasing my grip on the
refrigerator door, I text him back.
Your place
?

Sure, come over whenever.

So long as I get home before
dark, Dad doesn’t usually care what I do. Thankfully it’s just a bit past the
height of summer and “dark” still means hours from now. Walking out to the
garage, I hop on my bike – it’s an old dirt bike that is technically
street legal, if only barely. After turning the key, I jam my foot down on the
kick-start and the engine coughs to life, sounding a lot healthier since Dad
help me clean all the gunk out of the carburetor last week. I slip on my
three-quarters helmet and safety glasses, feeling preemptively self-conscious.
It looks dorky, but I don’t have a real helmet. I would buy one but they’re
stupid expensive. At least it beats not having any transportation at all.
Backing out, I gun the bike down the driveway.

Matt lives in town in an old
two-story house that I’ve seen before in passing. It’s a cool house from the
outside, but from the peeling blue paint and the curling shingles, it could use
a bit of work. Hopefully his parents can afford to pay someone else to do the
roof whenever they decide to have it done.

Dropping the kickstand, I
back the bike up to the curb at an angle and jump off. The street is quiet, but
I shoot a look up and down the block before pulling off the helmet and locking
it to the bike.

I’m here.
I
wait to see if he’ll respond to my text. There aren’t any cars in the driveway,
but that doesn’t necessarily mean his parents aren’t lurking inside. I’m glad
he doesn’t make me wait long.

Yeah I see you, be right
down.

Hands stuffed into the front
pockets of my shorts, I cross the small yard. There’s no space in any of the
lots in town. It’s like the city made a game of how close they could pack the
houses. I can’t stand it.

“Hey, Jackson,” he says,
holding the screen door open for me and showcasing the flowing muscles in his
arms. “You brought your bike.”

I shrug off the impressed
tone in his voice. “Yeah.”

“That helmet was pretty
stylish too.” His grin reaches almost up to his ears.

My face turns red as I step
over the threshold, but I ignore his comment. “Are your parents home?” I risk a
glance at his eyes, then to his dark hair, styled with some kind of
matte-finish product. I don’t remember him ever having anything in it before.

“Nah, we have the place to
ourselves.” Was that a loaded response? I can’t tell if he means for me to read
into it or not. We’re still standing in the entryway. “Um,” he says, “want to
see my room?”

Yeah, I definitely do.
“Sure.”

He leads me up the stairs.
They’re kind of steep, but that’s not why I’m steadying myself on the banister.
Pushing open a door at the top of stairs that has a black and yellow “Fallout
Shelter” sign hung on it, he stands to the side to let me by him, sharing the
light scent of his cologne as I pass. His bedroom is small and the ceiling at
the outside wall is vaulted for about a foot. The window must be original
because sash weight ropes disappear into the walls.

Every inch of the room is
covered in posters, the largest of which is spread across the wall above the
bed. It’s the photo of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road. I think that was the
album cover art too, but I’m not sure. Across from Abbey Road, a computer with
a giant screen is perched on his desk. I wish I had one like that in my room.

Matt is just sitting on the
bed, letting me take my time. “What do you think?”

I shrug, trying to sound
nonchalant. “Pretty cool.”

“So I uh, invited you over
for a movie, so I guess we should watch one.” He sounds nervous, almost like
he’s expecting me to turn him down.

I shrug again. I’m not
thrilled about hanging out downstairs, even though his parents aren’t home. I
make to leave the room, but he hops up and catches my arm. “We can watch it up
here if you want.” His hand is warm, a hint of moisture across his palm. His
eyes lock onto mine for a fraction of second before he lets go.

“Okay,” I breathe. Only a
swivel chair is at his computer, but if we both sat on the bed, the screen
would definitely be big enough. A shiver of anticipation makes the hairs on my
arm stand at attention.

Giving the mouse a shake, he
opens up the DVD drive. “What do you want to watch?”

I take a seat on his bed,
stretching my legs toward the screen. My mouth feels dry, but I still manage to
make words. “Anything is fine.”

“We’re watching Transformers
then.” Popping in a disk, he joins me on the bed, except he only leaves about
half the distance between us that I expected. Not more than a few inches of
space remain there. Stretching across me, he grabs a pillow from the head of
the bed. Besides his cologne, he smells like the outdoors. Fresh and clean with
a vague spiciness, almost like cedar. He stuffs the pillow behind his back.

The movie starts but the
volume is quiet. Beside me, Matt’s khaki shorts are riding up above his knees.
He kicks off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor. His socks are white
except for a red band just below the ankle. For some reason, I can’t seem to
stop my mind from focusing on the most irrelevant details right now.

“What’s that from?”

I drag my eyes upward.
“Huh?”

He’s pointing to the back of
my hand. The scar stretches diagonally from the side of my wrist almost to my
pinky knuckle. “It was a bucksaw.”

He looks up from my hand, a
subtle tenderness filtering into his voice. “What happened?”

“I was holding a tree branch
last summer while sawing. The wood was green and caught the blade, but I was
stupid and kept pushing. The blade jumped and dragged across my hand.” I speak
the untruth with just enough conviction that it’s perfectly believable.
Anything to avoid telling him what actually happened with my dad.

Reaching out, he runs a
finger slowly over the smooth pale line of healed skin. “Looks like it hurt.”
His touch feels different than any other touch. It’s almost like the day I got
the scar, except instead of cutting with pain, he’s splitting my hand with the
heady rush of anticipation.

On the screen, the giant
transforming machine is obliterating a military base. “It bled really bad. I
had to run in from the woods to get Dad.”

“I wish I’d been there to
help.” His breath is close, sweet like mint and vanilla, and his hand is just
plain resting on mine now. A silent second passes between us. “You like this,”
he says. It’s not a question, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just… a statement.

My eyes widen. “What do you
mean?”

He clears his throat.
“You’re wearing canvas shorts, Jackson.”