With or Without You (25 page)

“Boyfriend?” Davis throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, man, are you in for a trip. Good luck. I really mean that. Maybe he won’t drag you down like he does everybody else in his life. Maybe he’ll be honest with you. He is honest with you, right? He’s told you everything about him? Like how he’s obsessed with artists. Like how he can only relate to his paints. Like how he tries to help but only makes things worse. Hope you know what you’re in for.”

He’s lashing out. Making shit up just to hurt me. That’s what I tell myself. If I think for a second that Davis
really believes what he’s saying, it means the last nine years have been a lie.

Across the park, I hear Sable’s booming voice: “Move!”

Suddenly, the Chasers scatter as half a dozen cops, led by Officer Brogan, descend on their meeting.

Erik’s arm drops from around my back. Davis throws me one more searing glance before bolting to catch up with Sable. I can’t care. I have bigger problems.

I reach for Erik and he recoils. His face is sapped of color. I stand in front of him and I’m reminded of every time I’ve lost Davis. Erik’s brooding was never like losing Davis. Now they look identical and I’ve never had to reclaim Erik before. I don’t know where to begin.

“Erik,” I say firmly, fighting to hide the quiver in my tone. “Don’t listen to him. Okay? Just … just listen to me.”

“You said,” he whispers in an even, measured tone, “that he knew about me. That he wanted to meet me. You. Lied.”

“You don’t understand what’s been going on. I really thought I was protecting him. Erik, he’s really screwed up right now—”

“Him? Or you? What have I told you from the start? I can deal with just about anything. But not lies.”

The sounds of the nearby celebration evaporate into the heat of the summer sun and the only thing I hear is Erik’s every word quietly ripping through me. I find
myself wishing for the yelling we did in Milwaukee. It hurt less. But that’s because this time, I have no defense.

Finally, he turns to look me directly in the eyes with that expression he reserves for regretting the past and hating himself for all the trust he put in past boyfriends.

“I can’t deal with this, Evan.”

I want to reach out. I don’t. I want to smile reassuringly. I don’t. I want to say,
I love you and your yoga and your square-egg-shaped head and your lopsided smile and that’s what matters
.

But I don’t.

Nothing—no fight with Davis, no argument with Shan or my parents—has prepared me for a situation where I stand to lose everything. There are a million things I want to do but I don’t know that any of them will set this right. Apologies, excuses, stories … Something tells me this goes beyond anything they could achieve. So instead I do the stupidest thing of all: nothing. “Are we … breaking up?”

His jaw drops. Erik doesn’t end things in anger. Instead, he shakes his head. “I don’t know what we are. And I don’t think you do either.”

For just a second, thunder bursts in my chest.
We’re not done. We’re not done.
But then he adds, “We need to rethink San Diego.”

He walks away. My vision goes out of focus as the park distorts and blurs like a child’s watercolor painting.

LOCAL TEEN DIES OF HEARTBREAK

No. No more diversions.

Two blocks down, Erik turns the corner, disappearing from sight. Too little, too late, I thrust both arms up over my head and hold them there higher than John Cusack could ever manage.
Turn around, Erik. Just look at me.
I pray he’ll pop back around the corner, see my arms raised, and obey our private signal.

He doesn’t.

I turn to the sky. I feel like it should be raining. Isn’t it usually raining in these situations? That would be better. I summon my palette. I imagine a black sky, streets that glow red. Darkness. Despair.

Instead, I’m forced to deal with a brightly lit, warm day that’s anathema to everything I feel.

When it hurts this bad, shouldn’t it at least rain?

With Erik now halfway back to his Jeep, I realize I have to finish the conversation by myself. I summon Erik in my mind. He’s not mad. He still wants me to move with him to San Diego. He smirks and gives me a single playful command.

Miss me.

More than ever.

Space. I’m convinced Erik needs space, so I give it to him. I let three days pass. I corral every urge to call, write, or use semaphore. I picture a hundred different ways to apologize. I think about painting him something. I imagine throwing myself at his feet and begging for forgiveness. I picture romantic symbolism, getting an actual boom box and standing outside his windows blasting “In Your Eyes” at full volume.

But in the end, I don’t have the courage. I’ve screwed up beyond belief. I’m dying to apologize but he has to make the first move. I’ve proven that, if it’s left to me, I’ll slaughter it.

Friday nights at the store bustle during the school year, but with the fall semester still a few weeks away, it’s pretty quiet. With Shan gone, I’m working most of my shifts with Ross. He’s not such a bad guy. He picked up the job pretty fast. Even figured out how to get on Mom’s
good side (no small task). We never talk about Chasers. Until tonight.

“So, you still hanging around that Davis guy?” he asks, scraping a wad of gum off the floor.

I dodge a real answer with, “He’s really busy with Chasers. You still see Del?”

Ross shakes his head. “Won’t even give me the time of day. To hell with him. If he’s willing to give up on years of friendship just ’cause some wacko moves to town … Who needs friends like that? Right?”

Silently, I hope. I hope I can still get through to Davis. I hope to fix things with Erik. But I’m not about to share that with Ross, so I keep my hope quiet.

“To hell with him,” I concur, raising a can of beets in a mock toast.

The bell over the door tinkles and we both look up to find Mrs. Grayson crossing soundlessly over the threshold. She moves like a husk, empty and light. She’s in a pale tan frock that hangs loosely from her brittle frame. Her haunted eyes seem more dazed than usual, if that’s even possible. Ross, who’s never met Davis’s mom before, picks up on this too. I extend my arm, like I’ve watched Davis do a thousand times before. Mrs. Grayson’s fingers chill me as she takes my elbow.

“Mrs. Grayson, are you all right?”

“I can’t find my Davis.” Her voice cracks and she
swallows repeatedly. “I can’t find my Davis and I’m so, so thirsty.”

I snap my fingers at Ross and point at the giant fridge. Not missing a beat, he grabs a water bottle and offers it to her. She downs half of it immediately. I turn, placing my body as a sound barrier between her and Ross.

“Get my mother.”

And he’s gone up the stairs.

“Do you need to sit down?” I lead her to a nearby step stool.

Mrs. Grayson sinks like a stringless puppet onto the seat, her head weaving slowly around as though still not entirely sure where she is. “Yes. That would be nice.”

I turn the sign to
CLOSED
and lock the door. Mom and Ross arrive on the scene as Mrs. Grayson fishes in her pocket, pulling out a small pill bottle. She takes out two small yellow pills and they disappear with the rest of the water.

Mom crouches near Mrs. Grayson. “Clara, should you be out on your own like this? Does your husband know you’re here?”

Mr. Grayson, I can assure my mom, does not know she’s here.

“I can’t find my Davis,” is all she says. It becomes an eerie, unsyncopated chant.

And I realize: It’s the second Sunday of the month. Davis was supposed to pick her up at Mendota and didn’t.
(Christ, did she walk here from Mendota? It must have taken her hours.) And where was Davis? Did the police catch him? Is he hiding with the other Chasers?

Listening to Mrs. Grayson babble, I finally know a way to get through to Davis. When he opens his door at the RYC and I’m there with his mom, he’ll figure it out. He’ll remember he forgot to pick her up. He’ll remember all the years he spent taking care of her. Any thoughts of Sable or catching HIV will be gone.

“Mom,” I say, snatching the keys for the truck from behind the counter, “I’m going to take Mrs. Grayson to Davis. He’s probably just really busy.” The silence that’s been the cornerstone of our relationship serves us now. I only need a glance:
Something is wrong with Davis
. She responds with a nod:
Do what you have to.

I take Mrs. Grayson’s arm and we move to the back door. “C’mon, Mrs. Grayson. I can take you to Davis.”

“They left yesterday morning.”

I’m glad Mrs. Grayson is slouching in the antiquated high-backed chair in the next room because I really don’t need her to hear Malaika.

“They?” I ask, glancing over at the room keys behind her. The keys for both Rooms Three and Four hang on their pegs. “Davis
and
Sable? Do you know where they went?”

“Sorry, no.” Malaika sighs. “I wasn’t here when they
left. I only know they dropped off their keys. Davis left most of his belongings. Mr. Sable didn’t have much to begin with.”

It feels like I’ve been slammed against a wall. Like stupidity has finally achieved escape velocity.

I look over at Mrs. Grayson. She’s curling her fingers around a frayed strip of cloth on the arm of the chair. She’s singing softly to herself. I can’t be the one to tell her that her only child has disappeared.

Malaika folds her arms. “Shortly after they left, the police came, looking for Davis. Now, you know I don’t tolerate anything that would bring the police here, Evan. What’s going on?”

The best answer I have is the truth. “I don’t know anymore.”

Malaika reaches under the counter and produces a large sheet of paper, the size of a small poster. “The police dropped this off yesterday.”

At the top of the poster, in huge, red block letters, it says
MISSING
. Below is a large photo, a school portrait of a guy with neatly trimmed hair and a clean school uniform. It takes me a moment to recognize the devil’s smile. I glance at the information below—when he went missing, his stats, his distinguishing features—but I can concentrate only on his name.

Todd Sable.

“He’s a runaway? But how … ? Wait, he’s seventeen?” We always assumed he was older.

“He told me he was twenty-two.” Malaika nods. “It’s not the first time I’ve been lied to, I suppose.”

At the bottom of the poster, it says:
IF YOU HAVE ANY
INFORMATION ABOUT TODD SABLE’S WHEREABOUTS, CALL 212-555-8615
OR THE NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT AT 212-555-9800.

“If the second number is the police,” I think aloud, “who’s the first number?”

Malaika glances at the poster. “Possibly a direct line to the parents.”

I glance over at Mrs. Grayson, who picks gently at her sleeves. I have no idea what to tell her.

Malaika reaches under the counter. “I believe Davis left this behind.”

She places a small octagonal window on the counter. Backlit by a desk lamp, each picture glows with muted, ethereal hues. She pats it gently and smiles. “This is one of yours, isn’t it?”

I know it intimately but my eyes still dart from scene to scene, memory to memory. An acrylic patchwork meant to celebrate a friendship, now a memorial to its passing. No colors or words can explain what brought us here.

When I don’t reach out for the window, Malaika says, “I’ve been looking for some new art for around here. Brighten up the place. May I buy it?”

“It’s yours,” I whisper, curling up the poster. “Can I hold on to this?”

Malaika doesn’t ask why. She smiles. “Good luck.”

I gather Mrs. Grayson and we go back to my house.

My mother decides that Mrs. Grayson will spend the night at our house. As she settles Davis’s mom in Shan’s empty room, I fire up my computer. It’s now when I’m most grateful for knowing Davis as well as I do. I go to Yahoo to access his e-mail account. Even if he’s changed his password, it won’t be hard to figure out the new one. He’s nothing if not logical.

Or so I’ve always thought.

The password’s the same: tardmonkey. I check the last few e-mails, the ones sent from Sable to the Chasers, and it all becomes clear.

We don’t have time to find out who squealed to the cops. We leave for NYC tomorrow. That’s where we’ll do the final initiation and you can call yourselves Chasers.

It’s dated two days ago. The day after the unveiling of the
Angels
. The last time I thought I knew my future.

When Davis was still in town, I could reason with him. I would have waited, hoping to talk him out of sex

with Sable or anyone willing to infect him with HIV. That’s not an option now. I can’t protect him if he’s not here. I can only think of one thing to do.

I take the poster that Malaika gave me and flip open my cell phone. I dial, holding my breath, not sure what to say.

“Hi … Sorry to wake you. I … think I know your son.”

Dear Erik,

I love you but I don’t know what to do. I want to see you or call you but I know you need space. I guess I’m settling for shoving this letter under your door.

Something big has come up. Davis has skipped town and I think he’s in trouble. I’ve traded in the plane ticket you gave me for a flight to New York tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back for it.

For the past year, all I wanted was to be what I thought you wanted me to be. But I can’t be that guy. I’ve only ever been the outsider. With you, I found a way to let my guard down. You have no idea how hard it is to suddenly belong with someone. I got overwhelmed. I fucked up.

I kept so much of who I was hidden. Because I didn’t trust you to love me. That was a mistake and I’m sorry. I let fear tell me what to do and I made quick, stupid decisions that I regret. But I hope you know the one thing I don’t regret is loving you. I never lied about loving you.

I’m sure you want me to choose between you and Davis, and this might seem like I’m choosing Davis. I’m not. I have to protect him, even if he doesn’t want me to. I learned that from you. Maybe I can try to make you understand when I get back. Or maybe you’ll just want the money back for the ticket.