Eleven forty-five PM on a Monday night. Pops would be disappointed. He probably is. But this Ender Dragon isn't going to defeat itself. I can almost feel the heat from the bubbling lava under the portal. Pops likes the house hot. As soon as fall becomes official, he cranks the thermostat. Well, to no surprise, the heater kicked on two days ago. I place the last Eye of Ender in the portal when my phone lights up on my desk. Before I reach for it, I already know who it is. Third time this month.
Row has had a rough go recently. Luck certainly hasn't been on his side. I suppose it never has, but he's the type to laugh in its face and tell it to back the fuck up because he doesn't need it. I think that's what I like most about him. Come hell or high water, he will get the job done, even if the universe disagrees.
I pause the game as I slide my finger across my phone.
"What's up, Row?" I say softly. He deserves more fanfare, and Pops would be more forgiving of a phone call with Row than Minecraft, but I'm not risking it.
"Hey, Ash," he exhales, and I can hear his breath brush against the microphone. The static crackles through my phone's speaker. There's almost a hum coming through the phone. "You awake?"
"No, Row, I'm just sleep answering your phone call. Yes, dipshit, I'm awake."
"Oh, um…" He trails off. Tonight is not the night for jokes. Tonight is the night for me to listen and for him to almost say something. I'm Rowan's cousin, his confidant, his right-hand man. It was that way before his move to UNLV, and it has been that way since the dea—"Just wanted to call and see how you were doing. How's school?"
I spin around in my chair to face my bed. Taped to the wall is a Polaroid of me and Row. It was the night he came out to me two years ago. He took it just after he said it: pointed the camera at the two of us, and—click—a flash, and the picture printed. That click felt like it lasted an eternity. Maybe that's actually what eternity sounds like.
"Well, it's high school. You know how freshman year can be. Stupid teachers, dumbass kids—"
"Ash, language," he says, as though he hasn't sworn in front of me his whole life. He started swearing as a teenager—an act of rebellion that became a habit. He has tried to get me to stop, but if he's going to do it, then so am I.
"As I was saying, dumb-butt kids and administrators who look the other way when the rich kid does something that even his mayor dad would be embarrassed by."
"That little shit still causing you trouble?" There it is again. Same Row. The Row I love.
"Not as much anymore. Not since I did what you said and told him to 'square up.' You should have seen the look on his face, Row. He stumbled over his words and was looking around at the other students who were just watching."
There's a pause. Longer than it should be. Just…silence. Row doesn't drink anymore, but the pause is long enough that I'd wonder. This is when I think he's going to say something. Every silence like this is the same. I don't see it, but I hear it. Row has his mouth open. The words are trapped inside his head, but his vocal cords won't comply. I don't force it out of him either. If I push, he shuts down.
"How's my dad?" he finally says. I can't tell him the truth because that would only make things harder for him. He doesn't need that right now. Uncle Sam has slid into what my dad says is a deep depression. Sleeps nearly all day, can't sleep at night. It's a good thing his work as a programmer doesn't require strict hours. I hear the two of them shouting downstairs sometimes. Two brothers trying to hash out life in real time. It usually ends with Uncle Sam breaking down entirely.
"He's good." I clench my jaw. I hate lying to Row. He always knows when I'm lying. He has a sixth sense for detecting bullshit. During these conversations, though, he isn't looking for truth. He's looking for comfort. "Your dad sent you a postcard a day or so ago. I threw in some of those charcoal pencils you like."
Another pause. Another moment to almost say something he wants to. I know everything has been pressing on him recently. I know how much he carries. I just wish he would let someone else carry it with him. I know his rationale, but it's stupid. Ash, you're just a kid. This is adult stuff that you shouldn't have to deal with yet. He never says it out loud, but I hear it in every carefully planned word. I'm not just a kid, though, and he isn't just a person. He's Rowan.
It's tragic at this point. I think I'm the only person he plans every word for—carefully thinks through every sentence, picks out the words he can't say, and deletes them. I think it's because he doesn't care about what other people think, but me… He cares about me.
"Do you ever feel like you're running, but you don't know if it's toward something or away from something?" There it is. The heart of the conversation. I need to be careful here. I can always get him to this point, but I haven't found the right words to unlock the rest. I'm trying a different approach tonight.
"What do you mean?" Keep it open. Let him fill in the blank. He likes to turn questions like this onto me, but never tells me about himself. Row has been running for a long time. He doesn't know I know that he dropped out. Uncle Sam knows too.
"I mean…like…" Pause again. "Like Eagle Road."
"Eagle Road?"
"Yeah, like, you know how we have always wondered where it goes past the foothills? Like, where does it end? Sometimes I feel like I'm on a road and I'm not quite sure where it will end, but I keep running anyway."
Bingo! He's talking. I just need him to keep talking. The words trapped in his head are like poison, so I need him to get it all out.
"I get that. I think we're all on a road like that. There may be familiar stops along the way—where you grew up, college, a job, people you love." I pause now. That last one was probably stupid for me to say. I should be more careful. "Sorry, Row, I just—"
"Ash, it's okay. I'm okay." He's a liar, but pushing now will just upset him.
"Row, I won't tell anyone you called," I say. Row doesn't want to be a burden for anyone, and he certainly doesn't want anyone else to know he could be a burden. He is a responsible adult and tells me not to keep secrets from my parents. He knows he's the adult here, and I'm the child. So, yes, it would be inappropriate if he requested I keep this secret. But if I choose to keep it secret, then that's on me, not him.
"I wasn't—I'm not upset. And you shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't keep secrets from Pops," I finish his sentence. Silence again. I nod slowly as I turn back to my computer. I close out of the game and let my monitor shut off. I'm sitting in darkness now. "Row, it's okay. I get it."
I can almost hear his smile through the phone. Maybe there's a teardrop, but he would never admit that.
"Thanks, kid," he whispers. Then, that's it.
I hang up the phone. I sit in the darkness now. The silence is different—lighter. Just quiet. I'm fourteen and already learning that sometimes love means being someone's shadow friend: a person they can lean on at 11:45 PM. Row has had his heart ripped in half, and I'm the one who keeps his half a heart beating. And I hope one day I can see him with his whole heart again. Go live with him in whatever big city he's in and walk with him through a park. See the other half a heart meet us there. Maybe just sit and talk with him on a bench. We could just talk and talk and talk.
I know who Rowan is. I've seen him at his best and at his worst. He doesn't need luck. He gets the job done. So, I'll be his silent crutch that he leans on until he finds that other half again. Sometimes the people we love need us to remember what they want to forget, even when they never ask us to.