Saylor

Eric fixed me the best omelet of my life then patted my hand and started jabbering on and on about football and all the different plays. From there, conversation quickly fell to the Seahawks.

“Russell Wilson.” Eric sighed dreamily then pointed a fork in my direction. “He’s better than Tom Brady.”

My mom chose that moment to open the door. She was in her pink nurse scrubs and looked like she’d had a bit of a rough day.

“Eric, how dare you say something against my Patriots!” She grinned and put her hands on her hips. “And what are you doing up so late, young man?”

Eric pointed at me.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Saylor!” She wrapped me in a giant hug and kissed my forehead. And just like that I was a little kid again, wanting my mom to fix things. Wanting a hug and a chocolate chip cookie with milk. “Is everything okay?”

Eric shouted. “She was crying, Mom, but I made her eat.”

“Thank you, Eric.” Mom beamed with approval. “Now, why don’t you go get ready for bed, alright? Can you do that for me?”

Eric started to pout, his lower lip stuck out as his forehead creased.

“Brush your teeth first. Remember to put in your retainer, then crawl into bed.” We’d learned early on that by just giving him an order of direction, he was able to accomplish basically anything, but if I was to tell him to go clean his room he’d throw a fit — the task was too big, too overwhelming. So I had to say things like, pick up your books first, then put them in your backpack, and then find your colored pencils.

“Fine, Mom.” Eric gave me one last hug and marched down the hall to the bathroom.

Mom took one look at me, offered her hand and led me to the couch. “What’s going on, sweetie? I hardly see you and suddenly you show up with tear-stained cheeks.”

“It’s a long story,” I croaked.

“Well…” She checked her watch. “We have all night.”

It took me three hours to explain. Part of me felt like I was betraying Gabe’s secret, while the other part needed someone to talk to so bad I didn’t really care all that much. Besides, my mom was a vault.

By the time I was finished, I was severely dehydrated, but I felt better. Mom didn’t say much, just nodded and listened.

Finally, when my voice was hoarse from talking, I waited for her to offer me advice.

“So?” I asked. “What do I do now?”

Mom’s smile erased some of my angst, but her words brought it right back to full force again. “I think that’s pretty clear, don’t you?”

“If it was clear, I wouldn’t be feeling like my life was over, sobbing on the couch and dealing with my heart getting ripped out of my chest.”

“Love.” Mom sighed and scooted closer. “It does that to you.”

“Mom, I’ve only known him for a few weeks—”

“Love has no time table, no rules. It is what it is, Saylor.” She gripped my hand in hers. “I’m not saying what this Gabe did was alright, Saylor. I’m not condoning any of it. What I am saying is that everyone deserves a second chance. That’s what life’s about.”

“But—”

“The thing about second chances,” Mom interrupted, laying a hand on my arm, “is we always walk into them assuming we’ll feel better, when nine times out of ten things get worse before they ever get better. If you give him another chance, it’s not going to feel good. It’s going to be painful. It’s going to be hard, but in the end, if things work out…” She shrugged. Her eyes seemed to shine with her smile. “…totally worth it. Wouldn’t you rather suffer for a few days — in order to gain the love of a lifetime? Given the chance, people say they’d suffer for two days if only the rest of their lives they could be happy. The reality? Most people quit after one hour because things prove too difficult.” Tears pooled in her eyes, “Don’t quit Saylor. It seems Gabe’s entire life has been summed up into that one word. People quitting on him, him quitting on himself. Don’t do what he expects.”

“But it hurts,” I argued, my voice shaking. “So bad.”

Mom cupped my face with her hands. “So use the pain.”

It was the same exact thing Gabe had said to me when we’d gotten into our second argument. What did that even mean? Use the pain?

“I don’t understand,” I mumbled.

“Don’t let pain keep you from moving forward. It shouldn’t stop your progress — it should drive it.”

I sighed and started picking at the blanket in front of me. “When did you get so wise?”

She smiled fondly. “I had a patient once.” Her eyes glazed over a bit. “The odds were against him in every way possible. I was in the room after his MRI. It broke my heart to see such a promising young man have his future stolen from him. And then the strangest thing happened. When I went to the door to leave — it was locked. I turned the knob and heard footsteps, and after the footsteps I heard him talking to someone. It was a lady. She had a beautiful voice, but it wasn’t her voice that struck me, it was the words.

“She said, ‘Sometimes when we think God has written the end, what he really means is the beginning.’” Mom wiped a stray tear from her eyes. “It’s haunted me, that phrase. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and still hear that woman’s voice.”

Mom licked her lips and gripped my hands. “How often do you think we write our own ending before the story is even finished? How often do we give up on ourselves when our lives are just starting? Things get hard and we immediately back away and assume that means we’re going in the wrong direction, doing the wrong thing. If anything, when the waters get thick, that’s our sign to keep going.”

“So you’re saying it’s not the end,” I whispered.

“It rarely is,” Mom replied.

We sat I in silence for a bit until the clock chimed. It was one a.m.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“How long were you trapped in that room, anyways?”

I couldn’t read her face. She shifted in her seat and answered, “I wasn’t. Once I overheard that conversation, I tried the door and it wasn’t locked anymore. When I told the janitor, he said I must have been confused. That door doesn’t have a lock. It never did.”

I looked at the three masks I wore and realized something — they were all monsters of my own making. I did this. Nobody else. It was my choice. And I had chosen wrong. —Gabe H.

Gabe

“You ready?” Wes asked for the tenth time.

“Just do it already,” I grumbled leaning my head into the shower as he started rinsing the black out.

“So this is a fun bonding experience.” Wes laughed and started whistling.

“Please don’t whistle,” I grumbled. “Do anything but whistle.”

Wes started to hum one of the songs from my first albums.

“Freaking hilarious.”

“I thought so.” He continued humming.

“Just—” I tensed my hands against my knees as I leaned farther in. The black swirled into the drain as if my sins were getting washed out right along with my hair. “Just don’t do anything.”

“Gabe…” Wes dunked my head farther under the warm water. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yeah, that’s what you keep saying.”

“It’s true.”

“How do we know this doesn’t backfire and shoot me in the ass?”

“We don’t.”

“Imagine, there was once a time I thought you should be a therapist. Do you want me to kill myself?”

Wes laughed, pissing me off more. “Sorry, man, but think of it this way. The worst has happened and you’re still alive.”

“I—”

Holy hell he was right. The worst had happened. My dad knew where Lisa and I were. He was going to expose us. He knew about Kimmy, and Saylor hated me. My life was over, but I was alive.

“I can literally hear your brain frying right now.”

“Shut up.”