Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu Read Free Book Online Page A

but it turned out I did. And I was still good at the games, too. Like today, after Jesse and I drink two Mountain Dews each, I end up kicking his ass at Halo.
    â€œGive up?” I ask, smirking at Jesse.
    Jesse rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s take a break.”
    I go to the kitchen to get us each another soda, but when I get back Jesse seems different. More serious. He’s just looking at the wall behind the television and not saying anything.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I ask. He’s never done this before. Just sitting there staring at the wall.
    â€œMan, I’ve wanted to tell you something,” he starts. “I wanted to say it to you those first few times I came over. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
    There’s a big empty space. A huge silence. My heart starts beating a little faster.
    â€œWhat?”
    Jesse takes a big breath and bends forward, putting his head into his hands so I can’t see his face. Then to his feet he says, “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
    â€œSorry for what?” I ask him, but I can feel my throat go dry.
    He sits back up and looks at me, and then away like he can’t. Then he says, “I wish I’d never asked you to come over that day.”
    I don’t want it to happen, but Jesse’s words pull me back to that hot Sunday in May. No homework since school was almost out. The pool not open just yet. Nothing to do.
    â€œMom, can I bike over to Jesse’s? Please?”
    Gravel road. Sun beating down on me. I’m five minutes from Jesse’s place.
    â€œGet on the floor. This is a gun on your neck.”
    Numb and sweating. Sure what was happening was a dream.
    â€œSorry, buddy. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    Realizing it wasn’t a dream. Realizing it was real life. My life.
    â€œDon’t cry. I don’t like crying.”
    An empty pack of Marlboro Lights on the floorboard. Gum wrappers. Streaks of mud.
    I shake my head, like I can shake out the thoughts. I blink a couple of times. My heart is racing really hard now, and I cough a few times to keep the nausea back.
    Jesse takes a big breath and still doesn’t look at me. But he says again, “The number of times I fucking hated myself for calling you up and asking you to come over to my house. Dude, you can’t even know.”
    I don’t know what to say. I think if I say anything I could puke. I run my thumbs up and down my knuckles, over and over again.
    â€œI just…,” Jesse tries again, shifting in the uncomfortable silence. “I mean … shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have even brought this up.”
    I want him to leave right now, and this makes me feel like an asshole. In the same way I feel like an asshole when my mom hugs me, and I desperately want her to let me go. In the same way I feel like an asshole when my dad delivers one of his little pep talks about how great I’m doing, and I want to go in my room and shut the door and sleep until he goes away.
    How come I’m an asshole to people who care about me?
    There’s more silence, and I still wish he would go away, but finally I manage a soft, “Don’t worry about it, man.” But I can’t look at him when I say it.
    â€œYeah?” I hear Jesse answer, and when I do glance over at him he’s finally looking at me, trying to make eye contact. His body relaxes a little. It must be nice to feel so much better about something so easily.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Seriously, man. I don’t think about it like that. Really.”
    And in a way this is true. For all the years I was with Marty, my mind blocked out that day in May. But since I’ve come back—since I’ve been in the same bedroom and the same kitchen and the same town as before—I have thought about Jesse asking me over all those years before. About him calling our house phone from his new cell phone and me being