straight; they say we’re all who we’re supposed to be if we just follow…”
“Jordie --” I began again, but he cut me off.
“No!” he said, and I could hear the old desperation in his voice. “No, just hear me out, Coop. I got that you didn’t get in trouble, and I was glad! We didn’t both need to go to jail.
But, man, I’m out and I need you. You said you loved me. You said we were partners. I’ve done everything for both of us for the last three years. I took it for the team. I need you.” I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. They burned. “What do you need, Jordie?”
“I need help. I’m sober, but I’m scared. I’m staying at Mom’s now but I’m moving out soon, and I’ll be all by myself. Nobody’s going to want to hire me, an ex-con who killed a kid… I’m afraid. Nobody gets it but you. I need you with me. I need my partner back. You’re sober, right? You’re clean?”
“Yeah, I’m clean.” Except cigarettes, I was so fucking clean I squeaked.
“I need you to help me stay sober. I need someone to be there for me. I know why you couldn’t be there when I was in jail. But now it’s different, right? Now we can live like we always thought we were going to. But better, right?” I couldn’t answer him.
“Cooper?” He reached out to me with his voice. “I think you owe me at least this… I think we owe ourselves, and we for damned sure owe that kid. I want to try to be something better. Please say you’ll help me.”
“Yeah,” I said, finally accepting the inevitable. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be in touch.” He said something, maybe a lot of stuff, and hung up. I held on to the phone for a while, listening to it make that awkward electronic hum when the connection is broken, then begin a recorded 56 Z. A. Maxfield
message because I didn’t hang it up quickly enough. I was taking stock, hands and feet cold, brain numb, stomach faintly sick, when Shawn came to find me. Since I had my head in my hands, he probably had a clue to my mood.
“Hey, Cooper?” he asked, as he entered. He turned the office chair around and he bent so we were at the same level. “Jim said you were in here. You got a phone call… Bad news?” I turned to him. “I’m going home,” I said.
“What?” he asked. “What?”
I didn’t have my phone, so I searched around for a piece of paper. “I’m going home,” I wrote.
“When?” He looked at the paper, not at me.
I took it out of his hands and wrote, “Now. Soon. As soon as possible I guess.” I looked at the ground between where he was squatting back on the heels of his Vans and my feet.
“Okay,” he said. “For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted my shoulders. I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes. It said he was secure, disappointed, but not yet aware of his mistaken assumption that I would be coming back. That he would want me back. What I was thinking must have shown on my face.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m not coming back,” I wrote. The minute I wrote it I regretted it. Not because it hurt him, but because it closed off that tenuous place between us, where we’d agreed tacitly to try to communicate. If he didn’t give me his eyes, if I didn’t enunciate my words, if he didn’t read what I wrote or look at his phone, all communication would prove impossible.
“Never?” he asked, only half looking at me. Should I just nod, or shake my head? Had we come to that?
I reached for his hand.
“Explain,” he said, gripping my hand so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I grabbed another piece of paper. On it, I wrote the tersest account of the accident, its aftermath, and the responsibility I bore. I told him I had to go to support my friend, who’d paid the price for both of us. I told him I didn’t have a choice. I told him I had to see Jordan through this. I told him I had to go pack. I watched him grind his teeth in silence.
“Go,” he said. “Pack.” He looked tired. “I’ll be up when I get off
“Jordie --” I began again, but he cut me off.
“No!” he said, and I could hear the old desperation in his voice. “No, just hear me out, Coop. I got that you didn’t get in trouble, and I was glad! We didn’t both need to go to jail.
But, man, I’m out and I need you. You said you loved me. You said we were partners. I’ve done everything for both of us for the last three years. I took it for the team. I need you.” I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. They burned. “What do you need, Jordie?”
“I need help. I’m sober, but I’m scared. I’m staying at Mom’s now but I’m moving out soon, and I’ll be all by myself. Nobody’s going to want to hire me, an ex-con who killed a kid… I’m afraid. Nobody gets it but you. I need you with me. I need my partner back. You’re sober, right? You’re clean?”
“Yeah, I’m clean.” Except cigarettes, I was so fucking clean I squeaked.
“I need you to help me stay sober. I need someone to be there for me. I know why you couldn’t be there when I was in jail. But now it’s different, right? Now we can live like we always thought we were going to. But better, right?” I couldn’t answer him.
“Cooper?” He reached out to me with his voice. “I think you owe me at least this… I think we owe ourselves, and we for damned sure owe that kid. I want to try to be something better. Please say you’ll help me.”
“Yeah,” I said, finally accepting the inevitable. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be in touch.” He said something, maybe a lot of stuff, and hung up. I held on to the phone for a while, listening to it make that awkward electronic hum when the connection is broken, then begin a recorded 56 Z. A. Maxfield
message because I didn’t hang it up quickly enough. I was taking stock, hands and feet cold, brain numb, stomach faintly sick, when Shawn came to find me. Since I had my head in my hands, he probably had a clue to my mood.
“Hey, Cooper?” he asked, as he entered. He turned the office chair around and he bent so we were at the same level. “Jim said you were in here. You got a phone call… Bad news?” I turned to him. “I’m going home,” I said.
“What?” he asked. “What?”
I didn’t have my phone, so I searched around for a piece of paper. “I’m going home,” I wrote.
“When?” He looked at the paper, not at me.
I took it out of his hands and wrote, “Now. Soon. As soon as possible I guess.” I looked at the ground between where he was squatting back on the heels of his Vans and my feet.
“Okay,” he said. “For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted my shoulders. I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes. It said he was secure, disappointed, but not yet aware of his mistaken assumption that I would be coming back. That he would want me back. What I was thinking must have shown on my face.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m not coming back,” I wrote. The minute I wrote it I regretted it. Not because it hurt him, but because it closed off that tenuous place between us, where we’d agreed tacitly to try to communicate. If he didn’t give me his eyes, if I didn’t enunciate my words, if he didn’t read what I wrote or look at his phone, all communication would prove impossible.
“Never?” he asked, only half looking at me. Should I just nod, or shake my head? Had we come to that?
I reached for his hand.
“Explain,” he said, gripping my hand so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I grabbed another piece of paper. On it, I wrote the tersest account of the accident, its aftermath, and the responsibility I bore. I told him I had to go to support my friend, who’d paid the price for both of us. I told him I didn’t have a choice. I told him I had to see Jordan through this. I told him I had to go pack. I watched him grind his teeth in silence.
“Go,” he said. “Pack.” He looked tired. “I’ll be up when I get off
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