His mood matched the weather: inclement. The kind of mood that leaves you stranded inside staring out the window in wonder. Like when you watch your street flood and the wind bend the trees, a magic trick of nature that you are to only witness in awe as you lay inside safe and warm. So I stayed inside, safe and warm, as he paced around the floor; a torrential downpour in his footsteps and wind howling through his voice. I have never taken much to anger, it seems to me like a waste of adrenaline, of which I am reserving for if I get into some cataclysmic car crash or attacked by a bear. In fact, for me it is less of a choice, I am just rather slow to anger. Sort of like tardy. Or maybe like a good two weeks late. Enough time that I may as well let it go.

“I just don’t know what we can do. Where did we go wrong?” Sam sat next to me on the foyer steps in a huff.

“I don’t think it’s our fault. He made some bad choices. He has to learn from them.” I stroked his back to calm him down.

Our son was on the brink of his second stint in rehab. But that was nothing to pace the floor about. It was a thing to stare at the sky about, to cry about, but not to be angry about. I felt strangely calm, perhaps because I was immune to anger or perhaps because it wasn’t yet real. Maybe this was just like that car crash, but I was too in shock to feel the pain. Surely, tomorrow I’d wake up battered and bruised, my neck aching from whip lash. I heard the magnetic garage door click shut as Amy walked in. Sam looked up at me. We exchanged a look that said it is definitely not the time.

…

Coming back out of the woods, the sky looked bigger. It could have been just my new perspective, but there was definitely a larger expanse of blue over the grass field where he parked the car. I must have been staring at the couple of puffy clouds in the distance for a while when he nudged me and laughed. My attention turned his face like a laser; I could only focus on one scene of my life at a time.

“What are you doing?” Logan asked.

“Shut up, I’m appreciating nature,” I said pushing him back.

“Let’s go,” he said through a half laugh and eye roll. We started walking down the hill. I stared at each step I took. I was amazed at how long the grass was here, or really how short it is everywhere else if you think about it. The long blades tangled around each other as a breeze brushed by. When I looked too deeply into the grass I lost my footing, catching myself in a heavy step. I couldn’t even think to check if he noticed, but then I looked up and saw him ten feet ahead of me down the hill staring up at me, an amused smile tickling his lips.

I’m kind of ditzy, and a bit of a klutz so it is only a matter of time before I prove that to most guys. For Logan, I did it the first time we smoked together. It’s usually at that point when I hope that they find my quirks cute, rather than annoying. But there’s really nothing I could do to affect that decision.

“Did you just trip?” he said as I approached him, keeping my mind now mostly on my feet.

“Shut up.” I responded.

“What if I pushed you down this hill?”

“I’d die.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“I’d give it like a 60% chance.” I said. He grabbed my shoulders and jerked me forward then pulled me back to him.

“Stop!” I yelled. Then I ran down the hill, my flips flops clomping over the tall grass that scratched at my heels. I heard the grass brush as he ran after me, yelling my name. When I reached the bottom, I spun around victorious holding my hands over my head like Rocky on the top of the library steps.

“….And from the right corner, we have our underdog, and our winner!” I announced. He continued barreling toward me then grabbed me by the waist and threw me over his shoulder. I let out a screech; barely used to being upright, now I was upside down. He started walking us off to the car, me helplessly thrown over his shoulder like a murder victim. I hugged his waist afraid of falling and stared into the gray of his shirt. Sometimes when you’re high, it’s like you have to give yourself a recap of how you got here. Or at least I do; I have to recount the details of what just happened in my head to make sure I saw them right. I noticed then that gray isn’t really just one color, but more like a marble of shades between black and white.

 As I stared at it, I tried to remember how we got here. Not just physically here, but how did we find ourselves together like this. This something I rarely let myself consider at the peak. You have to wait until things go bad before you retell yourself the “love” story a million times. Reanalyzing what I said, what he said. Searching for foreshadowing. Recounting the good times. Grimacing at the bad. Until the thin yarn of this story untwines and frays, leading us astray from each other. That’s not the story I want to tell though, not today.

Getting out of the car, my steps are still heavy and focused. This could be bad; I’m an hour late for curfew and still not on ground state. I try to close the heavy garage door slowly so it won’t make that obnoxious slam that always announces my arrival, but of course it’s still magnetically pulled shut. I slip off my flip flops, but then noticing how dirty they are from the woods, I decide to take them with me to avoid questions in the morning. Mom and Dad are probably in bed, so I can just head upstairs and hope they don’t wake up. As I walk across the kitchen tile, my sticky feet give away each step. I stare down the double wooden doors to my parent’s room waiting for it to open, for my dad to come out shuffling his feet, squinting and confused, like he does when he’s tired. Then to hear a line of questions, from ‘did you just get back?’ to ‘who were you with?’ ones I wasn’t prepared to answer without giving myself away.

“Hey Amy.” I jump in my skin then fall to the floor. My parents emerge from the dark foyer.

“Oh my god! You scared me! What are you guys doing up?” I say getting back up. Usually they would laugh at my accusatory response with a fake finger shaking and a ‘hold up missy, where have you been?’ Even though they “knew” I would be at Marissa’s watching movies and that I most likely “lost track of time.” Instead my father just put his palms flat on the counter, shrugging his shoulders to his ears, and letting out a sigh as he stared into the dark granite top. My mom looked somber but stable. She kept eyes on me, but they seemed to seek solace rather than answers.

“We’re just going to bed,” she said patting my father’s back; she gave me a pained smile.

“Alright, me too.” I said, hiding the muddy shoes by my side as I headed to the stairs. I walked slowly until I heard their door shut, and then I jogged the steps in two’s. This must be about Christian. The boy who showed me how to use a bowl for the first time and the one who also stole my birthday money. The one who caused my father’s hair to gray and mom to bite her manicure to shreds. I decided to call him.

…

When I got into bed I did what I said I would do at times like this. I stared at the ceiling. Letting my eyes glaze over the sponge ridden pattern. And like every other time, the first thing I thought of was the day that Christian fell off the playground.

 He had been playing on the slide, but of course he couldn’t go down like a normal kid. He had to hug the side wall and inch his way down with his feet. After a million times telling him not to, I leaned my back against the park bench with my feet in the wood chips, waiting for the fall to teach him.

On his third trip down the slide, he overstepped the wall and leaned over with too much of his weight. I watched him struggle to get his balance back, gripping hard onto the orange plastic with his dark swoopy hair covering his eyes. He tumbled off sideways, landing with a smack on his back, the kind of hit that leaves you staring at the clouds, wide eyed, searching for breathe. I rushed over like a diligent mother should and greeted his wide-eyed terror.

“Breath baby, it’s okay.” I said, “You just got the wind knocked out of you.” His eyes filled up with tears, but he nodded his head and wiped them off his chubby red cheek.

On the way home, he stared out the window in silence, traumatized from the slide incident. With a furrowed brow over his innocent eyes, he looked as though he was contemplating all of his life decisions. I let him think it over; I didn’t give him some tough love speech about listening to what I say the first time, or lecture him to never do that again. He knew it was wrong, and now he felt the consequences, still radiating through his back. After that day, I never had to tell Christian to use the slide right again. I wish all lessons were that easy.

…

                After the third call, I knew he wasn’t going to pick up. It was already 1:30, he was probably in bed. Or maybe he was out with friends at a party. On second thought, definitely a party. He was probably busy holding the beer bong, or playing pong, or talking to a girl, just like when I went to visit him last year.

 I had driven down with my friend Katie and it was our first time visiting a college campus for anything more than a tour and a T-shirt. He showed us the version of college life that you only see in movies. The kind of things that you would normally question, but, since everyone was doing them with a big smile on their face, they must be alright. For some reason, the rules must not apply here, not to us good kids.

My memories are sketchy, but I remember Christian riding down the frat house steps on a mattress and managing to not spill a sip of his beer. Impressive. I also remember him disappearing for probably an hour, during which time three of his sloppy friends asked us if we were eighteen yet.

 And I remember him reappearing, a girl hanging onto him at the waist. He stared in front of him with glossy, confused eyes. The way he swayed and stared reminded me of an astronaut floating out in space, growing distant from all humanity.

 He didn’t break his trance until the next morning when we went to breakfast. He curled up under his sweatshirt and rolled his forehead back and forth over the table, groaning. Then he looked at me and Katie through puffy, tired eyes and said, “Don’t ever get that f***ed up.” At the time, we just laughed and nodded.

…

                Sam finally got into bed at two. He breathed a heavy sigh, untucking the sheets and turning off the lights. For a while we both lied there in silence, our thoughts mulling over the past.

                “I was just thinking about how Christian’s chess partner would always flip the board when Christian beat him.” I said finally. He was quiet for a minute, acknowledging my comment in a pseudo-chuckle.

                “I was just thinking about the time the heater guy found his stuff.” Sam responded. His voice was rocky and hoarse as he choked out his admission of guilt.

                “Maybe we should have kept him in chess lessons,” I said. Sam reached over and squeezed my hand.

…

                At three I was still up watching my fourth consecutive episode of “The Office” and slamming down Snap Pea Crisps, when he finally called back. For a moment, I stared at the picture that lit up my screen: Christian and I standing on a Florida beach, arm and arm, laughing at mom’s inability to work an iPhone camera.

                “Hey,” I said.

                “What’s up,” he answered.

                “I just called to see how you’re doing.” I said, my voice cracked in a way I was not prepared for and I quickly cleared my throat. “Where are you?”

                “You know me. I’m doing fine. I’m still living near campus.” His voice sounded raspy and tired. It was the voice I’ve gotten used to hearing:  weary, like the life had been drained out of him since that day he stood bright eyed on the beach.

                “I think mom and dad are worried about you.” I decided not to tell him that I was too. That would make it to real, show him that I am siding with them, and not continuing to live in the world were the rules bend around us.

                “Yeah, well they tend to do that…” he trailed off and sighed. “You keep being the good kid, Amy.” I stared at the ceiling, pulling my comforter up to my chest. I guess I still was the ‘good kid’ if there was one anymore. Or maybe I just hadn’t messed up yet.

                “Don’t worry about me, okay?” he said.

                “Don’t give me a reason too.” I tried to force some amusement into my voice, to give him a reason to laugh out a snarky response back, like he used to. Instead he remained quiet for a while, a pregnant pause for a phone call.

                “It was nice talking to you.” he said finally, and we left it there.