Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

I fall backward into my bed and I close my eyes and I’m back in the gorges, except the sun, clouds, and river rock are all puffy, pastel marshmallows, the sky twinkling with sugar grains, and silver spoon trees swaying in the frosted sugar breeze and singing about love, about happiness. Kate and I in the middle of it all, drifting lazily down a milk river, our butts flopped in giant Froot Loops. We’re holding hands and partly singing along, partly laughing, because what’s going to happen when our cereal tubes get soggy?

In case any of the above was unclear, what I am attempting to say is: Will you go to prom with me, Kate? Please (print out and) circle: YES/NO/MAYBE

The car thing plus your reckless abandon of cereal-eating etiquette—you totally finished the last of the milk, dude!

“I don’t get love,” I confess. “Like when it’s good, it’s this amazing thing. Except it never stays good.”

“I want you to remember me . . . not as a sick black girl with chicken legs from some no-name suburbs. I want you to remember me like this, right now. The moonlight over your shoulder, stretching against the night, the stars fluttering. Remember me like this. The rain slanting, the fog rolling. The street-lights flickering on. Every time you feel or see another evening like this, I want you to think of me smiling, laughing at you. Remember me, remember us, as a time of day.”

What is there to say, except why did everyone lie to me? Kate’s mom. The nurse. Kate. She just needs rest. You just need rest, they said. Why are all of them liars?

Be there for Franny and Kate. Which would be the best-case scenario. Win-win all around. And I know—maybe Kate would understand if I told her I couldn’t make it, that I already had noncancelable plans. It’s just that, well, this second time around—which is still hard to comprehend, that I have a second shot—I don’t want to waste a fraction of a second. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing’s promised. That you have to treat second chances like an endangered species.

Am I prepared to say goodbye to all the people who mean something, to maybe save Kate?

I love Kate. More than nearly anything. But more than all of those things combined? I’m not sure.

“If you love Kate, let her go, Jack. If you want her to live the best life she can, you need to let her go.”

“Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me. When did my opinion stop mattering?”

This is the second time in twelve hours that someone’s declared good intentions not good enough.

We give each other the cool, let’s do this then look. And then we’re springing back onto the orange sofa, fighting for our watery survival.

People say I’d do anything to see them again, to hear their voice just once more, but what they don’t consider is losing them all over again. That it doesn’t get easier. If anything, it’s harder. So much harder.

I can’t do it again. I’m sorry. I just can’t.

I completely understand.

But tell me, what was I supposed to do?

Not that