The minute I say it, I realize: I’ve found it.
I’ve found our word.
“Your constant,” A says. “My constant.”
“Do you understand?”
A smiles. “Yes. I completely understand.”
LIAM, AGE 18
You are a coward. You are a coward. You are a coward.
I spent two years telling myself this.
Okay, maybe there was a grace period of two or three weeks—the two or three weeks after I met Peter at the Melbourne Writers Festival.
It was too entirely good to be true. Two bookish, anti-blazer genderqueer kids meeting at a book festival. Like, if you’d asked me, When you find your true love, where will it be? I would’ve said, At a bookstore or a book festival, duh.
But I didn’t believe it was actually possible.
Until I was right there, in the moment, looking at Peter and thinking, I must have conjured you. There’s no other explanation.
I didn’t usually allow myself to have such thoughts.
No, strike that.
Amend to:
I never, ever allowed myself to have such thoughts.
My best relationships were always with my notebooks, or with the scraps of paper I’d subjugate to my whims each and every day, typing up the words that were worthy of typing each nightfall. I was pretty sure I was going to spend much more time writing about life than actually having a real one.
Enter: Peter.
Of course he had to live in another town.
Of course he had to live way too far away.
Of course, I thought this was a mere formality. What mattered was words.
And words—well, we shared our words every day.
But I was a coward. I took the easy route. I didn’t try to see him, hid behind the Internet. Because it wasn’t like he was inviting me over. I suspected something was going on with him. I suspected he thought there was something going on with me. He had no idea. I was such a coward.
Then, finally, after two years of trying to get up the courage to see him again, come what may, I saw that a bunch of our favorite authors were going to be at the Adelaide Festival.
I got tickets for the festival.
I saved up money for a last-minute plane ticket.
I told him I was coming.
And in the hour it took for him to respond, I thought, This is it. The next level. The truth.
Then he wrote back and said he didn’t want to change things. He said words were our thing. We should live and die and love by words.
I was like, Oh, that’s so cool. We’re so pure. Blah blah blah.
But what I was thinking was: Now you’re the coward.
And I thought: What are you hiding?
And I thought: Was that question directed to him or you, Liam?
And then I thought: I have to see this through. Because words are great, but they aren’t everything.
And: If he’s not going to love me in person, then it’s not really love.
So the day came, and I bought that plane ticket.
I didn’t message him until I landed.
You can’t be here, he wrote.
Oh, I definitely am, I wrote back.
I can’t, he wrote.
And I wrote back:
Whatever you’re afraid of, I’m afraid of it, too. Whatever you think you’re risking, I assure you I’m risking more. I want to see you, whoever you are. And I want you to see me, whoever I am. All or nothing. Now or never.
And he wrote back:
All.
Then:
Now.
* * *
—
By the time I got to the festival, it was in the middle of its opening night party. Revelry in every corner, fireworks in the air. He said he would meet me at the main stage, which would be empty for the night as everyone drank and embraced their merry. He told me he’d be holding a copy of Black Juice, the book I’d been reading the day we met. I assured him I’d recognize him, even though I hadn’t been sent a photo in a while. He said not to be so sure.
I told him I’d picked up a copy of Yellowcake. So he’d recognize me.
I walk into the empty amphitheater, the chairs all waiting for the next morning’s first speaker. Behind me, there’s music and disco lights and what sounds like a thousand conversations blooming at once. I see a figure in the shadows, can see it’s holding a book.
“Peter?” I call out, my voice giving everything about me away.
He steps out of the shadows and I drop my book in surprise. Because he is not a he. He is not Peter at all—he is a girl nowhere near Peter’s height.
And she—she is looking at me in surprise as well. Because I am also a girl; not quite as short, but certainly not the height he met me at, either. (I am, however, wearing the same glasses. For some continuity.)
Suddenly it all makes sense. All of it.
“It appears,” I say, “we are much more alike than we ever could have imagined.”
“And now look,” he says. “We’ve found each other for real.”
A: Hello. You don’t know me, but I saw your post from a few weeks ago and was hoping I could talk to you.
M: I was a mess then. I’m feeling much better now. But I appreciate your concern.
A: It’s not that. (Although I’m very happy to hear you’re feeling much better.) It’s about what you were describing.
M: The depression?
A: Not that. The other part. About changing every day. I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.
M: Oh.
A: Can we talk?
M: Sure.
NATHAN
I keep going back to it: the one day that altered the course of my life.
But the more I live with it, and the more I live in general, the more I realize: We all have days that alter the course of our lives. Not each and every day, maybe. But a lot of them. Most of them.
Jaiden and I talk about this some, and Wyatt and I talk about it a lot. Sometimes we’ll drive up to DC with Rhiannon and Alexander and meet up with A, and we’ll all talk about it.
There’s no real conclusion to be made. We all agree: There are some days you know ahead of time are going to be important, but most of the important ones end up catching you by surprise. The best thing to do is to treat all your days well.