Jake
It was the end of July, and Andy and I had a doctor’s appointment. Walter had been doing a great job, and he acted pleased with our progress, but it was time for another formal checkup. On July twenty-first, he drove us to a doctor’s office in Barnstable.
Dr. Gallaway’s practice was in an upscale complex, and he was a soft-spoken man in his fifties. It was our third visit that summer, and the previous times he’d basically said “keep doing what you’re doing” and “keep the bandages on.” Andy’s dad’s insurance magically covered it somehow, even me. Maybe the doctor had agreed to a “twofer” since he only had to check our hands, and mine were in a similar state to Andy’s.
But that visit he unwrapped Andy’s hands, then mine, and examined each one carefully, holding them under a light and pressing gently on the skin.
The burns seemed healed to me. My palms and fingers were only slightly puffy, the skin that had been an angry red was now light pink, and the edges of the burn were hard to see. The texture of the skin was better too. It looked thicker, more like normal skin and less like a fragile membrane.
“This is good. This is good,” Dr. Gallaway muttered as he peered at Andy’s palm intently. He looked up at Andy’s face. “Any pain?”
“Not much. Only if I try to lift something heavy with my mitts. Or try to stretch my fingers. The skin is still itchy, but not as bad as it was.”
“Good, good.” Dr. Gallaway looked at me. “What about you, Jake?”
“What he said, pretty much. He’s always copying me. It’s so annoying.”
Andy nudged me with his shoulder, and Dr. Galloway smiled at the joke. “Well, in this case, copying is good.”
In the past few weeks, we’d been able to use our hands more. Even though they were still bandaged, the pain had lessened to the point where we could pick things up between our palms and push and pull things like chairs. We could stroke each other’s back and hips, the bandages slightly scratchy and shiver-inducing.
Yeah, I didn’t think Dr. Gallaway would be interested in hearing about that.
“Um-hmm. Um-hmm.” He turned off the light and straightened up. “I think you boys are ready to leave the bandages off. But that doesn’t mean a free for all. Let pain be your guide. I wouldn’t try lifting anything heavy—no barbells, boxes, nothing like that. You can do light tasks again. Bathing is fine, doing dishes, getting dressed on your own. That sort of thing.”
“Jet skiing?” Andy suggested hopefully.
Dr. Gallaway laughed. “If you can stand the cold of the sound, sure. Don’t grip the handlebars too tightly or, better yet, wear gloves. But no lifting the thing in and out of the water.”
“We can get someone to do that part for us.” Andy smiled at me.
“The new skin is tender from the bandages and ointment, but the fresh air will toughen it up. In two more weeks, you should be pretty much back to normal. For now, proceed with a bit of caution. Okay?”
Dr. Gallaway smiled and held out his hand to me. I shook it. His grasp was light, but it was still a privilege just to be able to shake hands again. Imagine that! And on the way out of the office, I could actually open and close doors without needing to use my wrists or fumble around like a bandaged freak.
I supposed one of us could have driven, but Walter had brought us in his car, so I got into the back seat and Andy took the passenger side like before. Walter congratulated us, thanking God for our recovery and all of that. I was excited and happy. I kept turning my hands front to back and looking at them with wonder. Talk about taking something for granted! I would never, ever be less than appreciative for the ability to text, type, or eat with a real spoon. I didn’t have any permanent scarring at all. Damn, we were so lucky.
But every time I looked at Andy on the drive home, he was staring out the window, his face blank.
And then it struck me, and my heart crashed from the sky like Icarus on his waxy wings.
We had no excuse to touch each other anymore.
Andy
That afternoon when we got back from the doctor’s appointment with our unwrapped hands, Jake wouldn’t meet my eyes. We both got a drink from the fridge, not saying a word. Then he got out the Xbox and controllers and started setting it up on the big TV.
“I’m going to play some Halo. You want to play?” he asked me, almost like an afterthought. He still didn’t look at me.
“Nah,” I said. “Go ahead.”
I went out the back door of the cottage. I needed time to myself, and it seemed like Jake did too. I wanted to take the jet ski out, but I didn’t want to bug Emily or Bob to come over and get it out of the shed. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough. But I had to do something physical. I ended up batting around a badminton birdie because it was light and the task was mindless and didn’t hurt my hands.
God, I missed real sports. I longed to feel a bat in my hands again, feel the jarring crack of a softball as I slammed into it, to feel the weight and speed of a spinning football as I caught it. To swim without worrying about infection or bandages.
To touch Jake.
No, not that. I’d gained the freedom to do everything else, but I’d lost that. It had been taken from me.
Had it? What would Jake do if I suggested we keep fooling around?
I thought it through as I bumped that stupid birdie up into the air over and over again. Tried to see the logic on both sides.
We’d started messing around because, with our bandaged hands, we couldn’t get ourselves off. Fact.
We both liked it. Fact.
So why not continue even though the bandages were gone?
But the clenching in my gut—the worry and the weird—was also a fact. The bandages had been a great excuse to try things out with Jake and pretend it didn’t mean anything. If we kept fooling around now, it would be different. Despite the sensitivity of my palms, I was pretty sure I could get myself off. Or, hell, now that we looked more or less normal, we could go to a club. There were a half-dozen hopping night spots within easy driving distance along the sound. Jake and I had been to most of them before, together, and picked up girls in years past.
So if we continued to have sex now, I’d be admitting that I wanted Jake, specifically, that I wanted him as a sexual partner. And I did. But . . . did I really? Or had it just become a convenient habit, like continuing to eat the bowl of nuts because it was in front of you? And if I did want Jake, what did that mean?
That was the hard part. I did want to keep touching Jake, kissing Jake, getting off with Jake. The thought of stopping was painful. But now it would mean something, and I didn’t know how that could work. In a few weeks, we’d be going our separate ways. I’d be meeting girls at Harvard, dating girls. And Jake would probably date girls in California too. Or maybe he’d find someone like Kevin.
If we were still lovers, all that would be weird. Would Jake expect me to be monogamous? A long-distance relationship was hard enough; I’d tried that and failed with Kristen my senior year of high school. But a long-distance relationship with a guy? With a friends-with-bennies guy? How would that even work? And why? Or would we just be best friends who might fool around if and when we happened to see each other? It was too murky and undefined, too weird.
It would be best to stop now. This would be the cleanest break. Right now, at this moment, and for this reason: the bandages are off.
I knew that. I knew it would be the best place to get off this crazy train before Jake was hurt or I was hurt or something happened to ruin our friendship. But I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to.
Batting the bird around for another hour didn’t bring me any further insight. I figured I’d try to suss out what Jake wanted. If he made the first move . . .
But he didn’t. When I went back inside, he was in his room with the door shut. He came out a few hours later, and we ate the dinner Emily had left, but he avoided looking at me for very long, and he chatted about some science article he’d been reading online about nanotechnology. After dinner, he said he was wiped and was going to read in his room for a bit and go to sleep early. I said that was cool, that I’d probably watch a movie.
I watched The Babadook on Netflix, and sent him a text that I was starting it. But he never came out of his room.
It’s for the best, I told myself. He wants a clean break too. It’s for the best.
Maybe if I repeated it often enough, I’d believe it.