The Truth About That Summer

thirty-four

As soon as my foot hits the spot just beyond Casey's door, the couple of creaky boards that always alerted me of his movement, everything hits me at once.

His smell, ingrained in the fibers of his bed and the clothes still hanging in his closet, the iPod resting on top of his dresser - probably stuck on some dubstep song, what he'd been listening to the most that summer, the half-gone bottles of face wash and cologne right beside it, still waiting to be used.

The posters on the wall - surfers he was into that season, mostly, and his favorite baseball ones - are easier to look at now than the photographs.

Casey always had so many photos on his walls - he was always adding more, overlapping edges and layering them in different ways.

"For the memories," He'd smile, tacking another to the wall and standing back to appreciate his work.

Somehow, my legs bring me to the wall, my fingers shakily tracing the taped edges of our summers in pictures. His smiling face, staring back at me in the majority of them, makes my stomach turn.

My throat tight and prickly, a deep ache spreads through my chest, forcing the air out of my lungs.

The room sways around me, my vision blurring at the corners.

Sinking onto the mattress, I wince when the frame creaks beneath me, a puff of Casey's cologne rising in the air around me.

A weight pushes on my chest, leaving me rasping for air, my heart aching so deeply it's like there's a hole tearing through my torso.

My hands clutch at my chest, my throat.

I can't breathe in here, I can't... I can't.

Sometimes, I still can't believe it's real. In those photos, he was so happy staring back at me, so alive.

And then he just... wasn't.

I try to take a deep breath but can't, his scent somehow even more painful than seeing pictures of him.

It's like he's right there, so close, but still gone forever, the smell so strong that if I close my eyes, I'd reach out, expecting to find him there, only to be crushed when my hands find nothing.

My exhale is shaky and short as I suck in another gasping breath, the pain in my chest intensifying the longer I stay in this room.

I sink my head in my hands, my body rocking back and forth, trying to calm itself, to catch a real breath of air in my lungs.

I don't know how long I'm like that before there's a swift, hard knock on the door, followed by Luke's voice.

"Dyl? You okay in here?" I don't lift my head, but I hear his feet hit the loose boards. "Oh, Dyl... Pickle, look at me." He's kneeling in front of me now, his strong fingers gently lifting my chin. "I'm sorry, Dylan."

I lean into his hands for support, the electricity between our skin the only thing saving me from going completely numb.

The only thing I can think about is how much I fucking miss Casey, his laugh; how I miss him in every moment of every day; how there's a hole shaped just like him, invading every corner of my life.

As I watch, drowning in my own emotion, Luke's adam's apple bobs in his throat, his jaw clenching as he glances around the room. When he faces me again, his eyes are watery, his voice low... broken.

"I'm so, so sorry Dylan."

The words feel heavy, loaded. But shouldn't he be?

My chest throbs as I meet his gaze, the sadness in his eyes cutting through me in a new, sharp kind of pain.