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he almost hit me. Pulled
his hand back and stared at me for the longest two minutes of my life before
walking away.
    Part
of me felt deflated. The other part, relieved.
    I
don’t have to pretend anymore. I don’t have to live his dream.
    He
hasn’t talked with me since. Won’t even look at me.
    I’d
been so fearful so long of hurting him, but inside…
    I’m
guiltless.

 
    My hands are shaking as
tears well in my eyes. I want to compare my tears to crying at an uplifting
movie, but my reaction feels far more real than that. I’m just so happy. And
for once crying doesn’t bother me. “Oh, wow Zach. You did it.”
    I jump out of the chair
with the journal hugged to my chest and do a stupid dance over to him. “I can’t
believe it. You really told your dad!” Once my feet settle down, I brush his
knuckles with my fingers. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so the opposite of a
spineless. So the opposite of me.”
    My fingers freeze when
I realize I’m rubbing—more like caressing—his wrist. I slowly step away and sit
in the chair. After a calming breath—I’m still floored at what I read—I lay the
journal on my knees and wipe the wet corners of my eyes. “I hope your Dad comes
to accept your decision. Yes, that’s what I’m hoping to read next,” I say and
lift the journal up.

 
    March
24,

 
    I
broke up with Melanie today.
    Of
course, she had another crying shit fit.
    This
time I didn’t crack. Just said I was sorry. Told her the truth that she
deserves someone better than me. She cried harder and I mumbled something about
how she should find someone who cares about her more.
    Not
the best thing to say.
    The
tears ended. Her face twisted into something from a horror flick. She then
slapped me across the face and told me off with the F-word.
    The
rest of the day she walked around red eyed and it ate at my gut even with her
posse giving me dirty looks.
    Yet
between my dad’s animosity and hers, I feel lighter. I feel free.
    Weightless.
    I
feel like I’m finally doing right.

 
    Without a thought, I’m
back at the side of his bed. “Wow. You. Are. Awesome.”   I stare at him. “Back to back even…”
    I’ve never really
looked at him this close. His long lashes lay against the almost white skin of
his cheeks. A slight shadow of stubble covers his jaw. I glance at the table
across from me filled with shampoo and toothpaste and shaving gel. I usually
ignore that table. Between that stuff and the growth of hair on his face, I
become very aware that he is alive.
    My eyes search the face
of this boy I’ve come to know, respect, and genuinely like. The boy from the
journal that has me wishing more every day he’d wake up. The swollen contours
of his skin make it hard to discern his features, but I suddenly, desperately
want to see the real Zach.
    I memorize his features
before backing up to the corkboard on the wall. No matter how long I search,
none of the faces looks familiar. “Where are you, Zach?” I whisper. Defeated, I
step away, but then out of the corner of my eye I catch the shelf of trophies.
At the end of the top shelf, sandwiched between two large golden footballs, are
several yearbooks.
    I’m reaching for the
last one in seconds. His senior year. I push pages in a flurry and quickly find
the colored senior section. I race through the R’s then the T’s until I get to
the W’s. My finger traces names. Wacom , Wagger , Wahl …until my nail points to Wallace,
Zach . I raise my eyes to the picture and the book teeters in my grasp and
almost falls to the carpet.
    Holy shit.
    He said girls checked
him out all the time and I thought he was being a bit egotistical. But now looking at his picture, I realize he’d just
been stating the facts.
    He’s perfection.  
    My fingers brush his
flawless face. Between the dark hair, strong jaw, and white smile he could be a
model . But the tilt in the smile and
glint in his dark blue eyes looks familiar, looks like the Zach I’ve come