More Happy Than Not

So now in this moment I have this fantasy: Thomas is straight—which I now believe is either very real or who he needs to be right now—but he goes to Leteo and convinces them to give him a procedure so he can forget he’s straight. Once he’s gay, he finds me just like he said he would and we build a life of happy memories together.

But like with everyone else, I know better. I can picture Thomas and Genevieve making each other happy. Genevieve will glow whenever he leans in to her to whisper a joke that isn’t my business. He’ll sweep her off her feet, as if they’re newlyweds, and carry her into a world I can never share with either of them.

“What would Thomas Reyes do if he were in my situation?” I ask.

Thomas sits up. “I would do my damn best to be more happy than not. You’ve already experienced so much bullshit so you can always look back on how things could be worse. That’s my two cents.”

I may never get to see the person Thomas grows up to be. If he becomes a director or wrestler or deejay or set designer or gay or straight, I may be too lost in the past for it ever to click.

“I don’t want to forget, Thomas.”

“I don’t want you to either. Just remember that I love the hell out of you, okay?”

I repeat it over and over because there are so many memories crowding my head that don’t need to be there. “I don’t want to forget, Thomas.”

It shocks me when he starts straight-up sobbing, but it’s even more shocking when he holds my hand. But there is the happiness he promised, too. He loves me without being in love with me and that’s all I can ask of him. I don’t even need to hear him say it to believe it.

&nb

sp; “No homo, Stretch.”

“I know.” I smile, and squeeze his hand back. “Hell of a happy ending, right?”

PART FOUR: MORE HAPPY THAN NOT

THE DAY

WE START OVER

The Leteo Institute, or more specifically, Evangeline, is able to get me short-listed for a reparative procedure they’ve been developing in Sweden.

In exchange, I’m going to help them out with some of the safer experimental science. The hope is to find a cure for amnesia one day. It may never happen in my lifetime, but maybe someone will figure it out eventually and I’ll have played a part in that. Funny how I once turned to Leteo to forget and now I’m counting on them to help me—and maybe millions of others—remember.

My mom considered moving us all upstate to get away from the sucker-punching memories, but we’re done running. Instead, we’re painting the walls white and starting over. I’m helping Mom with the bedroom. I know it’s hard. My father was the one who chose gray.

I ask her what color she’ll paint her new room.

“I think I’ll leave it white. It’s pure and reminds me of a rabbit I used to have. It’s nice to reflect, sometimes.”

THE DAY I LOOK AHEAD

Eric and I take a break from painting our living room green with a round of Avengers vs. Street Fighters. He chooses Wolverine, of course. I choose Black Widow because I’m tired of going easy on him.

He sucks his teeth when I win.

There is no judging. There are no jokes made.

He challenges me to another round.

I remember enough to remember that this is the first time we’ve really had fun in a long time, like we did when my father wasn’t around.

THE DAY I MOVE ON

During the cleaning, I find a bunch of my old composition notebooks. I leaf through the childhood drawings, not caring about how I didn’t have a good eye for color or how careless I was with my shading. I just laugh over and over at the memories there. I haven’t thought about that funny villain I invented, Mr. Overlord King, in years. He and Sun Warden will likely live in harmony in my character’s afterlife world. Either that or they’ll fight to the death over and over again.

But the whole thing sparks me to chronicle my life—all the good stuff, at least—in pictures. And I’ll start off every illustration with a header that reads, “Remember That Time . . .”

THE DAY I FORGET