The Year Everything Changed (A Novel)
Gibson is a presence. As we walked in silence, I focused across the stream at the silhouettes of tall pine trees and birch branches against the lighted city haze. But, more than anything, through the creaking of the wooden bridge beneath our feet, the occasional tweet from a nocturnal bird, and the quiet hum of the midnight city, I was aware of him next to me, bigger and more solid than the moon that shone brightly above us and painted a faint silver glow over the water and on our skin.
Gibson carried an incomprehensible amount of understanding, confusion, and decisiveness in his mind, especially for an 18-year-old, and since we are so in tune to each other, I didn’t even need to confirm with a sidelong glance that he was deep in thought; I felt it, the violent throbbing of love, frustration, and sadness inside his skull. Then, when I did turn my own tired eyes towards him, I saw it evidently on his face. The heaviness. The contemplation. The burden that never lifted. He managed to hide it well, but I was one of the few that saw past his deflection of laughter and carefree shrugs.
I looked down and deliberately slowed my steps, which after a beat, he noticed and did too. An unspoken agreement led us both to stop and lean against the railing, and we observed the gentle ripple of the breeze on the mercury surface below and breathed in the sting of March’s nearly frozen air. I felt content with my arm pressed against his. Safe. Just the two of us, in this sanctuary of a moment where I could tell we were both about to let our carefully constructed walls crumble, right into each other’s arms.
“You know, people say Antigo is crap, that nothing good comes out of here, but I’m not so sure. Sure, I can’t wait to get out of here, but there’s a lot I know I’ll miss.”
“I completely agree,” I chuckled, always on the same page.
“I mean, really,” he continued, “where else in the world do you know everyone? Where else can you leave your car in a parking lot, unlocked, and come back an hour later and expect your phone and wallet to be exactly where you left them and that five dollar bill to still be in the cup holder? Where else can you feel safe walking the Boardwalk at midnight? Where else is ‘home?’ I’m sure college is going to be great, but I’ll miss being here.” He stared intently at the cattails stemming from the water.
“Yeah, I agree. People tell me I’m crazy for feeling that way, but deep down they know it’s true. They’re just scared to agree. No one wants to be labeled a homebody, especially here.”
“What’s so wrong about being a homebody?” he asked. “Home is what makes us who we are. We should be thankful, not bitter.”
I’d already said it twice: I agreed. Incredibly much. This is why Gibson and I were best friends. We agreed on things we’d never spoken about, things that mostly everyone else disagreed with and judged us for. In his case, the judgement created a novelty beheld by our peers and they loved him more for it. In my case, though, their narrowed eyes and passive comments incriminated me for being different. Maybe it’s because Gibson is From Here and I am not. No matter, small-town judgement was not among the things I’d miss.
“I guess it depends on if you like who you are. Or who you were. And who you become.” I replied, then pressed my lips in a line and reflected on my own life. I hated who I used to be. Selfish, loud, and aggressive were a few words that came to mind. I shivered, unsure if it was because of the thought of my former self or the chill of the wind. I never would have befriended myself, and that’s why I maintained my complex friendship with Gibson over all these years. When even I would have written myself off, he gave me a chance. I wholeheartedly believed that his refusal to give up on me shaped who I was: someone who believed in second chances, in forgiveness and apologies, and in other people and their worth. He showed me for the first time what it meant to really feel significant, like my life and influence mattered.
The quietness hung, suspended like the power lines strung over the horizon. Moments alone with Gibson were rare and I cherished them. We didn’t need the clutter of unnecessary words to diminish the value of each other’s company. It was as if we travelled through the days, parallel but separate, and then convened whenever we could to reconstruct each other before going back into the real world, where we would brave the pessimists and vengeful karma that ripped us apart until our next meeting. But he carefully picked up my broken pieces, the shatters and shards, and put them where they belonged. I collected the fragments of his sanity and placed them gently in his hands. Being whole, I learned, wasn’t staying unbroken. It was finding the person who could put you back together.
He stood there, I stood here. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Before we started walking, he gave me his thin, cotton gloves and they warmed my hands. It had been a long time since we shared a moment like this, and it felt so incredibly good, just being with him. Contentedness flooded my mind and washed away any frustration that Connor, the musical, or school piled on me. I -- no, we, Gibson and I -- were free and unencumbered, alone under the glow of the moon, and nothing in the world touched us except each other, shoulder to shoulder and heart to heart.
“Ellie?”
“Yeah?”
He pulled away from the railing and faced me. I turned to him, and in one swift motion he was holding me tight to his chest. A floodgate of relief burst inside me. This is our love, I thought as I wrapped my arms around his back and held tightly in return. This episodic display of affection, though infrequent, was a defining characteristic of our relationship. When it did happen, I melted into him and realized all at once just how much I yearned for those times, when he was everything for me and I was everything for him and we were each other’s world.
“Listen to me, when I tell you,” he whispered in my ear, “that I love you, so much."
He paused between each string of words. I felt him shivering. His cheek pressed against my cheek, my hair, and I closed my eyes and breathed as the words settled on my mind. We understood that we loved each other, though exactly what kind of love was to be determined. I described it to him in the past as a “sibling-but-not-quite-because-it’s-slightly-romantic” love, and he, after laughing and casually playing it off, agreed.
"And nobody," the words were charged, pulsing with more meaning than they said, "Can ever change that."
His hands stretched over my back, hanging on to me as best as he could. We stood together in that embrace and let the minutes pass without any recognition. Occasionally, he’d shift to rest his chin on my head or I’d squeeze my hands behind him so he'd know I was there. The blanket of our solitude in this public place protected us from time restraints and the responsibilities of life. I thought about nothing. And then,
“Gibson?”
“Yeah?” He quickly responded, lowering his head to hear me better.
“I’m scared of change. Everything is changing,” I told him. “And after graduation, everything is going to change again. I need to find the pause button because moments like this need to last longer.”
I stood straight and lifted my head from his chest to see his face. His almost-black hair, grown out for the musical, hung over his forehead. His fair skin and brown eyes contrasted in the dim light and I could just see the pinkness on the tip of his button nose. I studied his Spanish features, gifted to him by his father, that trademark dark I always associated with him, so I would remember them forever, even when we parted ways for college and new experiences and people began to fade my memory. I never wanted to forget him or the unique relationship we shared. Gibson is special, someone I would always reserve a place for in my heart.