I don’t think it was that much of a stretch for us to decide to go on a road trip. After all, that’s what a truly good friendship inspires: the desire to see the world together. Or, in our case, the desire to drive to Wisconsin in the middle of a sweltering Louisiana summer, with the dream of a new perspective in our minds.

I was, of course, a hopeless romantic at heart. I curated the musical selection with tunes to inspire, with plans to regale the boys with tales of why I’d chosen certain songs. I felt like anything could happen. It was an endless summer, and infinity had just begun to settle in.

This was before Evan died.

I guess it makes sense that he was the first of us to die. Gabriel and I didn’t talk about it much, though. He’s not very religious, but Evan was Catholic, and so we both went to his funeral, holding each other’s hands for strength.

Sometimes you grow up with people and realize you never knew them at all.

Evan’s mom gave us his journals, hoping that we could make sense of it all, make sense of why he killed himself. We decided to take the journals with us on the road trip. We could make this a story of becoming, if we tried hard enough.

We don’t make it to Wisconsin the first night. Instead, we make it to a tiny hotel in the middle of Illinois. 

I’ve curled up in my bed, sheets off-white from age, with a carton of Chinese takeout (which is suspect, considering our location), when Gabriel asks a question that I know has been lingering in his mind since the funeral.

“Do you think heaven is real, Viola?”

He’s spread out across the floor like an oversized child, his curls untidy.

“I don’t know,” I say after a moment’s thought.

He rolls over and props himself on his elbows, “You don’t know?”

“I try not to think about it,” I admit, “Because what if there’s nothing?”

“That’s what I wonder. The logical explanation is that there’s nothing,” Gabriel says, “But I’ve been thinking about it a lot…..Evan believed in religion, his own version of fate, an institution. I don’t know what that means for him.”

“Or for us,” I say softly.

“I’ve found it’s easier to accept that we may never see him again, in this life or another.” Gabriel stops talking.

I lay awake at night. I can hear Gabriel breathing, asleep on the other bed, which is inadequately sized for his frame.

We think about these things a lot, don’t we? How easily hearts can be taken away from us?

It’s simpler to just accept it. Gabriel was right.

The next day, we don’t listen to music in the car. Instead, Gabriel reads to me as I drive, from Slaughterhouse Five, a book mentioned in Evan’s journal.

“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.”

“Read that again,” I said.

“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.”

I decide that’s how I’d like to think it is for Evan.

Nothing hurts anymore. Not for him, anyways.

It hurts for us.

Gabriel and I decide to go stargazing that night. We leave our car at the hotel, and walk down the sidewalk until we make it to a park. He spreads out our picnic blanket across the ground. We lie down.

“You have a face like the stars,” I say as the sky begins to deepen, “Constellations made of freckles.”

“Viola,” Gabriel says, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a truly delightful person?”

“Yes, you, many times.”

“And Evan.”

“Evan loved to tell me that he thought I was wonderful.”

“He did it so you didn’t do anything bad.”

“You mean regrettable?”

“Yes. I mean regrettable.” A wistful smile takes over Gabriel’s face.

“Maybe he made it to the stars,” I whisper.

A tear runs down his cheek.

“Maybe,” I continue, “He’s in all of us.”

Another tear.

I pull Gabriel into my arms, and we lie like that on the ground as night falls. Maybe it’s for minutes, or maybe it’s hours.

“Let’s make sure to always be friends,” Gabriel whispers into my shoulder.

“Let’s.”

We roll apart to watch the stars. Everything is wider when you look up, I think.

Tomorrow, I will begin keeping a journal.