The weeks that followed Rosie’s suicide were a blur of melancholy madness. Cal and I were zombies whose brains had been devoured by memories of the days before and after Rosie’s death. We spent hours recalling the warning signs we stupidly ignored and days second-guessing every decision we made in his absence. There had been so much to consider, the most difficult decision being whether or not to reach out to Rosie’s parents to inform them of what had happened. At the time, it had seemed like a given that they should know, but after their reaction, Cal felt as though he betrayed his friend in telling them. One of Rosie’s sisters had answered the call, handing the phone over to her mother before Cal got a chance to leave her with the information. Somehow, he mustered the wherewithal to break the news and cried as Rosie’s mother wept on the line. Unexpectedly, Rosie’s father had taken the phone from his wife and told Cal he had the wrong number because their son had died years ago. In his devastated state it was difficult for Cal to understand that Rosie’s father was referencing the fact that his family had mourned the death of Roberto when he’d become Rosie, but when Cal repeated the statement aloud in confusion, I understood it just fine. Grabbing the phone from Cal’s hand, I gave the asshole a piece of my mind for Rosie, for Cal, and for me. Most of my rant was delivered to a dead line, but it didn’t sap me of the vindication. A few days after the confrontation, I asked Cal if he remembered what I’d said, and we laughed for the first time in a while when we realized neither of us could repeat a single word.

“All I know is you hit every point,” Cal said, resting his hand on my knee. “It was the best speech nobody will remember.”

“I remember how it made me feel,” I admitted. “Like I was taking a twenty-pound weight off my shoulders.”

“Imagine how you’d feel if you said the same to your father,” he suggested. “You’d feel like you shed one hundred and twenty.”

“Fuck off,” I said with a shake of my head. “My dad would be like his, not yours.”

“Well then what do you need him for?” Cal asked, the question hanging heavy on my heart. If I’d been scared before, Rosie’s death and his family’s subsequent reaction had me petrified. I spent years working my way into my father’s good graces, and somehow, I had gotten there. Experiencing his rejection at such a young age had made me fiend for positive reinforcement, whether I admitted that I craved it or not. Gaining my father’s approval had allowed me to reach a goal I hadn’t known I needed to meet.