The Wish for Infinity

By Eden McGuire

Hayes Duchannan is going through the typical trials and tribulations of a seventeen-year-old boy-- puberty, love, and an ever-looming existential crisis. Throughout his life, Hayes preferred to live in the shadows of people who thrive on being seen. While those around him are running towards their future, Hayes is struggling to lift his foot.
Just when he's resigned himself to mediocrity, an end-of-summer party ushers new people and energy into his world, giving Hayes the opportunity to change the trajectory of his year into one he would never forget.
The Wish for Infinity is a heart-wrenching tale that will find a home in anyone who's ever questioned-- where do we belong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eden McGuire
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798387055737

Eden McGuire

Eden McGuire was born on August 25, 1999 and lives in Los Angeles, California.

Book preview

1

Don’t tell Mom or Dad.

I stand frozen at Annie’s door, the crisp white envelope slightly crunched in my hand. I had planned to give her the schedule our school finally mailed her, but now I feel like I’ve walked in on a crime. A guy was in the middle of sneaking through her window, leg hiked and back hunched to fit himself through. She holds the window open in one hand and his arm in the other, in a poor attempt to stabilize him.

Sorry, I murmur, casting my eyes down.

Annie’s eyes carefully dart between us, trying to gauge the severity of our expressions, unsure of who to reassure first. After a few seconds, she settles on him.

Don’t worry—Hayes is cool. Take your shoes off, my sister throws the last sentence over her shoulder, quickly closing the space between us. She takes the wrinkled envelope out of my hand before gently pushing me back, starting to close the door. For a split second, in those inches between the brass knob and its frame, I catch his once-over.

He’s sizing me up.

In those short few moments, I saw enough of him to put a face to a name. Dark hair, stormy eyes, and a smug smirk on his too-symmetrical face. Sporting a polo button-up, navy jeans, and clean pair of Sperry’s—who still wears those?—he could be coming from church or dinner on his daddy’s boat. Jason Werner was the last person I expected to see.

Ah. Maybe that’s why this is a secret.

My thoughts have wasted most of the last critical seconds, and I blurt out the only thing I can think of to keep her attention.

They said they'll be back in thirty. What kind of piz⁠—

I was too late. The door cut off my sentence, and my head fell in defeat.

She’s right; I won’t tell. Annie’s turning eighteen soon and going into her senior year of high school; she can make her own decisions.

Her head peeks out one last time, and her mouth pulls to the side in a murmur. I heard Mom saying something about yours coming in. I think it’s on the kitchen counter.

Annie, I don’t have a lot of time, Jason whispers, a slight annoyance betraying his cool tone. She gives me a brief smile of reassurance before closing the door again, the lock clicking with it.

I knew it was strange when Annie asked for pizza. Until now, it’s been the same thing every year—we go to Texas Road House, and she devours the basket of rolls before we even get our drinks. She acts embarrassed when the employees call for everybody to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and blushes when people turn to watch. But this year she sent our parents out for pizza at a place across town. It always has a wait time of at least thirty minutes, even though we get Domino’s every Sunday…

Things were starting to make sense now. It seemed odd to me that she wasted her favorite dinner just to have a boy over for half an hour. She could do that anytime—we hate Texas Road House.

Annie’s quiet giggle brings me back to reality, where I had been discarded like an annoying little brother. I turn to go down the hall, passing the staggered family portraits, an empty frame waiting on the floor at the end.

My sister made her senior photo appointment at the beginning of summer; she wants them specifically during fall, when the trees are most colorful. Annie has always wanted to be—or have—the best since she was little. She would only use Dad’s office to do her homework, claiming the wooden desk and bookshelves helped her focus. As a kid, I was shown off like a toy for her potential new friends to torture with dresses and makeup—a bargaining chip for friendship. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to get bigger than her and be able to defend myself from the onslaught of eyeshadow brushes and princess costumes.

Since then, she’s found things within herself to impress her peers with. I love Annie a lot, and I know she loves me. She just doesn’t waste her time talking about things that don’t make her look good. I can’t blame her for thinking other’s perceptions are everything. Attention is the first kind of currency we can pay.

Once in my room, I reach for my most recent yearbook. I thumb through school pictures, trying to find the picture of the guy in my sister’s room. Most of the people I knew were through Annie. They’re all her friends, and my acquaintances by proxy. Annie’s one of the only people I can call a friend, and the only person outside of my family was Cody, whom I’d known since pre-k. We never hung out outside of school, but he was someone to have lunch with, or a partner in whatever classes we had together. And in true Cody fashion, he waited until the last day of school to tell me he was leaving.

So…I’m going to New Jersey this summer.

I blink at him, chewing on my sandwich. Like…for vacation?

No, like…to move there.

My chewing slowed while I thought of something to say. We’ve been chem partners the entire year, I should say something nice…

Cool, man.

Yeah.

So I’m back to square one.

Jason’s in Annie’s grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only guy my sister talks to who’s younger than her; she gets annoyed by the rest, even if it’s only a year difference. My finger lingers beneath her photo—hair swept back, a practiced and perfected smile revealing a set of white teeth that took four years of braces to correct. Annie Duchannan. I was with her when this was taken, a line of students waiting to pose in front of a painfully bright blue backdrop. God, I still remember the loud cries immediately after opening her packet a few weeks later, and the thirty minute meltdown that followed. It ended with Annie emailing the school about scheduling retakes, and Mom promising if worse came to worst, she could just put a few filters on it.

I finally find our intruder—Jason Werner. His outfit in the photo’s almost identical to the one he’s wearing tonight. We have a lack of style in common, at least. I flip back a few pages until I find my own name printed under a picture of a hesitant smile, attempting to ignore the students in line staring at me just out of frame.

I’m about to go into my junior year; officially an upperclassman. This doesn’t mean anything more than a step closer to graduation, and off-campus lunch privileges. Mom said eleventh grade is the best, because it’s the last before I have to start applying for scholarships and colleges. I was convinced as a kid for no particular reason that junior year would be my favorite, but honestly, I was young and didn’t know what order the years went. I confused juniors with sophomores, and last year was uneventful. Hopefully, I’m right this time…and if not, I’ll try again in college. And if nothing happens then—well, I can’t say I’d be surprised.

Everyone tries to push the idea that we can romanticize whatever life gives us, even a life of mundaneness. But I don’t buy that. It’s a strange secret we all seem to share but refuse to acknowledge; we say we don’t expect anything, but it can be found if you’re willing to dig deep enough. We joke about desk jobs, hoping that secret talents like singing, acting, or a stroke of genius that sparks a multi-million-dollar company will magically reveal itself before we plant our asses in the chair of that feared desk job. By the time we realize that we really hate sitting in front of that computer, we’re thirty and supporting the new baby, the new car, or the new dog; we’ll just wait a few more years to get that promotion, or change careers. Those few years turn into twenty. Now it’s routine—the chair’s finally formed to our asses, we’re bored out of our minds, but hey, the money’s good. Then we’re fifty-something and it's almost time to retire. It's just that we’ve used ‘about to’ for too long, and have nothing but a job we loathed to look back on.

I’ve seen that exhaustion in too many faces to not be scared of it—that story surrounded me in the faces of teachers, parents; sometimes I look at my dad and all I can see is an older version of myself. A man who smiled the most when he talked about the dreams and aspirations he had that now seemed silly; the man who seemed happiest when reflecting on his past, as if he’d given up on a better future. This possibility was so close, I could touch it; all I had to save me from it was a little extra time.

Another fear of mine is garbage disposals, specifically when hands get inside and they spontaneously turn on, but that’s not as practical. I just saw it on some show and have been terrified ever since.

Annie has ten minutes before my parents come home, and she’s still locked in her room with Jason. That’s not a lot of time to spend with someone, unless she wasn’t…ugh, I don’t want to think about it. She was just on the phone with her friend a few weeks ago, worrying she’ll still be a virgin by the time she’s in college. Mom overheard and sat us both down for a grueling review of safe sex, and Annie started a reality-TV-level fight by accusing her of eavesdropping. Even though her door had been open, and she wasn’t exactly whispering.

I don’t think my sister and I have ever fought. She’s my best friend, and she would be even if I had other options. Friends are cool, in theory. The idea of having to make them keeps me from trying. I keep my eyes to the floor, or pretend to read the books I’m holding while walking between classes to avoid the awkward eye contact. Nothing feels more fake than that tight-lipped smile to whoever you’re passing in those tiny halls. I haven’t been to someone else’s house since elementary school, when we had sleepovers and invited everyone in our class; and even then, I was the kid who went home early. I’ve never been able to make a connection, because I hate the small talk I have to make before it. It’s a waste of time, and I’m trying to make every second count.

And look how that’s working out. Sitting here by myself, yearbook laid open in my lap, talking about seizing the day.

The wall thuds, and my sister’s voice follows.

Ow, Jason!

I snap the book shut, rushing back to Annie’s room. Paint flecks off the door as my knuckles rap against it.

Is everything okay?

I don’t know why I’m so worried. This is the first time she’s let a boy hide in her room, but she’s snuck out or had guys over for dinner plenty of times, and I never felt this protective.

Yes, I…I just…hit my head.

Mom and Dad said they’ll be home in five, I lie.

"Shit. You should probably go, J." The bed squeaks, and then a flurry of footsteps follow.

I begin to retreat back to my room, satisfied with my work. A moment later, her door swings open.

Five minutes, really? Damn, that went fast. she breathes, tugging her twisted t-shirt back into place. She sticks out her hand, ushering for Jason to follow her.

We have time, Ann. Jason argues, still lying on top of her bed. I glance to check her reaction—the nickname usually wrinkles her nose, but she smiles softly instead, and her cheeks fill with pink. I guess he’s the exception.

I want to, but if they see your car, I’m dead.

Jason rolls his eyes. This isn’t my first rodeo. I parked down the road.

Annie’s face betrays her, revealing her hurt for a split second before she recovers. You can come over next week…

Fine. Jason turns, shouldering past me. Annie follows, apologizing in a desperate attempt to ease his anger.

Please, don’t be mad. Come back in a few days.

Whatever, really, it’s not a big deal. He waves his hand dismissively.

C’mon, don’t act like that. It’s my birthday–

The door swings shut behind him, cutting off her plea. I busy myself with my schedule on the counter while Annie stands at the entrance, still catching her breath. Down the road, a car roars to a start, and we both wince. White lights beam through the windows, cleansing us before we’re soaked in a red goodbye.

He really wanted to make sure you heard him leave, I utter sarcastically.

Shut up, Hayes, she snaps. I look up at her, and though she masks it well with anger, I see the hurt glistening in her eyes.

You like your schedule? I ask, trying to get her mind off his exit.

Her chest sinks in defeat. It’s fine, she mumbles. The leather couch puffs out a sharp exhale the moment she falls into it. Did I just blow it?

No. You have a life. He should get that.

She lifts her knuckle to support her cheek, eyes cast down in thought.

You really like him, huh? I ask, sitting at the kitchen table.

He’s not usually like that.

Are you dating?

No. She fidgets with the string on her shorts, and then tucks her frizzy, dark hair behind her ear. Jason and I talked about it, and he made a good point. There’s no use in labels at our age. People date when they get older, this is just high school.

Annie checks her phone more frequently with every passing minute. After the tenth, her emerald eyes narrow at me with growing suspicion.

You said Mom and Dad were coming in five?

Maybe traffic, I mumble, unable to meet her eyes.

Her mouth falls in realization. Did you lie? So Jason would leave?

I chew my lip, but can still feel her eyes piercing me like knives.

Hayes.

Yes.

She sits back in her chair, shaking her head. "Why?"

I don’t like him. I hate my voice for sounding small.

"You don’t have to! But I do, and I’m the one that’s going to be with him, so my opinion’s the one that matters."

He doesn’t seem like a good guy, that’s all. It’s not about me, I’m finally able to meet her glare. I’m not that selfish.

He is a good guy. A great guy, actually.

I disagree.

"Well right now, you look like the asshole. Annie fumes. I keep my eyes trained on her, letting the sting of her words settle into my skin. She knows I won’t retort. After a moment, her eyes soften. I get you’re just looking out for me. But I can take care of myself, and I need to be able to trust y⁠—"

Pizza! My mom calls melodically, pushing the door open with her foot. Dad follows closely behind with three large boxes and two smaller ones stacked on top, catching the door before it slammed with his sneaker. The smell immediately wafts through the room, and my stomach growls.

Yay, Annie chimes, half-heartedly.

You never told us what kind you wanted, Mom chides, passing a stern glare between the two of us.

So we guessed. Dad finishes, adding a smile. There’s sausage, cheese, pepperoni, and Hawaiian.

Pineapple doesn’t go on pizza, Annie says matter-of-factly as she takes a box from dad.

Dad smiles. That’s my girl.

We wanted to try something different. You hardly eat on Pizza Sundays anymore, we thought you got sick of the usual.

I just don’t want to load up on a ton of carbs every week, my sister shrugs. I like pepperoni, though.

Why are you dieting? You’re tiny. Mom looks Annie up and down, eerily similar to the way Annie did when questioning me earlier. The concern in her eyes would have normally wrinkled her forehead, but now her Botox keeps her emotions subdued. Surely you’re not trying to lose weight.

Annie laughs dismissively. No. Just trying to eat healthier.

The hesitation before her answer was brief. It was nearly undetectable, actually, but sometimes I know Annie better than she knows herself. That hesitation was few and far between from a girl as headstrong as my sister.

How much do you weigh? Mom presses.

It’s rude to talk about weight. Annie says defensively. Mom stands, unfazed, waiting for her answer.

One-seventeen. Which is healthy. I’m five six.

They continue to bicker, but it all drowns out into buzz in my ears. Annie uses her hands to talk when she gets mad. I watch the sleeves of her shirt swing from her arms, swallowing them instead of accentuating them like it used to.

Hayes, how tall are you now? Mom demands.

I blink, the sound of my name bringing me back into my body. Six two.

And you weigh?

Mom! Annie chides, slightly begging.

Mom glances at my dad and I for backup, but we keep our eyes to the table, wanting it to be over as much as Annie.

Fine, forget it. Let’s just eat. Mom opens the pizzas, and then the two dessert boxes.

I watch my mom take Annie’s words as truth, because it was easier.

Hey girls, today’s a good day, Dad interjects. I think he feels as awkward as I do. Annie and Mom fight often, but Mom’s friends say it’s just the age. Even though our neutrality usually adds fuel to the fire, I’ve learned not to take sides, which leaves Dad to take on the title of Peacemaker.

It’s her birthday, after all. Look, Annie, they had double fudge cakes this time! They even gave us candles.

I see my sister exhale shortly through her nose and offer a smile to my mom—Annie’s version of an olive branch.

I just worry about you, that’s all. Mom reaches her hand out to tame a few wild strands. Happy birthday, baby.

Thanks for watching out for me, Mama. She wraps an arm awkwardly around Mom, who reciprocates a squeeze. My shoulders relax as if she’d hugged me, too—no casualties. This time.

We all take a seat at the table, chairs scraping against the floor. I notice that Annie nibbles on her first slice until everyone takes a second, and I a third, before finally finishing it. I was right about that hesitation.

We sing an off-tune rendition of happy birthday. I eat one and a half of the gooey chocolate cakes, taking half from Annie’s plate after she offers, and making sure to give her an extra long look. She ignores it and returns to her room, nose buried in her phone. I can’t help but feel she’s typing up an unnecessary apology to Jason.

I stop at her door before returning to my bedroom, tapping my knuckles against the frame.

You good? I ask her. She looks up from her journal, brow lines softening as her concentration fades.

Just annoyed.

Do you wanna talk? I ask, despite knowing the answer.

You know I love being mad, Hayes. She rolls her eyes, dipping her chin as she continues scribbling.

I leave for my bedroom with my schedule in hand, letting my thumb glide over the soft texture of the envelope. No point in procrastinating.

The ripping of the paper slices through quiet air, and my eyes pour over the words, inhaling. Not bad.

I have Advanced Discrete for math this year. I’m not even sure what that is, but my counselor said it’d look great on my transcript. There were the typical core classes, but I scored into AP Literature and History this year, along with two semesters of Psychology, and one of Sociology, to give me a head start on pre-med. Being a doctor isn’t my dream job, but I think it’d be easier to work with the body than the mind. Anything in the service industry was a negative. It’s not the talking that I was terrified of, although the thought made me squirm—it’s the hours of over analyzing afterwards…that’s the worst.

If I could be anything, I’d be a writer. Writing is easier than talking, and it feels like practice for the real world. But my parents—even Annie—don’t really have faith in it. I can’t blame them. I figured in a hospital, I don’t have to sit in a boring cubicle with a shitty chair. I’d have interesting stories and people to take inspiration from. It doesn’t sound as good as lying in bed, letting these thoughts fill up a page instead of my mind, but it’s close.

I’m actually excited to see what this year has to teach me. Maybe I’ll make friends. Maybe I can start hanging out with Annie again, meet a good group before she goes to college. Though I might be asking for too much—that’s a lot of maybe’s.

Hayes? Mom peeks her head through the door, and then abruptly knocks as an afterthought. Sorry, she clears her throat.

You’re good, you can come in. I say, quickly setting my schedule and torn envelope to the side.

She’s knocked since I was twelve, after a slightly traumatizing experience. The one everyone has but doesn’t talk about. I realize she’s looking at me for an acknowledgement of what she said, and I blink myself out of my PTSD.

What?

We’re going school shopping tomorrow with Grandma.

…is Dad going? I ask, glancing at her.

Yes. So, er…let’s try to keep things positive. I want everyone in a good mood.

She answered as nonchalantly as I had asked. Grandma is always grumpy around my Dad—she thinks Dad seems like the ‘unfaithful’ type. It’s just because he’s an Atheist, and she’s a staunch Christian. My mom left the church after a few years of dating him, and they never raised us religiously. So, I guess technically, he is unfaithful.

We’ll be spending the night, so bring a charger and a pair of night clothes, plus something to come home in. Toiletries. Earbuds.

Yeah, I will.

Her cheeks lift with a warm smile. Love you.

Love you too, Ma.

I wait for the click of the door against the frame before peeling myself from my warm sheets. I pack, then brush my teeth and shave in the shower, staring at the water droplets racing down the tile in a half-conscious, half-disassociated state. Once I finally get the motivation to cut off the water, I grab a towel off the shelf and shake it through my hair, slowly coming back to the real world. A foggy mirror keeps my reflection blurry, until I swipe the moisture away with the damp towel, analyzing my reflection through the streaks. My finger finds its way to a small pimple on my jawline, but I let it fall before I decide to do any damage. They always seem bigger than they really are.

With a few pumps of the moisturizer Annie demanded I start using, my routine is complete, and I’m able to crawl back into bed. I plug my phone in and flick the lamp switch off, inviting the darkness to take me. I try to let the pre-sleep thoughts run their course; I’ve had a habit of stopping and judging them, but at a certain point, you just gotta shut the fuck up, so your brain can shut the fuck up.

All too soon, Mom knocks on my door, waking me for the drive to Denver.

I had an alarm set, I groan. It wasn’t even six yet.

I don’t want us all rushing into the car looking like a bunch of lunatics. You can sleep in the car.

Living up in the mountains, curvy roads turn what would be an hour and a half into three. Before I can get out of bed, she grabs my bag to stow in the car. I drag my hand over my face, pressing my thumb and middle finger into my temples. She’s having a hard time letting me do things myself.

I insist on carrying my pillow and blanket out to the suburban myself, determined to sleep until we pick up Grandma across town. After that, there would be nothing but tension and passive aggression. She’s gotten past trying to reconvert Mom to Christianity, but she’s mastered back-handed comments.

I sit in the back with Annie, who’s already passed out, head slumped against the window.

I set my pillow against the cool glass, letting my head sink with a sigh. My sleep was choppy, interrupted whenever Annie would yank the blanket in her sleep. She’s done that forever, but at least she’s outgrown her kicking habit.

A familiar road bump signals we’re close, and I inhale the crisp Colorado air, deciding to enjoy the last few minutes of our quiet.

I try to clear my throat of any morning rasp. Dad?

What’s up, buddy?

Well…I was thinking last night. I was confused, or wondering, really…

Spit it out, son.

I cleared my throat, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. Why does Grandma think you’re a cheater?

Mom falters, glancing at him. Well…it’s more…I think you’re old enough to understand–

My eyebrows crease.

She quickly jumps to his defense. Your father has never been unfaithful. I wouldn’t marry him unless he was a good man. Grandma just thinks that way because he was with someone when we met.

You met in Portland, right?

I moved there right after college, and we met a few months after. The first few years, we were friends—he had a girlfriend at the time—but I fell in love with him the first day I met him.

Me, too. But neither of us could admit it. Dad says, scratching his graying whiskers.

They eventually broke up, and we went on our first date a few weeks later. Mom finishes, closing her eyes against the waking sun.

That soon? I say, surprised.

She confessed her feelings a few days after I ended things. I didn’t see a point in waiting. Dad yawns. But your grandma thinks that since that happened with her, it could happen with your mom.

She’s just protective. I think if he was going to, he would have done it by now. She reaches across the console to take his hand right as he moves it to turn the steering wheel, and rests it on his shoulder instead.

I ponder her words, and find myself wondering how the woman before her would tell the story—if she saw it as romantically as my mother. I didn’t know any details, save for what I