Beautiful Graves(69)

“You mean with soap and everything?” I pout, trying to lighten up the mood.

“And everything,” Joe confirms. “You’re lucky my shampoo also moonlights as a conditioner, body wash, and a shower microphone. It’s about to become your best friend.”

“Ugh. Boys have such a basic hygiene routine.”

“With all due respect, now’s not the time to pass judgment, kiddo.”

I feel a smile curling over my face. He stares at me, waiting for confirmation that I’ll do it. That I’ll have a shower. I roll my eyes. “Fine. But no peeking.”

“Scout’s honor.” He reaches for one of his kitchen cabinets and takes out a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. “Now let’s get fucking smashed.”

We take the first shot in the kitchen. It burns through my throat. The second and third one run smoother. Joe grabs the tequila bottle by the neck and walks over to the balcony. I follow. We sit on two plastic chairs with a round table between us, watching the busy night street as winter morphs into spring. The trees don’t look so naked anymore. I can’t believe Dom won’t be here for the cherry blossoms. For the ice cream on the beach. For Cape Cod vacations. Which reminds me . . .

“I hope you took the ship,” I tell Joe. “The one I got Dom from the inn. I know how much you two liked it.”

“I find it hard to want anything Dom had these days.” Joe lights himself a cigarette, and I wonder if he includes me in Dom’s belongings, before reminding myself that it shouldn’t matter. “And don’t feel entitled to any of it. Losing him after everything we’ve been through seems . . . extra cruel.”

We drink another shot. “So tell me how it happened. How you decided to drop my ass? I get that you didn’t have time for romance when you were grieving your mother, but maybe a tiny ‘Hey, by the way, I have bigger fish to fry. Good luck with your life’ would’ve been nice.” He tosses his lighter on the table.

The alcohol loosens my tongue. So does the unexpected pleasant company. Not to mention, today was the first day in weeks I’ve consumed actual food.

I squint at the cobbled street. “Do you remember when it happened?”

“When what happened?”

“The time I stopped answering.”

He thinks about it for a moment.

“We were texting about my coming to see you in San Francisco.”

I munch on my lower lip. “That day, just when you’d started messaging me, I had been waiting for the BART train to arrive. Standing on the edge of the platform with my mom. I wasn’t paying her much attention. You have to understand that at that time, when I’d just gotten back home, all I wanted to do was sit in front of my phone and wait for you to text me. It was really pathetic. My mom had basically dragged me out the door to come help her at the gallery that day.” I chuckle. Mom was so adamant I leave the house.

I understand that you fell in love and that the world is now so dull in comparison, but Joe is not going to show up at your doorstep in the next eight hours, so you might as well come with me.

Joe takes a drag of his cigarette. Smoke skulks from his mouth and nostrils, making him look diabolic. “I’m following.”

“You had just started texting me, and I got all hyped up. I was twirling on the edge of the platform, waiting for you to write me a message. I was so wrapped up in you I forgot where I was. And . . . well, I fell to the tracks.”

Joe closes his eyes. He shakes his head, ridding himself of the mental image.

“Were you hurt?” He swallows.

“I sprained my ankle and got hit in the head. A train was approaching. Mom tried to pull me up. She was a petite woman. Very petite, actually. She tried, but with my bad ankle and dizziness, I was dead weight. No one wanted to insert themselves into the situation and help her.”

I take a deep breath, feeling shaky. Joe leans forward and pours me another shot of tequila. I down it in one go, wincing as I continue with my story.

“Finally, she managed to hurl me up back to the platform, but she fell onto the tracks in the process. Five seconds later, she was gone. The train approached. I tried to reach for her, I did. But she . . .” I draw a breath, feeling tears rolling down my cheeks. “She said, ‘Don’t you dare.’ Don’t you dare.”

And so I didn’t. Didn’t dare to live, to move on, to forgive myself for what happened.

It’s all coming back to me now. The moment I’ve tried so hard not to think about these past six years. The looks. The horror. The shame. The guilt. The screams. The odd silence that followed. The police. The paramedics. The insurance people. Nice, but firm. Renn and Dad crying. Pippa asking too many questions, so many questions. The police officers asking me, again and again and again, in their softest, nicest voices, to relay the last few minutes. And me, being honest, and dumb, and scared, telling them that I danced over the edge of the platform because some boy I liked had texted me.

I knew they were judging me. I judged me.

“I’ve never gone into the subway ever again,” I hear myself say. I don’t feel the words coming out of my mouth. Rather, I listen to them. “And I never will. I cannot see a train without . . . without . . .”

Without thinking about it. Smelling it. Replaying the whole scene in my head.

“Ever,” Joe says softly. “It wasn’t your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone.”