I'll Stop the World (14)

Her eyes met Charlene’s.

“I . . . lettuce you,” Lisa said, her voice soft.

Fly, her heart whispered.

Charlene smiled, resting her forehead against Lisa’s. Their breath mingled together, their heartbeats a shared song. “I lettuce you, too.”





Chapter Seven


JUSTIN

We park on the side of the road, then walk out onto the sidewalks edging the mile-long black ribbon that spans the width of Stone River, dodging ponytailed moms with jogging strollers and bare-chested men sporting athletic shorts and AirPods. By day, Wilson Bridge boasts a steady stream of outdoor fitness enthusiasts, but once the sun sets, it tends to remain empty, save the occasional first-date blowhard trying to convince their companion that it’s haunted.

I guess that contingent has a lot more ammo now that a genuine dead body has turned up. Bonus points for it being so old that they can make up any creepy story they want about its origins; anything may as well be true.

We stop about halfway across, massive steel beams rising up on either side of us to crisscross far above our heads, and lean over the railing to look down at the churning water below. It’s a long drop, at least fifty feet. On the north riverbank, a couple of police cars and a boxy white van sit parked at crooked angles, their passengers picking along the shoreline like uniformed ants. The van has BUFORD COUNTY CORONER printed on the side.

I’d pictured crews out with shovels, digging up the shoreline, maybe some divers in scuba gear combing the river bottom. What I see is far less exciting, just a few uniformed officers milling about, sipping coffee from disposable cups. There isn’t even a body bag.

Even at this distance, I can make out Sheriff Gibson’s imposing silhouette striding lazily among the officers. More than once, I’ve awakened in the middle of the night to find him at our door, holding my mom by the arm to keep her from tipping over.

We aren’t the only macabre spectators on the bridge; a few yards to our right, a group of excited twentysomethings with perfect hair wave selfie sticks, stretching for the best angles to capture the entirely unimpressive scene down below. Farther down the sidewalk, a bearded guy in a matching scarf and beanie sets up a tripod.

“Well, this is depressing,” Alyssa says, giving voice to my thoughts.

I nod my agreement. “They could at least turn the police lights on. Make it feel a little more CSI-y and not . . .”

“Really boring?”

“I was going to go with pathetic, but yeah.”

A few minutes later, the coroner’s van pulls away, and Alyssa sighs. “There go my dreams of anything exciting ever happening in this town. Even our dead bodies are dull.”

“Stone Lake: a very dull place to die,” I say.

Alyssa laughs. “We should go change the town sign.”

“It would be an improvement.” The actual sign reads STONE LAKE: A VERY NICE PLACE TO LIVE. It’s like our slogan was created by a dim-witted kindergartner.

Since there doesn’t seem to be much point in sticking around—especially with the influencer crowd now striking what I believe are supposed to be Sexy Crime Scene Poses on the sidewalk—we finally head back to the Dollar Tree to procure the items on my list, along with Stan’s dumb Oreos.

An hour later, Alyssa and I walk back into my house together, plastic bags dangling from our hands. As soon as I open the front door, the sharp smell of cheap whiskey hits me like a fist.

I can’t check my phone to see exactly what time it is—my arms are too weighed down with bags—but we weren’t gone that long. In my experience, when Mom has the house smelling like a distillery before five p.m., it’s never a great sign.

Did she call Stan to pick her up, or did the entire bender happen since she’s been home? She never calls me, even though she relies on me for pretty much everything else. I guess asking her kid to come scrape her off a bar floor is a line even she won’t cross.

I sigh, my breath mingling with air that is at least 50 percent whiskey fumes. I’m never getting out of this godforsaken town. Someone’s always got to be nearby to parent my parent, and Stan won’t be around forever.

It takes Alyssa’s hand on my arm for me to realize that I’m clenching my jaw so hard it hurts. “Maybe there’s an explanation,” she whispers.

“The explanation is that she’s a drunk,” I say through gritted teeth, stomping my way into the kitchen, braced for a fight.

But it’s not Mom at the kitchen table, up to her eyeballs in whiskey. It’s Stan.

“What the hell?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Stan so much as sip a beer before. I asked him once if he was a recovering alcoholic and that’s why he didn’t drink. He just told me it was “none of your damn business,” which I took as a yes.

But whether or not there was a wagon to fall off, Stan has definitely plummeted headfirst over the edge since we left the house. He looks like he’s been bleached, his skin a sickly gray, making his lank hair and ice-blue eyes seem even paler than usual. He looks at me through a watery haze, both hands clutching a glass on the table. Beside him is a mostly empty bottle of Evan Williams.

Not all of it has gone down Stan’s throat. A good bit has made it onto the table, the floor, his shirt. That must be why the smell is so strong.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask, alarmed. My mind goes to all the worst places. She had a heart attack. She passed out and hit her head. She flipped out and burned down a Target.