Reminders of Him(72)

I need to know.

If I’m going to drop to my knees in front of Patrick and Grace when I beg them to give her a chance, I need to fully know the person I’m fighting for. Even though at this point she couldn’t say anything that would change my mind about her. I know she’s a good person. A good person who had one bad night. It happens to the best of us. The worst of us. All of us. Some of us are just luckier than others, and our bad moments have fewer casualties.

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, and then I say, “Please. I need to know, Kenna.”

Another quiet moment passes, but then she grabs her phone and unlocks the screen. She clears her throat. My window is cracked, so I roll it all the way up and make it quieter in the cab of the truck.

She looks so nervous. Before she begins to read, I reach over and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as a show of solidarity . . . or something, I don’t know. I just want to touch her and let her know I’m not judging her.

I just need to know what happened. That’s all.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


KENNA

Dear Scotty,

Your car was my favorite place to be. I don’t know if I ever told you that.

It was the only place we could get true solitude. I used to look forward to the days our schedules would align, and you’d pick me up from work. I’d get in your car and it was like feeling all the same welcoming comforts of home. You always had a soda waiting for me, and on the days you knew I hadn’t had dinner yet, you’d have a small order of fries from McDonald’s sitting in the cup holder because you knew they were my favorite fries.

You were sweet. You always did sweet things for me. Tiny little gestures here and there that most people don’t think of. You were more than I deserved, even though you’d argue with that.

I’ve gone over the day you died so many times, I once wrote every single second of that day down on paper. Most of it was an estimate, of course. I don’t know if I actually spent a minute and a half brushing my teeth that morning. Or if the break I took at work really was fifteen minutes to the second. Or if we really spent fifty-seven minutes at the party we went to that night.

I’m sure I’m off in my calculations by a few minutes here or there, but for the most part, I can account for everything that happened that day. Even the things I wish I could forget.

A guy you went to college with was having a party and you had been his roommate your freshman year, so you said you owed it to him to make an appearance. I was sad to have to be at the party, but in hindsight, I’m glad you got to see most of your friends that night. I know it probably meant something to them after you died.

Even though you had made an appearance, it wasn’t your scene anymore and I knew you didn’t want to be there. You were past the parties and starting to focus on the more important pieces of life. You had just started graduate school, and you spent your spare time either studying or with me.

I knew we wouldn’t be there long, so I found a chair in a corner of the living room and curled up into it while you made your rounds. I don’t know if you knew this, but I watched you for the entire fifty-seven minutes we were there. You were so magnetic. People’s eyes would light up when they would look at you. Crowds would gather around you, and when you’d spot someone you hadn’t yet greeted, you’d have this huge reaction and make them feel like the most important person at that party.

I don’t know if that’s something you practiced, but I have a feeling you didn’t even know you had that kind of power. The power to make people feel appreciated and important.

Around the fifty-sixth minute we were there, you spotted me sitting in the corner smiling at you. You walked over to me, ignoring everyone around you, and I suddenly found myself the focus of your sole attention.

You had me locked in your gaze, and I knew I was appreciated. I was important. You sat down next to me in the chair and you kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

You didn’t leave me alone. I was with you the whole time.

“Do you want to leave now?” you asked.

“Not if you’re having fun.”

“Are you having fun?” you asked.

I shrugged. I could think of a lot more things that were more fun than that party. By the smile that spread across your face, I gathered you felt the same. “Want to go to the lake?”

I nodded because those were my three favorite things. That lake. Your car. You.

You stole a twelve pack of beers and we snuck out and you drove us to the lake.

We had a favorite spot where we’d go some nights. It was down a rural back road, and you said you knew of it because you used to go camping there with your friends. It wasn’t far from where I lived with roommates, so sometimes you’d show up at my apartment in the middle of the night and we’d go there and have sex on the dock, or in the water, or in your car. Sometimes we’d stay and watch the sunrise.

That particular night, we had the beer you had taken from the party and some leftover edibles you had bought off a friend the week before. We had the music turned up and we were making out in the water. We didn’t have sex that night. Sometimes we only made out, and I liked that about you so much, because one of the things I’ve always hated about relationships is how make-outs seem to stop when sex becomes a thing.