November 9: A Novel(83)

She begins to pull her sheets off her mattress. “I hope when I move in with Kyle you start wearing boxers or something. And I can’t believe I was forced to sleep on my own couch while your drunk ass stole my bed.” I want to tell her to slow down, but every time she talks, I feel more and more relieved. “You owe me big-time.”

She loses the smile on her face as she takes a seat on the mattress across from me again. She leans forward and looks at me sincerely. “I don’t want to pry into your life. But I love your brother and as soon as my lease is up, we’re all going to be living together. So I’m only going to say this once. Are you listening?”

I nod.

“We’re only given one mind and body at birth. And they’re the only ones we get, so it’s up to us to take care of ourselves. I hate to say this, Ben, but right now, you are the absolute worst version of yourself that you could possibly be. You’re depressed. You’re moody. You’re only eighteen, and I don’t even know where you’re getting your alcohol, but you drink way too much. And as much as your brothers have tried to help you, no one can force you to want to be a better person. Only you can do that, Ben. So if you have any hope left in you at all, I suggest you dig deep for it, because if you don’t find it, you’ll never be the best version of yourself. And you’re going to bring your brothers down with you, because they love you that much.”

She stares at me just as long as it takes for her words to make sense in my head. She sounds like my mother, and that thought hits me hard.

I stand up. “Are you finished? Because I’d like to go find my car now.”

She sighs with disappointment and it makes me feel bad, but I refuse to let her see that all I can think about now is my mother and how, if she saw me today, what would she think of me?



*



After a few texts to friends, I discovered where my car was. As Jordyn drops me off, I debate apologizing to her. I stall at the car with the door halfway shut, wondering what to say. Finally, I lean down and look at her.

“Sorry for the attitude earlier. I appreciate you helping me last night, and thanks for the ride.” I go to shut the door, but she calls my name and steps out of the car. She looks at me over the hood.

“Last night . . . when you called? You kept saying something about the date today, and . . . I don’t want to pry. But I know it’s the anniversary of what happened with your mom. And I think maybe it would be good for you if you went to see her.” She looks down and taps her fingers on the hood. “Think about it, okay?”

I stare at her for a moment and then I give her one quick nod before getting into my car.

I know it’s been two years. I don’t need a reminder. Every single day I wake up and take my first breath, I’m reminded of that day.



*



I grip the steering wheel, unsure if I’m going to get out of my car. It’s bad enough that I drove out to the cemetery in the first place. I’ve never visited her gravesite before. I just don’t feel the need to because I don’t feel like she’s really there. I talk to my mother sometimes. Of course the conversations are one-sided, but I still talk to her. I don’t feel like I need to stare at a headstone in order to do that.

So why am I here?

Maybe I was hoping it would help. But the fact of the matter is, I’ve accepted my mother’s death. I understand why she did it. And I know that if she didn’t make the choice to take her own life, the cancer would have taken her soon after. But everyone in my family seems to think I can’t move on. That I miss her so much it’s affecting my life.

I do miss her, but I’ve moved on from that. What I haven’t moved on from is what I did that night.

I listened to Kyle when he said not to mention Fallon or her father ever again. I don’t look them up online. I don’t drive by whatever houses they may live in now. Hell, I don’t even know where they live. And I don’t plan to find out. Kyle was right in that I need to keep my distance from that. They chalked it up as accidental, and the last thing I need is someone growing suspicious of that night.

But I still think about that girl every single day. She lost her career because of me. A good career. One lots of people only dream about. And my actions from that night are going to follow her for the rest of her life.

Sometimes I wonder how she’s doing now. There have been several times I’ve wanted to research her—maybe even see her up close—just to see how badly she was injured in the fire. I don’t know why. Maybe I think it’ll help me move on in some way if I see that she’s living a good life. But the one thing that prevents me from looking her up is the fact that she may not be. Her life could be so much worse than I expected, and I’m afraid of how I’ll take it if that’s the case.

Just as I’m about to crank my car, another car pulls into the parking lot beside me. The driver’s side door opens and before he even steps out, I can feel the dryness creep into my throat.

What is he doing here?

I can tell it’s him by the back of his neck, his height, the way he carries himself. Donovan O’Neil has a very recognizable presence about him, and considering I saw him plastered all over the TV the night of the fire, I’ll never get his face out of my head.

I look around me, wondering if I should crank my car and back away before he notices me. But he’s not even aware of his surroundings. In his right hand, he’s holding a bundle of hydrangeas. He’s heading toward her gravesite.