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She was crying because he was gone.
I couldn't comfort her.
I couldn't even comfort myself. He was my father. An asshole, but still my father, and I was supposed to be comforting her about it?
If I had been there for her the way she needed me, she never would have slipped into this depression. She would have been sad, sure, but she would have been okay.
If I hadn't left that stupid bottle of sleeping pills by the bed, she wouldn't have gotten the idea to take them.
I failed her then. I can't fail her again.
***
Samantha's parents live in Montecito, the richest city in the Santa Barbara area. Their house is huge, one of those suburban mansions on a hill. It has everything--four bedrooms, a study, a long, formal dining room, a view of the California coastline.
I still know the way there from memory. I've been visiting her a while now.
It's sunset when I arrive, and there's a soft orange glow over the quiet streets. They're too quiet, like there's no life in these houses.
My shoulders tense. I'll always be Samantha's friend, but this is the last weekend of this. It has to be.
I park on the street and walk up the long stone path to the door. Samantha answers quickly. She's dressed like an actress in a movie. Not in pajamas, but in designer loungewear.
"I got takeout," she says.
We move into the dining room. It's a huge, empty room with a sturdy oak table. Once upon a time, I made a joke about having sex on this table.
She didn't find it funny.
I set the wine on the table, a bottle this time, and Samantha shrieks.
She throws her arms around my neck and presses her lips into my cheek. "Oh my God, I love you."
I swallow hard. It's a friendly I love you. That's it.
She brings her eyes to mine. "My parents are trying to convince me to stay here again."
"Will you?"
She shakes her head. "If I do, I'll do it again."
The words fall with a thud. They're so effortless as they pass her lips. It's like she mentioned the weather, or her plans to see a movie this weekend. It's not like she just said she's going to attempt suicide again.
She looks at me. I'm doing an awful job of hiding my expression of horror.
"Don't start," she says. "I'm not comforting you over it."
"You can't say things like that and not expect people to be upset."
"Fine, be upset." She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a wine cork. She shakes her head as if to ignore me, all her attention on the bottle of wine. "Sit down. You're making me uncomfortable."
"I'm making you uncomfortable?"
She pours crimson wine into one of the glasses. "You used to be the one with guts."
"You think it's funny you tried to kill yourself, fine. But I'm not going to keep coming here if you're going to joke about it."
She looks at me like I'm an idiot. Again. Shakes her head, pours another glass of wine, and passes it to me. "You used to be the one with a sense of humor."
