Chris always joked that he would be the stud of the afterlife. I was so accustomed to his sick humor, I took it in stride. I never thought he meant it. Brax has often said same thing Savannah just did, that nothing would have changed the outcome of that night, but I struggle to believe it. What I did that morning hurt Chris. Was it enough for him to take his own life? I don’t know. There is only one person who can answer that question. He is resting in the ground I am standing next to.
That has been the hardest issue for me to work through the past six years. I’ll never know if I am to blame for Chris’s decision. I can only assume I am.
Upon hearing leaves crunching under boots, I peer over my shoulder. Just as anticipated, Brax is heading my way with a six pack of beer and a bucket of wings. We do the same thing every year. We share beers with our brother.
“Was that Savannah?” Brax asks, his tone low, wary of how I will react.
“You didn’t tell me you’d been speaking with her,” I reply, answering his question with an accusation.
Brax smirks hesitantly. “You knew she was back; I didn’t realize I had to update you on every conversation we have.”
He skirts past me before racking his knuckles on Chris’s headstone. “Can’t believe you left me to handle these two by myself. Talk about leaving a brother hanging.”
I nearly have a go at him for using Chris as a decoy, but with memories of me doing the same thing to Savannah mere minutes ago filtering through my mind, I keep my mouth shut.
“Why were you talking to Savannah, Brax?” I stammer out before I can stop myself.
I snag a beer out of the six pack I brought with me, mindful I’ll need alcohol in my veins before hearing what he has to say. I can’t remember the last time I spoke about Savannah without being intoxicated. I even chugged down four shots of scotch before I called Brax last month to advise him of her resurrection. He thought I was high, as usually he is the one who brings her up.Or my drunken self who doesn’t know any better.
Brax waits for me to gulp down two large mouthfuls of beer before saying, “She’s renting my old apartment.”
Malted liquid flies out of my mouth, spraying both Chris’s headstone and Brax.
“You’re supposed to share your beer with Chris—not my face,” Brax mutters while using his shirt to clear the beer away.
“Savannah’s renting your apartment? Since when?” You can hear the shock in my tone.
Brax shrugs like it’s no big deal. I don’t understand his lukewarm response. This is a big deal—it is ahugefucking deal.
“I don’t have a say about who moves into my old place. That shit isn’t on my shoulders,” Brax mutters, incapable of ignoring my glare for a second longer.
“Then how do you know she’s renting your apartment?”
His nose scrunches. “She found some old photos my grandma had stashed in the back of the closet.”
“So she just gathered they were yours?” I prompt, hurrying him along.
The suspense is fucking killing me. The address on the registration of the Mercedes that picked Savannah up last month is nowhere near Brax’s apartment. Brax doesn’t live on the poor side of Ravenshoe, but it’s pretty fucking close. Going from Ravenshoe’s equivalent of Bel-Air to the Bronx is a significant drop in residential status. Did that happen by Savannah’s choice? Or did her well dry up?
I’m not saying the Mercedes’ owner is Savannah’s sugar daddy, but when the sky is dark and grumbling, I’ll forecast a downpour. If he isn’t her sugar daddy, their gap in age is as nasty as the lukewarm beer I’m guzzling like soda.
After draining my beer in one chug, I dump it on the ground then shift my eyes to Brax’s amused gaze. “I swear to god, Brax, you have five seconds to tell me what you know before I introduce my fists to your teeth.”
Brax throws his head back and laughs. “You two need to stop hanging out. I’m getting confused on who is who,” he cackles, bouncing his slit eyes between Chris’s headstone and me.
I punch him in the arm, inciting even more laughter.Our friend is dead; he shouldn’t be making jokes.
“Don’t even go there, Ryan. That shit got old real quick six years ago,” Brax warns, his voice void of his earlier humor. “If given a chance, Chris would rise from the dead just to kick your ass for all the shit you’ve been hanging yourself with since his death. Chris doesn’t blame you for what happened. I don’t blame you. Savannah doesn’t blame you. So stop fucking blaming yourself. Chris made a choice. We have to live with it.”
“This isn’t about Chris; it’s aboutSavannah,” I whisper my last word, annoyed that I can’t drop my inquiries for a few more hours. Today is the sixth anniversary of Chris’s death. My focus shouldn’t be on anyone but him.
Brax nudges his head to a section of grass across from him. “Make yourself comfortable, and we’ll tell you everything we know.” He speaks about Chris like he is still with us. Always has. Always will.
When I do as instructed, Brax keeps his word. “On my way out on a Friday night, I bumped into Savannah in the lobby of my building. She handed me the box of photos. I asked where she found them. She told me. End of story.”
No, I’m not exaggerating. That is precisely what he says.
“Every time I’ve seen her since, she was as avoidant as you’ve been the past six years, Ryan. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye when speaking to me.”
