Rose Martin
Landon stood at the kitchen island reading and rereading the letter, pinballing from anger to regret to grief. They’d talked about the pill, of course. Everybody had. He would never forget what Rose said the first time she heard such a thing existed: “We need to face our life head-on. The good and bad. That’s what makes us human.”
On a hard barstool, hours after he’d had his heart ripped out at the kitchen island, Landon pulled the letter from his breast pocket and did his body the disservice of reading it one more time. There was so much to mourn in each of the two short paragraphs, but what hurt the most, he found, was the inclusion of her last name. In all the letters he had sent to her over the years she had never been Rose Martin, or later, once they’d married, Rose Calloway. She had always been just Rose, and he just Landon. They were really, truly strangers now.
Landon didn’t hear Conor come in and only noted his presence when he clapped Landon on the back, a bit too hard for Landon’s taste. “I’m so glad you called,” Conor said.
Landon folded the letter neatly and slipped it into his breast pocket, only barely fighting the urge to scrunch the letter into a ball. “I’m not.”
“You know what I mean.” Conor lowered his imposing body into the battered bar chair and squared his shoulders. “I’m just glad you’re not alone.”
“I try not to drink alone anymore.”
“Yeah,” said Conor, his eyes as bright and pleading as they’d been when Landon was at his very lowest, unsure if he’d ever crawl out. “I’m glad for that.”
When Landon first met Conor freshman year, he’d thought very little of him. They’d both had the same bright idea to sign up for Introduction to Photography to preemptively pad their GPAs, and Landon assumed he would have nothing in common with the loud, large hockey player beyond that. But through the mediocre photography that earned them both Bs, Landon learned that Conor was far more emotionally attuned than anyone gave him credit for. He saw the beauty in small things: the stalk of a dandelion, birds scattering in the fields behind the science center, sand slipping through the cracks in his thick fingers. The instant Landon committed to getting to know the man who saw the world with such tenderness, Conor became a constant in his life—a stabilizing presence through the worst turbulence. When Rose finally said yes, it was Conor who Landon asked to stand by his side. He’d coached Landon through at least two of the hardest moments of his life and was now quietly preparing to walk him through the third.
“I’m buying, obviously,” Conor said, slapping his credit cardon the counter. “Actually, Bill is buying, and I’ll get away with it as long as they don’t card me, so feel free to order a ridiculous cocktail. Something on fire, perhaps?”
Landon locked eyes with the bartender. “I’ll take whatever pilsner you have on tap,” he said.
“And if you could go ahead and light it on fire, that would be great,” Conor added, winking. “An old-fashioned for me, thanks.”
Landon fiddled with the distressed wedding band he and Rose had finally settled on after months of searching and wondered if she’d taken hers off before she’d taken the pill or after. He wasn’t sure which made him feel worse. “She wrote me back.”
Conor turned to face him, both hands on the bar. “And?”
“I wish you’d never given me her address.”
“You’re burying the lede.”
“She didn’t just move halfway across the world. She got her hands on one.”
Conor’s kind eyes widened. “A pill?”
Landon swallowed hard. “I was too late,” he said. “Too late by a mile.”
“Oh God,” Conor said, running a hand through his hair. “But when Poppy gave me the address, she didn’t tell me—”
“Of course Poppy didn’t tell you,” Landon said with a laugh that hurt as it shook loose. “Poppy would be the first to tell anyone who asked that she doesn’t owe me anything.”
The bartender placed a light beer in a tall glass in front of Landon and an elegant cocktail with a smoking cinnamon stick in front of Conor. “That was the best I could do.” She shrugged. “We had an unfortunate incident with a scorpion bowl last fall, and my boss still hasn’t let me hear the end of it.”
“You’re a gem,” said Conor, swirling the drink. “Truly.” She smiled sweetly, perhaps thinking he was flirting—a trap Conor had fallen into so many times Landon finally worked up the nerve one boozy night not long after graduation to ask if he’d ever thought about giving women a try. “Oh God no,” he’d said with a chuckle. “But I can still admire beautiful things, can’t I?”
Landon drank half the pilsner in one gulp. “I think I’m in shock,” he said. “My chest hurts, and I feel like I’m made of plastic.”
“I can tell you with certainty that you are not in shock,” said Conor.
“I’m not sure you should be diagnosing until you’re a full doctor.”
“Fellowsaredoctors.” Conor cracked his knuckles. “And the only thing I would diagnose you with is a severe case of delusion. I love you, Landon. I do. But be serious. Are you really surprised that she took it?”
Landon took another long sip. “I really am.”
“I mean, even after—”
Landon’s arm cut through the space between them like a knife. “Don’t,” he said. “Please. The day could still get worse, but I’d rather not help it along.”
