Why should I give him the time?
For Ava.
The answer is immediate. I want to be with her. No walking away ever again, but she loves Drake, and rightly so. For her sake, I can try to stitch a few broken pieces together. I might not be able to promise all of them, but I can try.
A thick swallow. A deep breath. I click the first voicemail.
* * *
+1 (856) 839-6759
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Ryder, hey. Uh, it’s Drake. Look, I know it’s been a few years, but I’m—you know what, I need to back up. I, um, I want to apologize. Truly, man. Those things I said, I didn’t mean them. It’s no excuse, but I freaked myself out about Ava’s health and . . . I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I’ve never regretted anything so much as those things I said.”
There is a pause, something rustles in the background, like he’s shifting positions. After a second, Drake clears his throat and goes on.
“I know this is out of the blue, but I wanted you to know I’m getting married.”
I can practically hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah, I can hardly believe it myself, but you’d love Veronica. She puts me in my place.”He laughs.“I have no right to ask this, but I want you there, Ryder. I . . . I need you there. Despite what I said, you’re my best friend, man. Always were.”
Another pause. I pinch the bridge of my nose, since Drake’s voice shifts to something thicker, more emotional.
“Anyway, the ceremony is at the house on March eighth. I, um, I hope you’ll call me back. I really hope you’ll come. Okay, well, bye.”
He hurries off the phone and there is a new pressure in my chest that wasn’t there before. I’m not sure if I’m cursing Drake or myself for not listening to the stupid message years ago. Knowing the outcome of that marriage . . . I take no less than ten breaths before I listen to the next one.
His voice is broken, filled with heavy emotion. My eyes close; my hand covers my mouth, as I struggle to understand Drake speak through his agony.
+1 (856) 839-6759
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Ryder . . .”
A sob breaks from his throat.
“I don’t . . . I don’t even know why I’m calling, but I just . . . thought of you. Will you call me back?”
Another sob. It’s loud and laced in anguish.
“I was supposed to p-protect her, you know? I’m trained to save people, and I couldn’t—”
Drake’s voice breaks, it sounds as if he might be trying to muffle another burst of tears. He sniffs and lets out a trembling breath, voice hardly more than a whisper.
“I couldn’t save my own wife. Ronnie, she’s . . . gone, and our baby . . . he’s in the NICU because he’s so early. I don’t know why I’m calling, I really don’t, but I can’t stop spinning.”
He curses, and it sounds as if glass shatters. When he speaks again, his voice is rough and low. But there is a wretched numbness in his tone, like he’s slipped into something adrift, almost catatonic.
“Weird, isn’t it? When something like this happens we . . . we sort of reflect on those who matter most to us. I, um, I just needed someone outside my family tonight, I guess. I-I needed a friend. I don’t know if you’ll hear this, but I didn’t know what else to do. I never should’ve interfered with you and Ava. If you felt even half of what this feels like . . . I’m sorry.”
He ends the call with a rough, throaty apology.
I drop my phone and cover my face with my hands, elbows on my knees. Images of a broken Drake on the floor, in shambles, desperate for a friend to pull him off a ledge, rampage against my skull. I could’ve—I would’ve—been there for him. Nothing could’ve kept me from being there. No anger, no cruel past, no moment in time with two eighteen-year-old boys who were hurting could’ve kept me from being there.
I wipe at my eyes, ashamed of myself. We were all so hurt, so lost in our own pain we let so much go.
