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There’s something inherently soulless about taking another person’s life, even if it was to save someone else’s.
I don’t take that lightly. I never have. I understand that killing Joel changed me on a cellular level.
In the morning, I pick up Mom, trying to ignore the mess in her house or the way she scowls at me when she has to adjust her hearing aid. We head to the cemetery like we always do. I’ve never understood why she can’t have someone else drive her, or why I agree to do it. I don’t ever even get out of the car. I just watch her trudge over to his grave with a bunch of cheap flowers, kneel there, pray and cry and sniffle dramatically, before stomping her way back to the car all while glaring at me.
Always the glutton for punishment, I take her out for an early lunch, and I sit there while she mumbles under her breath about the slow service and her perceived lack of chicken on her chicken sandwich. Then, like clockwork, she turns to me.
“You know, I really could’ve been happy with him,” she sighs, dabbing at the side of her eye with a paper napkin. “There hasn’t been anybody since, and there never will. Joel was my real last shot. And you—you took that from me. Being the loving mother that I am, I’ve never blamed you for it. I’ve tried not to. But the fact of the matter is that you ruined my chance at being happy and turned me into this lonely, deaf old hag.”
My French fry suspends in mid-air, a dollop of ketchup kerplunking onto the plate. This is new. She doesn’t usually articulate the blame so strongly, choosing instead to dance around the issue and let her intentions and meanings dangle in the space between lies and the truth. It takes everything I have not to spit on her plate and remind her of all of the bruises and the late-night sobfests and domestic disturbance calls. Apparently, it’s really easy to forget over the years how somebody’s hands were around your throat, squeezing the life force from your eyes second by vicious second while all your limbs flailed and the oxygen slowly seeped out of your lungs.
“If you aren’t going to apologize, the least you can do is pay this check.” Mom shrugs, pouting off into the distance. I feel my entire jaw clench as I reach for my wallet, dropping a fistful of bills onto the table and crumpling my napkin into the burger I never even touched.
I drive her home in a silent rage, not even walking her to the front door, and the ride back to the apartment is spent wondering just how hard I’d have to veer off the road to do any serious damage to myself. Not that I ever would after all the tough, internal work I’ve done to lift myself out of the dark hole she put me in—but the thought is enough to scratch the itch. Slamming the front door behind me, I take a shower so hot it hurts, then climb into bed and spend the rest of the evening alternating between staring at the wall and scrolling aimlessly on my phone. Maybe if I get enough self-flagellation out today, I can go back to being around people tomorrow.
It’s the same thing I’ve done every year. It gets me through it, and I’ve never had anyone complain. I just didn’t consider that it might impact Elowyn as well. That she might be alone and hurting just one door down.
Chapter Twenty-One
Elowyn
It takes me a moment to realize I’m alone. At some point in the middle of the night, I must have shifted the pillow behind me into the place Weston usually settles into. I reach for the familiar shape, and where I usually find warm skin, my hand grips only polyester. There’s a fuzzy second of sleep-brain where I panic, but then I remember yesterday and our awkward conversation as he packed his things.
He left me without a backward glance, and I feel wretched.
I should’ve told him that I wanted him to stay, instead of hiding it behind layers of excuses. I guess I got too scared he would say no. I’d rather have this halfway thing than nothing at all. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Maybe it won’t be so different. My back doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does in the mornings from being cramped up together on the sleeper sofa, and I don’t have to coordinate us getting ready in the bathroom. But after pulling on some clothes and taming my hair into something manageable, I can’t seem to bring myself to start making breakfast alone. Walking to my window, I roll up the blinds and then throw the whole thing open, sticking my head out to wave to Weston on the lawn.
Only he isn’t there. I’ve never seen him not take an opportunity to do his morning Tai chi, which he says grounds him for the day ahead, and the whole thing strikes me as especially weird after hearing him talk about how important healing was for him while on our date. I tell myself that he might have just slept in, or maybe he got up so early that I slept through it instead. Either way, I try not to read too much into it. Eden has always told me I have a tendency to overanalyze things. Which is really rich, coming from her, the queen of statistical analysis.
Changing tactics, I turn on the stove. If there’s one thing I have learned that Weston and most of the adult male population can’t resist, it’s the smell of bacon. I start a pan, making sure to leave my windows wide open so as much of the scent as possible can waft across to him. I give it a solid ten minutes but don’t have much luck. Deciding to take my conciliatory gesture to him, I plate up a small tray with a glass of orange juice, bacon, and some whole wheat toast with extra butter, just the way I know he likes. I tiptoe into the hall with my tray and put my ear near his door. There’s definitely someone moving around in there. The TV is on, quietly playing the morning news, and I can hear someone walking around. So I knock.
And I wait.
I knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
I knock one more time, but by now I feel pretty stupid. All of this time spent this morning trying not to panic, and it turns out my one fear is going to come true. As soon as I’m out of sight, I’m out of mind. I’m getting ghosted by the guy who lives almost right next door. Not only am I going to have to see him at home, I’m going to have to see him at work.
I chose wrong yet again.
Storming back off to my place, I sit on the couch with a huff, draining half of the juice in a single gulp and shoving a slice of the bacon into my mouth with my bare hands, chewing it so angrily I look and sound like a rabid chihuahua. I know if I sit here and stew on it all day I’m going to be miserable, and I have more than enough work to keep me busy. So I try to keep him out of my head for as long as I can, filling the day with scrolling through Etsy and writing handwritten note cards. Lately, I’ve started to realize that I don’t need anyone but myself to make this business work. I thought that line of thinking only applied to my family, but I guess it can be expanded to include Weston, too.
He doesn’t work tonight, and even if he did, I certainly couldn’t bring myself to ask him for a ride when he’s made it so clear to me that he isn’t interested in my attention today. I’ve never been one to put myself in a place where I’m not wanted. I drive myself and try to act like something resembling a pleasant person while at work. But I must look even pissier than I mean to because Banjo pulls me aside only an hour into my shift.
“You alright, kid?” He arches an eyebrow at me, leaning against the bar top. It’s been dead all night. Other than Banjo, Allie, and I on the floor, there might as well be crickets chirping and tumbleweeds rolling around in the booths. “You look like somebody just broke your piggy bank and stole all your quarters.”
“I’m fine,” I start to lie before Banjo purses his lips at me with a roll of his eyes. “Okay. I’m not fine. Weston moved back into his apartment yesterday. Which I already felt weird about and don’t really want to unpack. But I acted like it was fine, and he acted like it was fine, and then today he just straight up ignored me. I went to his door and brought him breakfast, and I knocked, and he just didn’t even answer. Even though he was definitely in there. He hasn’t called me or texted me. Nothing.” I stop only long enough to gulp in a breath and feel a hit of regret. “God, I’m sorry. Like you want to hear about my relationship problems.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who asked. Not like there’s anything else going on around here tonight anyway. You think I’d rather talk to Allie about the Kardashians? I prefer knowing what’s going on with people I actually know.” He shakes his head with a wry smile. “Besides, I guess you don’t understand what day it is. Trust me, it’s not personal. He’s like this every year. It’s the anniversary of the accident with his mom and Joel. Taking a life changes a man. Weston’s up in his head. It’s not about you.”
“Oh. Shit. Yeah, okay. I get that.” The guilt sets in instantly. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be dealing with something so massive today. Still, it irks me that he’d just shut me out, after everything we’ve been through together. What happened to us being honest with each other? “It’s just weird that he wouldn’t want my support. On today of all days.”
Scuffing at the floor with the tip of his boot, he sighs. “Weston is complex. You had to know this before today.”
“So am I, but I don’t ignore him. I know I’m making this about me, and you think I shouldn’t, but I thought there was a ‘we.’”
