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20
Libby
And Just Like That… He Left
Gunner Bishop has always been an enigma for me. Child or man, he was always a mystery. Dark. Difficult to grab on to. And impossible to keep.
But his appearance in my life this time lasted three-hundred and thirty-six times longer than the first time.
Literally.
I got one single hour with him when I was nine. One hour that changed the very course my life was on, so despite the fact that one hour was followed by two decades of nothing, doesn’t mean he didn’t shape my every thought or choice.
This time, I was gifted with two weeks. That’s three-hundred and thirty-six hours, and though I didn’t get all of those hours with him, they still counted in some way.
They counted in my heart.
Does that mean I’ve used up my entire lifetime allocation of Gunner Bishop? If one hour of being with him equals twenty-two years of grieving, does that mean two weeks equals the end of our road?
Mathematically, that must be true, and yet, I sit at my desk at the station with my elbows on the wooden tabletop, my chin in my hands, and a pathetic sigh escaping my mouth as at least half of my station’s staff are missing.
It’s Kane Bishop and Jess Lenaghan’s wedding day, which means Alex and Oz are out; they’re part of the bride’s family. Jess really did send Gunner and I an invitation. It’s not on fancy stock, it’s handwritten, and the last few words are in a messy, rushed scrawl, which makes me think Jess was almost caught while writing it out.
But she really did it. She really wants to include the man that would literally be her brother-in-law in a matter of hours.
And not only that, but the handwritten invitation arrived in my mailbox by the evening of our meet – no stamp. She hand-delivered it, and included both of our names.
Well, it didn’t say Gunner Bishop, but Theo Griffin; it’s as though she understands his need for cover. She respects his choices the way I should. He demands to be known as the name he’s built, but I don’t think I’ve used it once, except when speaking to others.
My boss asks about ‘This dude Griffin in town’. So I allow that story and roll with it. But in private, I know who he is.
When it’s just us, or more commonly, just me, he’s Gunner. He’s the boy that stole my heart when I was nine, and not once in any of the three-hundred and thirty-six hours we’ve had, did he think to give it back.
He’s still an asshole.
The town is quiet today. Unlike a week ago when everyone wanted to cause trouble, things are settled now, as though the universe knows we need peace and quiet. Today’s wedding isthewedding everyone is talking about. Criminals and businesses, security experts and police alike, everyone knows those that rule our town are busy, and if you interrupt such an important day with something as annoying as crime, there will be hell to pay.
Everyone is on their best behavior, which means the two cruisers we have moving around town have nothing to do but burn through gas, and the phones I decided in my misery to man haven’t rung in hours.
Where are all of the Aaron Scanlons when you need them?
My face is much better than it was a week ago. My cheekbone is tender, but my lip is mostly healed, and what was an ugly purple bruise surrounding my eye now looks like a nasty case of jaundice.
Everything is going back to normal. It’s as though he was never here.
He doesn’t send me any texts, but then again, I don’t send him any either.
I smashed through my sleeve of cookies by Monday night this week – they didn’t stand a chance of seeing Wednesday.
Everywhere I look, every desk, every computer monitor, every phone held to every ear, the lion logo winks back at me, and though the lion on those products is simply a 2D image and looks absolutely nothing like the roaring monster on Gunner’s back, it still makes me think of him.
I’m broken, and I’m not sure I know how to fix it unless I give up everything I’ve worked so hard for.
The desk phone that sits merely twelve inches from my elbow rings and startles me out of my pity party.
That’s not who I am. I don’t sulk, I don’t dwell. I grieve, yes. My entire life has been one massive grieving jag, and ironically, it’s been for the same man. But grieving and sulking are two different things, which means I need to get my shit under control and finish my shift.
Take the call. Clock out in one more hour. Then go home and start all over again tomorrow, while the chief sleeps off his hangover.
