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“Lucas made the decision—”
Hisdecisionalmost killed me, but I keep that part to myself, always locked deep inside. He dragged me out of bed, challenged me to the edge of that cliff. I’m always so fucking competitive.Was . . . still am, I suppose.
As best friends, we’d push each other to do shit we shouldn’t. We did with all the guys, but that afternoon it was just the two of us. I wasn’t in a good mood. Cliff jumping was the last thing I wanted to do, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the weather had turned warm after a long and cold winter.
I gave in to shut him up, though I should have stopped him. No one saw what an asshole Lucas could be except me. He was great at getting away with murder. I used to admire his skills.Now I resent him.
He left me carrying the burden of the truth.
He left me to tell lies.
He left me living when so many wish that I was the one who died.
Fuck him.
I warned him not to tempt the fate at Devil’s Edge. There was so much more life to live, and he chose to throw it away over a bet for a burger and fries.
Fuck him for leaving.
I close my eyes and scrub my hand over my face, then rub my temple to lessen the throb threatening to ruin my night.
“Lucas was following me,” I say, the lie comes easy after two years of repeating it. I don’t know if I’m lying for me or my cousin anymore, but I’ll say anything to make his death easier on others. The better they feel, the less they interrogate me about how I’m doing.
I’m a quick learner. The survivor doesn’t matter, leaving me caught in a purgatory between lucky for walking away and condemned to spend my life reliving it for other people’s pleasure because I’m the one who survived.
If they only knew how close I came to meeting my own demise. Regret still taints the luck I had for not dying.
But I continue to tell the lies to protect him and his memory, to protect his legacy.
Straight A’s.
Star athlete.
Going off to the Ivy League.
Everyone loved Lucas Westcott. Especially the girls . .. I don’t do bad, but he was the golden boy.
“Harbor?”
My dad’s voice brings me back to the party. I turn to him, and ask, “Yeah?”
But I’m greeted with the sadness I’ve put in his eyes. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure. How long do I have to?”
He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder again. I’ve learned it’s his way to hold on to me, to tell me he’s here for me, to be a support when words fail him. The thing is my parents have always been here for their kids. They have a brood of four, but they love each one of us enough to make us feel like an only child.
“Your mom would like you here for a little while. If you can do that for her, I’ll cover the rest of the time.”
“I can stay.”
He looks over at her, and says, “I should get over there and rescue your brother.”
Rescue . . . the word lassos the memories I try to forget. I push them back down, the feelings growing inside, and put myself back at this moment instead like I’ve practiced. “Thanks, Dad.”
“For what?”
I shrug, sometimes finding it difficult to locate the words as well. Like father, like son. “For being my dad.”
