Sam: This is my last message. I’m sorry about Drew. But I’m mostly sorry about us. I get it. We’re done. Don’t bother to write back. Lose my number. I’m deleting yours. I hope you have a happy life.
I’m doing us both a favor, I think. You are good people like Drew. You would want the same for me just as Drew wanted for Cate. I’m just skipping to the end because I can’t watch you die.
Me: I’m sorry.
I hit send and turn off my phone. With a fresh bottle and my laptop, I set up shop in my office to take care of business before making friends with Jack. Mr. Daniels and I haven’t spent much time together. But we will.
The knock at my door won’t stop. I blink several times from my place on the couch. I haven’t slept in my room, not having the heart to smell her or remove the sheets. The rap gets more persistent.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
I groan when I see the figure through the peephole. I unlock the door but walk away, hoping to lie back down before the yelling starts.
“What. The. Hell. Ben?”
Jenna bursts through the door like the little fireball she is.
“Please stop yelling,” I beg softly.
“Like hell I will. I’ve called you for days. Mom said you were sick, so I gave you a pass. But Dad said he hasn’t seen you all week. This isn’t like you.”
I cover my head with a cushion hoping she’ll take the hint and go away. Unfortunately, for me, my sister is a tenacious bitch. She pries the throw cushion from my hand and glares at me.
“You reek and look like Sasquatch.” She chuckles for a moment and I have no idea why, but it rings church bells in my head. I close my eyes against the pain. When I don’t laugh, she sobers. “Ben, tell me what’s going on. Have you been listening to this?”
She points to the YouTube music video that’s paused on the screen and the story of what happened between Sam and me regurgitates out of my mouth with a life of its own.
When I’m done, her face holds a pensive look. She bends over and wraps me in her embrace. And my body suffers through the shuddering emotion that pours out of me. I’m no longer able to hold it back.
She pulls back. “Ben.”
I shake my head. “Don’t say it. I can’t do it. I won’t watch her die.”
“Ben,” she says again. “You don’t know if she’s going to die. Have you called her?”
“It’s too late for that. She told me to lose her number.”
I close my eyes reliving the stabbing pain I got from her last message.
“She’s angry, Ben. But if she loves you as much as you love her, she’ll forgive you.”
“I never said I loved her.”
Her head moves side to side like I’m delusional.
“Your reaction is answer enough,” she says softly. “Take a shower and stop drinking. You’re not doing anyone, most of all yourself, any favors. Get your head out of your ass and go be with her.”
Long after she leaves, I turn my phone on. One message from her says it all.
Sam: Sometimes sorry isn’t enough.
I slam the phone down as an echo of the words I said to her are tossed back in my face. Later, I will feel fortunate that the phone landed on my mattress.
Fire burns in my gut for an unspecified time. Somehow I manage to get work done in sober moments. Then the grief over loss cripples me and forces my hand to poison my blood with a bar’s worth of liquor. It isn’t until I finish my entire supply that I get up.
My head rests against cool tiles as I let water meet my flesh in too many days to count. I’ve disappointed everyone. Dad probably regrets offering me more responsibility. Me not being in the office has only meant that he’s had to keep his old hours. The piece of Drew that I keep within me is ashamed of my behavior. And Sam …
I sit on my sofa turning Drew’s letter over and over in my hand before I finally open it. Not that I need to. I know the words by heart.
Ben,