I’ve always liked being independent because if you don’t depend on anyone, there is no one to let you down. But Caleb and Trent are the exceptions. I looked forward to their calls. Caleb was the one person, besides Dahl, I had always depended on. And Trent was the one person besides Dahl I’d always allowed to depend on me. The fact that he’s doing so well right now is the shiny spot in my life. He’s out of rehab and back in school. He’s even training for a local surf competition.
The first time I called Trent from Australia was the hardest. I had just arrived and he told me Dahl went to Paris for her honeymoon. For the longest time when we were younger, I had wanted to take her there. I wanted to be the one to show her the Eiffel Tower, which she had always dreamed of photographing. The days that followed that call are all a blur. After that, whenever I called Trent, I quickly changed the subject whenever her name came up.
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The airplane door swings shut with a thump and I twist my head toward the window. This is it. There’s no turning around—I’m really going back. As the plane takes off, I look at the golden coastline and say good-bye to what just might have been my own piece of heaven. White sandy beaches and crystal blue water blend together and I close my eyes as that life fades away.
When I open them, the wheels are touching down and my old life comes rushing back. Shit, while I was gone I did a great job of not thinking about anything and I only hope I can keep it up. Even Dahl seems to have faded in my memories. Her birthday came and went, and I never remembered it until days later. I’m not sure why—maybe the passage of time, maybe the distance. It doesn’t really matter though; whatever the reason, it’s working.
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Standing stiff with tension, I look around Los Angeles International. Home, sweet home. I had Trent pick up my car months ago and told him to keep it. Now I have no wheels. I shuffle over to the rental office and take the cheapest they have. I hand the attendant my credit card and get a sick feeling, knowing I’m living off of borrowed credit.
I shove my stuff in the shitty sedan and exit the airport, hopping on the 405S. The freeway is jam-packed with cars, but that’s nothing new. If it’s not an accident or a stalled car bringing traffic to a stop, then it’s construction. I mean, really, where else in LA do you get to park your car for free except on the fucking highway? I’ve always hated this town, and today nothing feels any different.
Thirty minutes later I’m still inching along the road, listening to the radio, when I look ahead and see the bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It reads, “Life is only what you make of it,” and those eight words remind me of the advice my mother gave me just before we took Trent to the recovery center.
She looked at me with such sadness and placed her hands on my face before saying, “Please, be happy for the life you have. Make the best of it and don’t waste it. Instead, try to put your life back together. Benjamin, please try. If not for yourself, then do it for me. I only want to see you happy.”
I grip the steering wheel and jerk my car toward the 110, and away from the road that would take me to Laguna Beach. I silently answer her plea, because I didn’t then. I can do that for you, Mom. I can try.
With her words ringing in my head, I know what my first step toward a new life has to be—securing a job. So I reluctantly decide to call my old editor from the LA Times. She liked me and I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from me. I dial the paper and enter her extension. I get her voice mail and leave a message.
The sun is starting to set as I click my blinker, then take the Adams Street exit. I figure the next thing to check off my list is finding a place to stay. It might as well be near the paper since I don’t have a car. When I stop at the light, my mind flips to the last time I drove down this street and stopped at this very same place—the day I “died.”
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The glow of the headlights shone through the rain. I hated listening to top 40 music, but I turned the radio station to 102.7 for her because I knew she’d like it and it would make her smile. We were listening to Gavin DeGraw’s “I’m in Love with a Girl,” and I was singing along to the lyrics. She was surprised that I knew the words. Of course I did—I always listened to what she was listening to, after all.
She was watching me—I could feel it—so I turned to look at her. I stopped singing and I told her, “If I ever wrote a song, this is the one I’d have written about you.” Then I got off the 110 and headed toward the Millennium Biltmore. I noticed she was still looking at me. So I asked her, “What?”
She grinned at me and reached over the console. She placed her hand on my thigh before running it up my leg and saying, “We’re going to be late to your first award party, and it’s all your fault.”