I didn’t tell her that. I was going to the next time I saw her. I couldn’t get the thought of her and my best friend, Dylan, out of my head. There are some things you just can’t work past, I guess.
Dylan had a thing for her the whole time Cassandra and I went out. He didn’t think I knew about it, but I did. What was I supposed to do? Give her up to him? I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d make a move the minute we broke up, but I was. Cassandra and I had a terrible fight over it. I said some things I can’t ever take back. I regret that.
Dylan sat in the courtroom during my trial periodically. I knew he was there, but I never acknowledged him. He even tried to visit me in prison a few times. I left his name on the visitor’s list just to fuck with him. As soon as I saw him I turned around and walked right back out. I let him believe there was a chance I’d forgive him one of those times. There wasn’t. It was stupid and childish, but it was the only payback I could accomplish from prison besides tossing his letters in the trash unopened. He finally got the message and stopped the letters and visits.
I hope the guilt ate up his gut every single day.
That’s an ugly thought to have while standing over the grave of the woman who put herself between us. Whether it was intentional or not, the result was the same. I lost my best friend and then I lost the only woman I ever loved within months of each other.
And then I lost my freedom.
I kneel in the damp grass. The knees of my jeans are soaked in a matter of minutes, but I don’t care. I want to touch her one more time. I want to tell her I’m sorry. There is only the hard, cold granite of her headstone to talk to and six feet of earth between us to touch. The grass is unexpectedly cold against my cheek and the wetness seeps into the front of my clothes all the way to my skin. The blades of the grass poke between my fingers as her hair might if I could touch her. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of the earth. It’s nothing like how she used to smell. I can’t seem to recall her scent exactly, but I know if I were to smell it again I’d recognize it.
I blame her for dying.
If she hadn’t died I wouldn’t have gone to prison and lost six years of my life. I wouldn’t be in the shit storm I’m in, trying to rebuild my life. That’s some fucked-up shit right there. I hate myself for feeling this way. It’s so wrong, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. I know her death wasn’t her fault. I know it, but that doesn’t stop me from blaming her and only adds to the rage.
So many of my memories of her are contaminated by anger and grief. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones. I can’t seem to separate them. They’re all tainted by what came after. I’m sorry about that most of all. I’m failing her in that way. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone like Dylan, who probably put those fucking flowers on her grave and visits her on a regular basis. She doesn’t deserve me, who had to be tricked into coming.
All of these thoughts and more pour out of me and into the earth beneath me. I’m leaving everything here because I won’t ever come back. I won’t jab a bunch of flowers into the vase next to Dylan’s. I won’t show up on her birthday or on the anniversary of her death. I won’t stand at the end of her grave, trying to remember what she sounded like or how she smelled.
I rise slowly and look for Vera. She still sits on a bench a few feet away with her back to me, to give me privacy. I head back to the car alone. After a few moments I hear her behind me. We climb into the car and drive away. We don’t speak on the way back to her motel. There’s nothing to say. I wonder at her thoughts the way I wonder a lot of things about her—futilely.
She opens the door of her new room and closes and locks it behind us. Her hands shake as she unbuttons my shirt, her focus on the task. I stand still and let her strip me. I can’t seem to find the strength to do it myself. She drops to her knees, unlaces my shoes, and slips them off. The socks come next, then the pants. She takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom, where she turns on the shower. When it’s hot, she pushes me in and closes the curtain. I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the chill from the damp ground. It washes away other things too.