What can I say to that?
“You should go. I’m sorry, but you have to go,” he says, fighting tears again.
I know I should leave. But I need to know the details. No matter how sick and wrong it is. “What happened to him? How’d he . . . .” I feel the tears form before they fall.
He closes his eyes as if trying to get away from my question. He wants to burrow away. I can see it. His shoulders slump like he’s given up. “He shot himself. I’m sorry. I need to go be with my wife right now.”
He squeezes my shoulder and takes off toward Dean’s mom and the lady holding her up.
The sky is falling. The clouds are trying to suffocate me. Guilt spirals in my mind. Over and over like the deranged Tilt-A-Whirl I used to ride at the carnival with Tate. I close my eyes and the world spins around me.
I need to get out of here.
I run to my car and slam myself down onto the front seat and just sit there, staring through the glass. I grab the steering wheel and twist my fingers around the leather. A little boy rides by on a bike, screaming at another boy. His voice is muffled, like he’s inside a bubble. A guy walks his dog, staring back at the sirens with a strange, curious expression. The dog barks in slow motion.
My tears have dried up and I keep reliving all the moments I’d had with Dean. All the memories. The sadness in his eyes that matched my own.
He was like me.
He’s really gone.
Oh, God. I can’t do this. I can’t feel. I don’t want to feel any of this.
39
I speed down the street, fighting the urge to either throw up, hit something, or just drive off the bridge and end it all so I don’t feel anymore. It doesn’t have to be on Halloween. I can just do it now.
The Dover Bridge appears through my windshield. It’s really not spectacular as far as bridges go. It’s made of cement and has pockets of graffiti gracing its walls. It’s just conveniently placed on top of a huge river. I get out and sit on the edge of the bridge’s railing, fighting the wind that threatens to blow me off. The air’s always stronger up here, like the river fuels it, like it wants to control it.
I close my eyes and try to board up the pain, but it doesn’t work. This is too big to fit in a box—too real. I close my eyes and try all the tricks I’ve done before to empty my heart. “Alabama, Alaska, Arizona . . . .” I rub my head. “Arkansas . . . .” I lower my head into my hands. “Baltimore . . . no. Connecticut?” I uncover my face and stare down at the river. “Fucking California!” I smack the railing, then hit it again. And again until my fingers are red and raw.
I feel like I’m nine again and Dean’s telling me that horrible ketchup joke. I let out a pathetic laugh then grip the railing again. “Three tomatoes are walking down the street, a papa tomato, a mama tomato, and a little baby tomato. Baby tomato starts lagging behind. Papa tomato gets angry—” I growl the word like Dean had when he’d told me the joke. “—goes back and smooshes him and says, ‘Catch up.’” I laugh until I’m clutching onto my stomach. “That joke was so stupid, Dean!” I stand on the edge of the bridge, the wind pushing and pulling me apart as I laugh through tears.
When I do it, then he’ll know. Maybe he’ll finally listen to me for once. Too bad I won’t be around to say “I told you so.”
“Is that what you wanted? For someone to listen to you?” I say, the misty air wetting my lips. Why didn’t I just listen to him? Would it have mattered?
My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my body.
His blood is on your hands.
I crumble off the ledge and slide down so my back’s facing the bridge. Would he have ever told anyone what I wanted to do? I feel like I’ll never be able to stand again. How can I stand upright while Dean is lying horizontal? Did he have a plan, too? What could I have done to stop him? He’d made up his mind. Like me. Did he know the date? Was it random? What if having a plan was a mistake? Four days. Halloween’s only four days away.