I always thought Braden was an open book, so open and free with how he felt.
But the reality is, he must have been a master at keeping his deepest feelings inside. He didn’t talk about being sad or depressed. He never said anything about sensing he was a burden or that he didn’t have any reasons to live. He didn’t isolate himself or give away his prized possessions.
Unless...he left me his hat on purpose.
Of course, now I know a lot more about risk factors. I see how detrimental it was for him to experience Paul’s and Macey’s passing in such rapid succession. Their deaths put him at risk. And his death puts us all at risk.
I wasn’t proactive enough with Braden and that’s a lesson I’ll never forget. I won’t fail again. I will be better at looking out for Liam.
In my never-ending quest for answers, I ran across this song about a guy who prevented a bunch of people from killing themselves. The song called him the gatekeeper. But I couldn’t listen to it more than once—made me feel guilty, like I’d fallen down on the job.
From this second forward, I’ll be Liam’s shepherd, his sentry, his gatekeeper. He deserves that.
So, in the gentlest manner possible, I place a palm on the pocket where Liam’s stashed the pills. “We should talk about these.”
Apparently all he wanted was for me to be invested, because he immediately softens. He shuts his eyes and hangs his head, which makes his crown slide forward. I right it for him. His demeanor is that of a child trying—and failing—to pass as a full-blown adult.
He says, “I’ve probably been taking more than I should. I’m starting to depend on them and I’m kind of scared.”
“Would you feel better if you told me about everything? No judgment, pinky swear.”
He nods slowly, but doesn’t say anything. He’s wearing his shame like a cloak, can’t even meet my eye.
“Can you stop taking them if you want to?” I ask as kindly as I can. Now is not the time for him to feel like I’m lecturing him.
His response is another sad shake of the head. He says, “I’m not sure,” and then puts his hands on my waist. He pulls me to him, so I hug him back. He rests his forehead on my shoulder. This is better. We always fit together so well.
“Okay, we can fix this,” I say, my voice full of a confidence I don’t feel. Yet I will fake it until I make it, for his sake. “We will fix this.”
Because I refuse to lose anyone else.
Wait a minute...was Braden taking opioids? A chill runs down my spine. Is that what happened? That certainly would have been a risk factor. Was he making runs up the road for illegal purposes? Was he addicted? Are pills like Liam’s the reason that he killed himself?
I have to know.
“Liam, do you...” His eyes are welling with tears. He’s never broken down like this, not even after the time his dad threw him into the garage wall for missing soccer practice when he’d stopped to change an old lady’s flat tire. “Do you have any idea if Braden was taking the same thing?”
If he was, then I need to act fast. Clearly the pills messed Braden up and I can’t let that happen to Liam. He’s too good, too pure, too important to let slip through the cracks. Not just for me, but for everyone.
Braden’s death rocked North Shore; Liam’s would destroy it.
Liam’s whole body goes rigid in my arms before he takes a big step away from me. He switches from broken to vitriolic in a heartbeat. “I should have known Braden would be your priority. Jesus Christ, he’s not even with us anymore and yet I’m still playing second string. Spoiler alert, I’m never going to be him, Mallory. I can’t compete with him and what’s more, I don’t want to.”
“Liam, no, I’m so sorry. It’s only because we’re talking about it, I was trying to assess—”
“Enough,” he snaps.
“Liam, please, let me help you.” I reach for him and he bats away my hands.
“Get off my jock, Mallory.”
“You don’t understand, I was just asking—”
He doesn’t allow me to complete my thought. He is livid, angrier than I’ve ever seen, and he’s practically spitting as he lights into me. “Enough, okay? Enough. I’ve had enough of your ‘just asking.’ Christ, Mal, you’re worse than my father. You’re relentless. ‘How’s your application coming? When are you going to run stairs? What’s your plan for tackling the research paper? Why aren’t you in AP Humanities? How are you going to deliver the win at State?’ I’m under enough pressure every single fucking day without my girlfriend adding to it, especially one who’s obsessed with a dead guy. Guess what, Mallory. I’m here. He’s not. But seems like you made your choice anyway.”
Suddenly I’m shaky and I want to vomit, and not just because I’ve consumed nothing but celery and rye crackers this whole week. My stomach is swimming in acid and my esophagus burns. He’s right, isn’t he? What is that expression we talked about in English class? Hell is the truth discovered too late?
“Liam, this isn’t you,” I plead.
“I can’t, Mallory. I can’t even deal. With any of this.” He whips off his crown and throws it against the cinderblock wall outside the men’s locker room. Because it’s plastic, it just bounces, although a few of the fake gemstones come loose and scatter. “Our ‘relationship’ is completely fucked up—I keep doing the same thing with you and expecting different results. Well, the train is pulling into the station and I’m getting off. We’re done.”
“Liam, don’t be like this.”
“Later, Queen Mallory.”
With that, he stalks out of the hallway and, ostensibly, my life.
I have no clue how to handle this, how to process, how to break down what just occurred. I’m honestly not sure if I’m more upset that we’re over or that he’s right about Braden, but that doesn’t matter now.
I don’t know what Liam’s taking or how long he’s been taking it, but I think he’s in trouble. Yet I can’t just go to his parents and level accusations, not without all the facts at my disposal. Anyone else’s parents, yes, I totally could/should/would, but his father isn’t a rational person. His dad hasn’t raised his hand to him in a year or so, but these are extraordinary circumstances. If his dad kicked the crap out of him for being a Good Samaritan, I can’t even imagine what might happen if Liam were actually screwing up. That would be such a shitstorm, particularly if he hasn’t done anything wrong.
I can’t do that to Liam.
Because I’m at a loss, I proceed the only way I know. I keep up appearances. I straighten my crown and adjust my dress before marching up to my spot in the stands. As I head towards my friends, I act like everything is as perfect as it looks.
Like I always do.
As I navigate to my seat, people offer congrats on my win.
I smile and I nod and pose for pictures, radiant in my victory, flashing that winner’s smile. I come across so damn happy.
But I wonder how much happier I’d be if I could just go home and order fifteen pizzas.
24
OWEN