My mom told my dad to bring me home in one piece, but now I see she didn't mean physically.
Mentally.
Emotionally.
I am fucking shattered.
There'sa canyon eight miles outside of town. Devil's Canyon, it's called, I think because it's hot as hell at the height of summer. I've always considered the name to be incorrect, seeing as how heat rises, but maybe it gets its name from the people who dare to rappel it. Sometimes water flows through, courtesy of the Colorado River. Other times it's dry, and there's nothing but jagged pain at the bottom.
It's the perfect place to end a life. A life that never should have been, if you ask my dad.
I don't want to die. Not really. But I do want to stop hurting.
I love my brothers. I love my mom and my sister. Gramps. I love my dad too, in that way that a dog loves its owner even when the owner abuses it.
But wouldn't it be nice if none of it had to happen anymore?
I kick my leg out, let it bounce against the canyon wall. I'm sitting at the top, gathering small rocks and tossing them in. By the time they reach the bottom, I can hardly see them land.
It would be quick. I think.
A plane flies overhead, a passenger jet, and I think of the two hundred or so people on board, none of them aware of what they just flew over. For a split second, I shared the same sliver of earth with those strangers, and now they are miles away.
In the distance, I hear a rumbling, but it's not another plane. It's clearly an engine, and from what I can tell, not very well maintained. I look back, watching it approach.
Closer and closer it comes, until I know it's my best friend, Mickey Schultz. I didn't tell him I was coming out here, only that the trip was a failure and my dad now hates me more than before.
Mickey climbs out of his dad's old truck and comes my way. He's a few inches shorter than me, and stockier, which makes him a damn good football player.
He nods at me when he gets close. His eyes are weary and worried. "This isn't your usual scene."
I nod.
"But I thought maybe you were going off the grid. I tried the lookout first. When you weren't there, I figured what the hell, and tried this place."
"Bingo," I deadpan.
Mickey comes closer, kicking up dirt with each slow step.
"Don't," I say sharply, my hand stuck out. "It's dangerous." I know this is ironic, considering I'm the one sitting on the edge with my legs dangling over.
Mickey ignores me. He sits on the ground a few feet away, scooting forward until he's sitting like I am. His brown-blond curls hang low on his forehead and he squints in the dying early evening light that shines in his face. "What now?" he asks.
"I came out here to think," I explain, even though he didn't ask. It's a lie. Maybe. I'm not sure yet. How certain is anybody when they make the decision?
Mickey folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them. Quietly, he says, "If you jump, I jump."
"That's not why—"
He repeats himself. "If you jump, I jump." This time he says it with his face turned toward me.
I shake my head. I don't want to be seen as a person who might do what I'd been considering. "You've got it wrong, man. I—"
"If you jump, I jump." Rougher, louder, more insistent, and he inches across the canyon edge, closing the distance between us until we're less than a foot away. "Fuck your dad, Wyatt. Fuck him. Fuck him for hurting you. Fuck him for acting like your brothers are more important. They're not. It's that simple. They. Are. Not. I love you, okay?" He holds out a palm like a handshake, but that's not what he's asking for. "Don't make me say all that shit again. Because I will."
Somewhere between the bleakness in my heart and the utter despair that coats my chest, a tiny flicker rises, like the flame from a lighter.
I place my grip in Mickey's, and he uses his other hand to steady himself on the ground and push himself away from the edge, watching hawklike to make sure I do the same. He does this until we're fifteen-feet back, as though he's afraid to let me go, fearful I may take that leap after all.
