Alone and pissed, I kick my boots off, letting each one thud against the wall. What the fuck am I doing? I drop down into the chair beneath Ellie’s picture and let my head fall backwards until I’m looking up at her. “You must be so disgusted with my behavior,” I tell her. “Since you’re probably already rolling over in your grave, I might as well finish the night off.” I get up and walk through the kitchen, whipping the top cabinet above the fridge open to retrieve my bottle of Jack—the bottle I sometimes flirt with after Olive goes to bed.
“Grab a glass for me,” AJ says, walking in behind me. I was going to drink straight out of the bottle, but I guess a glass means I have someone to drink with—that at least sounds better than drinking alone. I grab two glasses and fill them halfway, leaving the Jack out in case there is a need for seconds.
“You aren’t drinking because of me, are you?” AJ asks.
“Nope,” I say, pressing the rim of the glass up against my lips.
“Is it about the letter I found on your coffee table?” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I tip the glass a little higher, letting the liquid burn down my throat at a pretty impressive rate. “Or is it about Charlotte? Or maybe, it’s about the woman at the gardens.” How? Just how? “Dad filled me in. Dude...how many chicks do you have? Here I thought you were impotent and you’re banging three of them?”
“Not quite,” I say, finishing the whiskey in my glass.
AJ grabs the bottle and walks out into the living room. “Let’s hear it.”
At some point tonight the hour hand on the clock turned from eight to two and I can already feel the hangover I’m going to sustain tomorrow...or today...in three hours when I have to get Olive up for school. I just hope I’m sober by then. AJ is slurring his words, bitching about Alexa, and I’m staring across the room at Ellie’s portrait. “We’re both...pathetic fucks,” I tell him.
“You’re more pathetic than I am,” AJ says. “Your wife has been dead for five years and you’re still staring at her picture like she’s going to start responding to you at some point.” His words would normally cause my rage to fire up, but since he’s already had the shit beat out of him in the past twenty-four hours, he’s been drinking, and there’s a little validity to what he’s saying, I’ll let it go this time. Only this time.
“You need to talk to this chick in the gardens some more,” AJ says. “And you need to make up with Charlotte. Wait, didn’t you fix things with her earlier today?” He takes another swig.
“I thought so,” I groan. “Dude, I’m so fucking confused. I have real feelings for Charlotte…I do. I want to be with her, more than just this stupid friend-shit. I’m always looking forward to the next time I see her and I’m always thinking of reasons to call her at night. That means something, right?” I consider my drunken truths for a minute, realizing I’m running away from what I want because of the amount of unanswered questions in my life. “But then I’m like...what about the chick behind the letters? I want to find Ellie’s heart, too. I don’t think Charlotte will understand that.” Never mind the woman from the gardens. I’ll probably never see her again anyway.
“I can see your problem,” AJ says. “Oh my God, Hunt, what if—what if the letters are from Ellie’s ghost?” AJ says, closing his eyes. “You know what, no—“ He wags his finger at me for a long minute. “No, you know what dude? You’re my brother, my blood, my blood brother, you know—“ His breaths elongate as if he’s about to fall asleep. “So, I’m going to help you. Plus, you bailed me out tonight, you’re letting me crash here, and you’ve been a pretty damn good brother. I’ll help you, Hunt. I’ll help you find this mystery girl of yours.”
“Thanks, man,” I say, feeling the heaviness in my eyelids begin to take over as well.
“What if?” AJ says, pulling me from my almost tranquil place. “What if you already know this letter-writing woman? Could you imagine?”
“You just told me she could be a ghost,” I remind him. “But I don’t think that’s the case. The way the woman talks in her letters is almost like she isn’t from this area. She talks about mountains and shit. We don’t have mountains here.”
“Maybe she was on vacation?” AJ says, surprisingly insightful for his inebriated state.
“Maybe.” My eyelids win the battle, pulling me into a heavy fog, a comfortable heavy fog, a place that is far away from every puzzle piece in my life, leaving me alone with visions of Ellie and the life we were supposed to still be sharing. Is it a problem that I haven’t moved on from my dead wife? Is there a rule that says widowers are only allowed a year to grieve before they need to collect themselves and act like normal human beings again? I know it has been five years, but I love her still, as much today as I did then and I don’t know what to do with that.
The amount of times I hear Ellie’s voice in my head telling me to let her go, makes me wonder if that’s her trying to tell me something or if it is my stupid subconscious’ attempt to get me to man up and move on. I can’t even trust my own brain to tell me what’s right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Dad-d-dy,” Olive’s whisperbooms into my ear like a bongo drum in an enclosed bathroom stall. “It’s nine, zero, zero.” Her words ignite my brain and body, forcing me to sit upright in my chair. I slept in a goddamn chair. It’s nine, she missed the bus and she’s late for school. This is officially the most irresponsible I’ve been since the day she was born.
“Shiiiiiiit,” AJ groans, peeling his eyelids open.
“Uncle said a bad wordddd,” Olive sings, dancing around in a little circle. “One quarter please?” She holds her hand out to him, waiting for another coin to put in her piggy bank that is already overflowing from AJ’s bad word fees.
“Olive, go play,” AJ groans again.
“No, we’re late for school!” she squeals theatrically.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” AJ apologizes. “This is my fault.” As easy as it would be to blame all of this on him, this time, it’s my fault.
“This one is on me, bro,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry I overslept, Olive. I’m not feeling well. I’m sick,” I explain.
“You aren’t sick, Daddy,” Olive says sternly, crossing her arms over her chest. Add this moment to the number of times over the last couple of years that I’ve wanted to respond to her with, “Okay, Ellie,” but I’ve refrained.
“Iamsick,” I tell her. “My head and belly hurt.” She doesn’t say any more, but just gives me that look, the look that tells me she doesn’t know what I’m lying about or why, but she knows I’m lying.
“I’ll take her to school,” AJ says, walking into the kitchen.
