"What kind of help?" Chance asks.
I figured it was obvious what kind of help Keegan needed, but I guess it's only apparent to the person who spent half her life watching him self-destruct.
"I guess I was faithful in keeping my promise to him, but he won't know if I break that promise now." I take in a deep breath, pulling in the smell from the pub's grill we're walking past. "Keegan suffered from alcoholism. It was in his genes. His mother was an alcoholic who eventually wrapped her car around a tree. That was the beginning of the end for Keegan. I tried to help him."
The pain in my stomach forces me to stop talking. I don't know if it's the whiskey or my emotions getting the best of me, or maybe it's because I've said more than I should have.
"You're a good person for sticking it out with him. Love like that doesn't happen to everyone, and he was lucky to have you, August."
"It wasn't that kind of love," I tell him again. How do I explain love to someone? Everyone feels it differently. I know there isn't just one way to love someone, but I loved him like he was a deteriorating limb on my body, slowly dying from gangrene. I couldn't just cut it off because it wasn't working anymore. I couldn't abandon Keegan the same way. It was that kind of love. I'd probably do the same thing for a dog, I suppose.
"I get it," he says.
"Why have you been following me, trying so hard to help?"
After the questions pour out of my mouth, I reach into my purse for the flask I had topped off before heading to Kenny's.
I might be tipsy, but I still notice Chance's gaze as it fixates on the flask. "You seemed like you needed a friend. That's all."
"I'm not the type," I tell him. I've spent most of my life as a loner. May was the one with a pack of girls following her around like she was a pop star. I'm more of the silent, book-worm type. I've learned how to handle my pain, possibly in unorthodox ways, but this situation is out of the realm of anything I could have ever imagined. So, what you're seeing is not me channeling my character. I'm merely trying to understand Keegan's perspective, and so far, I'm at a complete loss. We've made our way down the few blocks where a small intersection separates the shops and pubs from the gardens near Lady Bird Lake's bridge. The air is muggier here, and I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the dampness that's causing my roots to curl. It's typically dry and mild around this area, but these storms are wreaking havoc.
"I'm used to doing things myself, I guess. I don't like to share dirty details about my life with people because who wants to hear others complain? I certainly don't. That's why I write down what I'm thinking." I pull a note from my back pocket, one I started earlier—anotherDear A**holenote.
"What's in the note, if you don't mind me asking?"
"How about I read it to you? That way, you'll have listened to all my whiney words for the evening, and we can move on from our 'poor August' episode. Sound good?"
"I'd love to hear what's in your note."
Why is he so patient, understanding, and empathetic? He doesn't know me, and I don't know anyone who'd want to listen to a stranger blab her woes.
"I was kidding. I won't bore you with my words."
"No," Chance says, reaching out, then placing his hand over my clenched fist that's hanging onto the folded note. "Read it out loud. Maybe it'll help."
"It's stupid, really," I tell him.
"It's not stupid, darlin'. It's your way of grieving. It's a good thing." He may not think that if he hears the words I've written.
I take a moment to look up at Chance's face, really taking him. He's most likely the same age as me, maybe a touch older, judging by the salt and pepper sprigs of scruff on his chin that I noticed earlier. Right now, in the dim lighting, I can only concentrate on the reflection of the stars in his eyes and the way the orange glow from the hovering bridge-lights make the color in his eyes look more yellow than green. My focus falls to his for no good reason, noticing the perfect curve in the center of his top lip. His face has an overall pouty appearance, but with a hint of happiness peeking out from within his dimples.
"Fine, I'll read it," I surrender.
Chance places his hand on my elbow and tilts his head to the side. "Let's go sit over there on the bench." He's distracted me so much. I haven't had a second to open the flask or take a quick swig, which I had planned on doing five minutes ago.
"Sure," I tell him, following his gentle lead.
We take a seat on the wooden-plank-board bench, and I unfold the note.
I try and focus on the first two words, knowing what it says, but I'm struggling to see without more light. I hold the note up a bit, gaining just enough clarity to make out what I've written.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" I ask.
"Start reading, darlin'."
I clear my throat, wishing it wasn't feeling so tight like it does when I'm writing the words.
Dear A**hole,
