I should say something, but I have no idea what that is. What if it is a suicide note?
I hold up my finger to Luke who looks washed out. “Give me a minute,” I tell him as the bar’s door crashes shut behind August.
I hop down from my stool and follow her, realizing I’m asking for trouble.
She’s fishing for something in her bag, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see her pull out a set of car keys even after telling Luke she isn’t driving.
I was wrong, though.
August pulls the note back out of her bag and crumples it in her hand. “You stupid son of a bitch,” she shouts into the wind.
I keep a safe distance as I follow behind her, past the lit-up restaurants and other bars that are packed with the after-work crowds. August doesn’t stop at any of the other bars; she keeps on walking toward the lake.
I know I should have stopped following her six blocks ago, but something isn’t right, and my conscience won’t let me sleep tonight unless I know she isn’t using the bridge ahead of us as a recourse for her troubles.
My feet tire as we reach the bridge, the ache in my back is throwing off my balance and putting pressure on my tired legs.
To my relief, August takes a seat on the weathered bench, over the dark water, reflecting nothing but the glow from the stars.
“I know you’re following me. I’m not going to jump off this bridge, and I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to call the sheriff because some creep is stalking me. Please, go away,” she calls out, but doesn’t turn to look at me.
Chapter Four
August
Dear A**hole,
My therapist, the one I need because of you, told me to write you letters. It should help with the pain, she said.
I’ve decided to try it, but every time I sit down to write you a damn letter, anger rushes through me as if someone removed the cork that keeps the bubbles inside a shaken bottle of champagne.
Whatever though, it’s not like you’re going to be reading this anyway, right? Right, Keegan? It’s because you’re dead.
I bet you don’t know what it feels like to be so angry at a dead person that you wish they weren’t dead so you could have the last word.
I don’t get to have the last word. I didn’t get to have any say in your choice, but here I am, living with your decision—your stupid, selfish decision.
What right do you have killing yourself in our bathroom, a room I can’t exactly avoid? What made you think swallowing a bunch of pills after downing whiskey bottles was the way to go? Why not just skip the whiskey, hang onto your damn chip, and swallow the pills? At least that way, you could have died with some dignity… not much, but a little more.
Now, I know how weak you were. You could have had it all, Keegan, but no, you took it all with you.
Well, screw you. Screw this letter, and if you weren't already dead, I’d wish you were.
Love ... no, I don’t love anything about you. Un-love,
Auggie
P.S. I hate you.
I take the paper,crumple it back up and throw it into the lake. I release the letter and my damn emotions, but I don’t feel any better. I’m just angrier.
With a huff of exasperation, I turn around, looking for the creep who followed me down here, but I’m thankful to see he’s no longer lurking. It may seem like I’m acting dumb to anyone around me, but everyone mourns in their own way, and no one has the right to tell me how I should cope.
I’m the one who must go home to an empty apartment that still smells like my boyfriend a week after he died and I’m the one who has to lay down in the bed we shared, wondering how long I lived with him as a caretaker instead of the woman he loved. I didn’t lie about driving because I live too close to that damn bar to bother starting my car. It’s a half mile at most ... a location Keegan must have had in mind when suggesting the location of our apartment.
It’s funny how everything is so clear to me now. They say love is blind, but I must have been blind and deaf. With the sign to our complex in view, I check my phone to see the time, surprised it’s already nine o’clock. I like to be in bed by nine since getting up at six-thirty is painful no matter how early I turn in, but tonight I’m not feeling tired in the least.
This is what Keegan did, but he would come home much later. He would walk through this door, heavy footed with his clunky boots that were usually untied around the ankle. His hair would be a mess, and not in a tousled sexy way, but the way that showed he’d run his fingers through his hair so many times that it became a greasy, tangled mess. He would be covered with grass stains, and have dirt caked under his fingernails. Every night, I told him he needed to shower before climbing into our clean sheets but I’m not sure how often he listened because I was usually asleep before he would fall into the bed. I was used to the thumping noise and being bounced around on the springy mattress that died along with our relationship.
