“I thought you knew about Brandon.” His voice was flat, without inflection.
He looked like he was working up the courage to tell me something difficult. My eyes narrowed. If I’d Googled his brother, I could have known, but I’d avoided even that temptation for the last five years, deactivating my accounts on social media.
“Fuck. I’ll just say it. Brandon died. Four years ago.”
My body sagged as though I’d been gut-punched and I used the cold stainless wall to steady myself. The taste of bile rose in my throat. All this time I’d imagined Brandon married, living his own happily ever after across town. Successful and alive. I shook my head. I’d been a bitch for thinking the worst of him.
“After your breakup,” Christopher said, “He disappeared from everyone. Worked all the time. Didn’t talk to anyone. Kinda like someone else I know.”
I couldn’t look at Christopher, but his voice continued as though from a distance. It seemed calm, which was shocking considering the topic was his brother’s death.
“A couple of months after you two argued, he slipped into a coma and never woke up. At first, we had hope, but he stayed like that for a year. By the end, there were no longer signs of brain activity. We turned off the machines. He wouldn’t have wanted to stay like that on life support.”
For Christopher, this was old news and the pain would be more distant. Not forgotten, but squished down to a manageable level. Would my pain become dull, blunt? Today it was like twisting knives.
I rewrote Christopher’s words in my mind. The argument that led to my breakup with Brandon had been minor. After that, his brother ghosted me, blocked my number, and vanished. I’d waited outside his house twice, but I hadn’t seen him. Later, I’d been so wrapped up in my own problems with Eric that I hadn’t heard about Brandon’s coma or death. Tears pricked at my eyes and this time, a few escaped. Christopher could mock if he wanted. I didn’t care. I’d cared about his brother. With partial success, I smothered my feelings so I could ignore them. Dealing with them all at once was too difficult.
The elevator doors opened at the bottom and we stepped out. I reeled—his words like blows. Coma. Dead. I’d spent all this time wondering what would have happened if we’d stayed together. How things would be different. They’d have been the same. I’d be in mourning, and still voiceless, since that was my response to trauma.
With this new grief surrounding me, the memory of the accident hijacked my waking hours. I slipped back to my moment of crisis, the flood of memories overwhelming my mind.
There was a clarity in the headlights. I discovered that in the moment with the blinding lights, screeching tires, and jarring crunch of sound, that while I didn’t want to die, I was resigned. White light rushed toward where I was frozen and time stopped. When I’d viewed photos of the wreckage online, I didn’t understand how anyone could have survived. As the driver, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been the one to live.
“Lizzie, are you okay?” Christopher’s voice came from far away.
I nodded, numb. We walked out of the museum as I relived when I’d walked away from the twisted, mangled metal. My old life had died in that infinite moment, transfixed by the lights, and with it my voice.
Chapter 2
Christopher and I strolled a few blocks to a restaurant, the air warm in the May evening. In this part of the city, most restaurants had outdoor sidewalk patios—so many interesting places to choose from. It was a beautiful evening, ripe with the promise of the approaching summer. Outside was better. I had more space and fresh air. I could tell from his frown that he was concerned, but he’d asked to talk and I would try to listen, despite the shocking news that brought back my trauma. Once again, my mind flashed to Eric and the night that had changed my life.
As we walked through the door, I recognized where we were. I’d been here before when it had served Italian instead of Indian. The scent of rich spices filled the air, bringing me back to the present, and I inhaled their fragrance. I was starving. I couldn’t remember my last hot meal. For convenience, I ate a lot of salads and sandwiches. Once more, I breathed in the heavenly aroma. I couldn’t wait to eat.
A server in black pants and a white blouse led us to a quiet table in the back with dim lighting. It wasn’t supposed to, but it seemed like a date. To a stranger, we might look like a cute couple, though Christopher and I were mismatched. But they say opposites attract. He’s tall and I’m short. He’s dark, I’m fair. His face was made to laugh, while mine was serious. I’ve always been the kind of person who everyone says would be pretty if only I’d smile—the worst compliment ever. Despite all those differences, from the outside, it might look like we fit. I glanced toward the door, wondering if I could bolt or if Christopher would follow.
“Still not a date,” Christopher said under his breath as we sat.
The way his thoughts followed mine was uncanny. Was I so easy to read?
Our server said, “Can I start you off with drinks?”
“A bottle of red,” said Christopher. “Do you have a recommendation?”
I didn’t drink alcohol, so I handed my wine glass to our server and shook my head. He inclined his head and accepted it without pause.
Christopher chuckled. “Never mind. What’s on tap? I’ll get a beer instead. Lizzie, you want a beer? A cocktail?”
I shook my head and held up my water glass.
When our drink order was settled, Christopher said, “I didn’t know you don’t drink. Was it the accident?”
I started. I had forgotten that he’d know about it, but I didn’t want the conversation to be about anything personal—especially not the accident—so I shook my head. It took up too many of my sleepless nights. I couldn’t let it take my days, too.
He lifted my phone from the table and handed it to me. “Tell me.”
“My mom drank.She died. I don’t. Why are we here?”Impatience surged through my veins.
“Let’s order first. I’m starving. If you’re wondering what’s good, it’s all as delicious as it smells. Sometimes I want one of everything on the menu.”
