Page 31

Now I understood what The Light had tried to tell me.

His path is not yours to walk.

Samuel turned toward me in his sleep, his hand falling inches from mine. I placed my palm over it, pretending there was something between us besides air and everything I could no longer change.

He was leaving me, too. Not the same as I’d left him. Not all at once, with my name caught in his throat. Samuel was disappearing slowly, one mile and one unanswered call at a time. He’d drink until the pain blurred, wake somewhere unfamiliar, then drive far enough to convince himself that no one could reach him.

I’d believed the worst thing that could happen was leaving him. I’d imagined his grief in the dark hours when sleep wouldn’t come, had pictured him at the cabin alone and wondered how he’d survive a life we both knew I wouldn’t finish beside him.

Samuel turned toward me in his sleep, his hand falling inches from mine. I placed my palm over it, pretending there was something between us besides air and everything I could no longer change.

And I’d followed him beyond death only to discover that I might still lose him.

I just didn’t know how to stop it.

Samuel

The motel key says Room 14, but I couldn’t tell you the name of the place or the town printed across the sign out front.

I know I saw it when I pulled off the highway. There was a green exit sign, a gas station with two pumps, and a diner sitting beneath a flickering red arrow that promised breakfast all day. Ten minutes later, the details were already gone.

Somewhere along the way, the names stopped mattering.

Every town has the same stretch of road lined with fast-food restaurants and stores I don’t need. The same diner with burnt coffee and a waitress who calls everyone honey. The same motel where they try to mask the smell of the years' worth of smoke and spilled liquor that have soaked into it.

I don’t remember where I slept three nights ago.

I’m not sure I remember last night.

The key turns in my hand as I cross the parking lot toward the truck. I paid for the room because the sun’s already slipping behind the trees and I know better than to keep driving once I start drinking, but I’m not ready to go inside yet.

Nothing is waiting for me in there except another bed with too much empty space.

The truck’s engine rattles when I start it. The sound comes from somewhere near the front end, faint at idle but louder when I press the gas. I know exactly what I should check first, but I don’t do it.

A few months ago, I would’ve pulled the hood release before the engine had time to warm. I would’ve listened until I isolated the sound, found the problem, and fixed it before it became something worse.

Now I turn the radio on.

Static fills the cab before a country song cuts through, some guy singing about a woman leaving and taking half his life with her. I shut it off again and back out of the parking space.

The liquor store is less than a mile away. It’s always less than a mile away.

By the time I return to the motel, there’s a brown paper bag on the passenger seat and another missed call glowing on the screen of my phone.

Knox.

His name has appeared often enough that I stopped counting days by sunrise and started counting them by how many times I let his calls go unanswered. He usually tries in the morning, then again sometime after dark.

Jon calls less often, but his messages are longer. They’re full of updates I don’t ask for about the garage, the club, and people back home who apparently keep asking whether anyone has heard from me.

I never listen to the whole thing.

The screen goes dark, taking Knox’s name with it.

For a moment, I sit there with both hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at the bare place on my left hand where my wedding ring used to be. The skin is lighter beneath it, a pale strip that hasn’t caught up with the rest of me yet.

I rub my thumb over it until it hurts.