by K. Street
Friends…just friends, I remind myself.
Her laughter stops abruptly, and her hand flies over her mouth. She looks at me with a horrified expression on her face and then bursts into tears. This time, they have nothing to do with amusement. I set my plate to the side and move to kneel in front of her.
What the hell just happened?
“Tess, talk to me.”
She drops her face into her hands, sobs racking her body. I stand and draw her into my arms.
“I-I miss him.” Her face is buried in my chest, her words muffled.
“Shh. Breathe, Tess. Just breathe.” My arms hold her tighter as I gently sway our bodies back and forth. “I miss him, too,” I confess. It’s the truth regardless of his mistakes. I didn’t just lose my brother, my business partner; I also lost a friend. “It’s okay to laugh, to allow yourself a reprieve.”
Guilt weighs on her; I can see it all over her.
“It just feels so wrong.”
I step back. My hands move to her cheeks, and I hold her face in my palms. “Look at me. You have nothing to feel guilty over.”
She shakes her head, and her hands travel from her sides to wrap around my waist. I drop my hands from her face and hold her against me.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, no matter how angry I am with my brother, if I had the power to change the circumstances, I would. If I could go back, if there were a chance to alter the outcome of that night, I’d do it in a second. Even if that meant I’d go my whole life loving Tessa from afar, fucking random women and living in my own hell, I’d do it for her.
Seeing Tessa so broken is almost more than I can take.
We settle back onto the couch, and I reach for the remote and turn the television off. She curls into my side, resting her head against my shoulder, and we share memories of life before. Of hockey games and baseball. And Trevor.
eight
Tessa
It’s been three months since Trevor died. Three months of going through the motions, trying to acclimate to a life I still don’t know how to live.
Each night, I come home to an empty house, and although Trevor traveled a lot for work, it’s a different kind of empty now.
Hollow. Barren.
Silence has never felt so loud. Some days, I miss Trevor so much, I’ll call his cell just to hear his voice on the recorded message. His phone was in the car the night he was killed, and the cops finally released it to me. The battery was dead.
Dead. I hate that word.
After I charged it, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it on, and I stuck it in the top drawer of Trevor’s nightstand. I tell myself that, tomorrow, I’ll be stronger. I cling to the sentiment, fully aware I’m holding on to a lie.
My parents were devastated when I broke the news to them. Mom called once they’d gotten home from their cruise, and my parents were on a plane the next day. They spent a few days with me, but I was relieved when they left. I could stop pretending I was okay, and they could stop pretending they believed me.
I don’t know how I would’ve made it without Dante. I’ve cried into his shoulder on more occasions than I can count over the last few months. There are many days when the darkness nearly drowns me in its depths or I find the blade of a knife too alluring. Dante is there, a ventilator forcing air into my lungs.
Today is one of the obscure days. The kind where thoughts of swallowing pills or disappearing into the bottom of a bottle calls out to me like a temptress. I don’t go in search of alcohol or drugs; my vice isn’t lethal. Instead, I stare up from my place on the plush carpet inside our bedroom closet. Where Trevor’s clothes remain, as though he’ll be home any minute. Where his smell, still thick, wafts around me. This is the one place I can still feel him.
No longer able to sleep on our king-size bed, I’ve taken to the closet floor. Trevor used to joke that, no matter how big a bed we bought, I’d cling so close to him that he’d be left with mere inches and his imagination to sleep on. Without him, there’s no one to catch me or stop me from falling. His scent has vanished from our sheets, and instead of the warmth of my husband, my skin is met with the arctic chill left behind by his absence.
Grief lies down beside me. Its sorrowful fingers coil around my heart, tightly clutching it with a pain so intense, I nearly cry out. I place my flattened palm to my chest to rub away the ache.
Desperate to feel closer to Trevor, I rise from my pallet and grab the stool I keep tucked away. I unfold it and climb to the top step. Standing on my tiptoes, I stretch for one of Trevor’s hoodies. I almost lose my balance, and the whole stack topples to the floor. When I right myself, I spot a vaguely familiar-looking shoebox hidden behind a pile of sweatshirts. Carefully, I shift the clothes, so I can reach the box. One hand grasps securely to the keepsake, and I step off the short ladder to settle myself amid the pile of haphazard hoodies.
With a deep inhale, I open the lid and peer inside. A sound—half-laugh, half-sob—escapes me. My eyes land on a baseball trading card. The player is the little-boy version of my husband with laughter in his blue eyes, blond hair sticking out from the baseball cap on his head, and his dimpled grin showing off his missing teeth. He’s wielding a bat nearly as tall as he is.
My breath catches, and my mind drifts to the children we dreamed of but never had. Fresh tears fill my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I don’t just mourn him. I grieve for the memories we’ll never make, all those moments I’ll never have a chance to lock inside my heart. I lament the loss of a potential future that has no chance to come to fruition.
I continue to pilfer through the contents of the box, smiling, laughing, and crying at all the objects inside. I finger the remnants of my husband’s life that ended too soon. Before I realize it, only an unsealed envelope remains inside the shoebox. White, facedown, the edge tucked into the corner of the cardboard.
Lifting it out, I pull back the flap and remove the contents. As I smooth the creases with my palm, my eyes scan the pages. In a matter of seconds, my whole world crashes at my feet…again. I thought nothing could be worse than living without him, but I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong.
nine
Tessa
Memories rush at me, most I’m able to dodge like bullets from a gun. Others hit their mark, chinking my armor, bringing forgotten details to the forefront. A memory from long ago surfaces.
I woke to the feel of Trevor trailing kisses down my neck, the weight of his body pressing into me.
“I missed you, T,” he said. “I missed you so much.” His warm breath floated over my skin.
“I missed you, too,” I managed to say through my sleepy haze.
He slipped lower, lifting my sleep shirt over my breasts and sucking a pebbled nipple into his mouth. His teeth grazed the tender flesh. “I need to be inside you,” he said with urgency.
He was gone to Atlanta for two weeks, and we’d had a huge fight before he left. I’m torn. We needed to talk, but he felt too good.
“Please, baby. Please,” he said, tugging my panties off. His finger finding my clit, rubbing slowly, making me wet.
Silently, I spread my legs, granting him access.
He sank inside me, filling me. Rocking deeper, he kept his face buried, refusing to look at me. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, T. I love you. I love you more than anything in the world. I’m sorry.” His apology is desperate and soul-shattering.
“Shh, Trevor. It’s okay.” I tightly wrapped my legs around him, driving him further into me. “I’m here. It’s all right.”
I stand, sending everything in my lap crashing to the closet floor. Outside, a thundering boom follows a flash of lightning. The entirety of that night rains down on me in a torrent of truth. It never occurred to me until now. Trevor always fell straight into bed after a red-eye flight, but that night, his hair was damp, and he smelled of soap. He wasn’t apologizing for the argument we’d had before he left.
He was begging me to forgi
ve him for a sin he never confessed.
The realization is like gasoline tossed onto an open flame. Blinding rage burns me from the inside out. All rational thoughts vanish in a smoky haze before I walk out the door.
Rain beats mercilessly against the windshield as I drive into the dark, ominous night. Every turn of the wheel is purposeful. Reaching my destination, I drive beneath the brick archway along the winding path and come to a stop. Wetness streaks down my cheeks before I even open the door. Anger, not sadness, is the cause of the tears.
I clench my keys in my hand, grab the small flashlight from the glove box, and get out of the car. I have no idea how long it takes to finally get to the spare, but when my fingers wrap around the tire wrench, everything else fades into the background…except the manic compulsion.
I spot the tree and trudge up the hill, my feet slipping on the wet earth. Soon, I’m standing in front of him, reading the headstone without seeing the words. I drop the flashlight onto the ground, the glow illuminating the rock. A savage scream rips from my throat. So loud, it drowns out the thunder. I wrap both hands around the metal rod and raise it over my head. With a downward motion, steel strikes granite. Pain travels up my palms. Stinging vibrations surge through my bones like the tines of a tuning fork. An instinctive reaction sends the tire iron crashing to the ground.
Purpose-driven panic sends me to my knees in search of the weapon. My fingers grasp the tool and brandish it like a hatchet, swinging it into the hallowed ground.
“You motherfucking son of a bitch!”
Whack.
“We made vows, you bastard.”
Whack.
“I hate you.”
Whack.
I’m completely lost within the abyss of my shattered soul. I desecrate Trevor’s grave with the single-minded lunacy of a woman deranged. I don’t register the shouts in the distance. When my arms grow tired, I toss my weapon of destruction aside and use my hands instead.
My fingers curl into claws, ripping chunks of grass from their roots. Wet soil burrows under my nails. I lift my arms to wipe my face against the soaked material covering my shoulders. Snot, dirt, and tears mix together, covering me in a muddy mask of misery.
I don’t stop. I can’t. Not even when the darkness is lit with red and blue lights.
“You bastard! I hate you!” I scream, pounding my fists into the soggy ground.
Large hands wrap around mine, forcing me to still. To feel the pain head-on. It hurts. It hurts so much. I peer into slightly familiar eyes. He says something, but I can’t hear him over my own pleas.
“Please,” I beg. “Please make it stop.”
Weak and soaked to the bone, I’m gently raised into a standing position. My gaze remains focused on Trevor’s headstone.
Almost everything else fades away. The pair of small hands patting me down. The unrelenting rain. I barely register the glide of the metal or the click of the cuffs snapping into place.
ten
Dante
It’s just after one in the morning when I wake to the sound of my ringing cell.
“Hello?” I answer, wiping sleep from my eyes.
“Dante?” My name is barely a whisper.
Suddenly, I’m wide-awake.
“Tessa.” Panic runs through me. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you come get me?”
I jump out of bed, searching for my discarded jeans. “Where are you?” I ask, grabbing a T-shirt from the drawer and quickly tugging it over my head.
“I’m at the police station.”
Her answer halts my steps midstride.
“What are you—” She’s safe, so the question can wait. “Which station are you at?” I grab my shoes and put them on.
Tessa rattles off the info and tells me to ask for Officer Wade.
“I’ll be right there, Tess. I’ll take care of everything.”
When I get to the station, I’m led over to a chair. A few minutes later, I’m approached by an officer.
“Are you Dante Salinger?”
“Yes.” I stand and extend my hand.
“Officer Wade,” he says with a firm shake. “Come this way.” He directs me down a hallway, and we come to a stop outside a windowed room. “How do you know Tessa Salinger?” He asks the question like it’s some sort of test.
“She’s my sister-in-law.” I clear my throat. “My brother died recently.”
From the look on his face, it’s obvious I passed. “I’m sorry for your loss. We picked up Mrs. Salinger after we got a call from the groundskeeper at the cemetery. We arrived to find her actively desecrating the grave of the deceased.”
Why would she have done that?
Fuck. Does she know?
“Is she under arrest?” I look at her through the glass.
She’s wrapped in a blanket, eyes void of emotion. Wet hair clings to her dirty face, making her nearly unrecognizable.
“No.” There is sympathy in his eyes. “I understand there are extenuating circumstances. You might want to see about getting her some help.”
Whatever she needs, I’ll handle it.
“Is she free to go?”
“Yes,” he says, opening the door to the room. He hands me some papers, Tessa’s phone, and her keys. He points to the paper. “The number for the impound lot is on the paper, and she’ll need to pay a fee to get her car out.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, extending my hand once again. “Thank you, Officer Wade.”
“Mrs. Salinger, you’re free to go.”
Tessa gets up and walks toward us, a vacant look in her eyes. When she’s next to me, I try to put my arm around her, but she sidesteps me and heads for the exit. I follow closely behind her, wondering what the hell happened since yesterday.
The car is quiet, and the rain has finally slacked off.
I turn to her. “Talk to me, Tess. What happened?”
She doesn’t answer, just looks out the window without saying a word. Her clothes are caked with dried mud, and she has grass stains on her cheeks that I didn’t notice before. I don’t know what set her off, but there’s no way in hell she’s in any position to take care of herself tonight.
She doesn’t protest when we pull in front of my place or when I take her inside or even when I lead her to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
“I’ll get you something to sleep in.”
I grab a T-shirt and pair of boxers for her from my dresser. When I return, she’s still standing in the same spot.
“Do you need help, or have you got this?”
“I’m fine,” she says monotonically and without eye contact.
“Whenever you’re ready, whatever you need…I’ll be here.” I back out of the bathroom and close the door.
A little while later, I check on her, only to find her in my bed, sound asleep. She looks so fucking small, lying there, and for a few minutes, I just watch her breathe. There’s nothing I want more than to climb in bed and hold her, but she isn’t ready for that.
I go to the dresser for a pair of basketball shorts, take a pillow off the bed, and go sleep on the couch. By the time I fall into a deep sleep, the sun is rising.
eleven
Dante
I bolt upright, nearly falling off the couch. Last night comes back to me, and I squint at the clock.
Holy shit.
It’s midafternoon. The sun is bright, and it’s quiet. Too quiet.
I go to my room to check on Tessa, but she isn’t there.
“Tess?”
The bathroom door is wide open. Her dirty clothes are still on the floor, but there is no sign of her. When I walk back into the bedroom, I notice her phone is missing. I plugged it in to charge last night.
“Tessa?” I call out.
I get the response I expected. Nothing.
Where the fuck would she have gone?
She has no purse, no car, no keys.
In the bedroom, I find my phone to call her. I listen to it ring four time
s before going to voice mail. I call her again. Same thing.
“Fuck.” I’m pissed at her for sneaking out and at myself for sleeping so soundly.
I toss the phone on the bed and get dressed. Then, a thought occurs to me, and since she isn’t answering her phone, it’s not like I have another option.
Since we share a phone plan through S&S, I use a location app to find Tessa. When I see she’s home, I blow out a relieved breath. Her car is still at the impound lot, so I’ll take care of that first and chew her ass out later. Now that I know she’s safe, my temper flares.
I’m still pissed when I get to Tessa’s place hours later. Somehow, I manage to knock on the door instead of busting the damn thing down. When she finally opens it, I step inside and pin her with a glare.
“What the hell, Tessa? What happened last night? How’d you get home?”
She folds her arms over her chest but says nothing.
“Damn it, Tessa. Answer me.”
She flinches, and I immediately regret raising my voice.
“I used the app on my phone,” she finally responds.
I cross the few feet between us and place the keys in her palm. “Your car is in the parking garage.”
She closes her fist and jerks away from my touch. “Thanks, but I would’ve handled it.”
“Is that right? Because, from where I stand, it doesn’t look like you’re handling anything.”
“Dante, don’t.”
“Don’t?” She must be fucking joking. “You need a recap, Tessa? You called me to pick you up from jail after destroying his grave. You wouldn’t say a word last night, and then you snuck out like a damn teenager.” My hand goes to my hair, ripping at the roots. “Don’t stand there and tell me don’t.”
Tessa storms down the hall, and I follow her.
She walks over to the closet and picks something up off the floor. Her eyes are cold and hard when she turns to me. “Did you know? And don’t you fucking lie to me, Dante.” She shoves the papers at me.