by Erica Sage
“Yeah, exactly, I liked that.”
“You know how I keep telling you, there is no right or wrong, there’s just the after?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not the book. It’s the after of that book. I couldn’t handle the after.”
“But you’d made it. You were famous. After so many years of rejection.”
“That’s right. And that’s good, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, that’s good. You finally wrote the Great American Novel. I mean, you’ve got cult fans.”
Jack stared out the windshield. “And after that book, I drank and I rambled and I fell down in alleys and shit myself and challenged my friends to suicide plots.” He exhaled, his lips a thin line. “That’s not an after one aspires to.”
He reached over and rested his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he had touched me, and it was as real as anything.
He looked at me a long time.
I reached up and touched his hand, expecting liquid-chill. Or nothing. But there was something. Something warm and real.
He nodded. “You’re good to go, kiddo.”
I was surprised by the reality of his skin, by the tears that sprang to my eyes. “You can’t just stop haunting me.”
“I can.” He opened the car door and stepped out.
I got out too, and walked around to head him off. “But—I’m troubled—or whatever you said. I’m smug and judgmental.”
“You’re fine,” he said.
“No, I’m not. I’m doomed to a publishing house someday, you said it yourself.”
He chuckled. “The Great Editor lets the truth bleed through that masquerade of words.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I’m just a speck, Nick. I’m not the real thing.”
I wiped the tears off my cheek.
“I’m going to walk that way.” Jack pointed past the house, toward the trees. “And you can watch me till I disappear. But I am going to ask you to stop watching the horizon when you can’t see me anymore.”
Then he stepped forward and hugged me, which was not at all like the Jack I’d known. “Don’t worry,” he said. His body was real and warm, the fabric of his shirt rough on my chin. I just breathed in the smell of it, which wasn’t vanilla or rose. It was just her. It was Diana. “You’re fine.”
And then he let go, patted my shoulder, and walked away.
“‘Lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies,’” was the last thing he said to me. And it was the only time he’d ever quoted himself.
He never turned around. He never waved. And his khakis disappeared into his button-down and were soon a shadow and a f leck that bounced and then steadied and then vanished. And I knew I couldn’t see him. He wasn’t there. It was just me, here, by the side of the Volvo.
I went around to the driver’s side of the car, slipped into the seat, and looked up at the ceiling, at the holes where the rain seeped in. I put my fingers in those holes, those two holes where the bullets had pierced the roof of the car. From the gun I put in her hand. From the bullets I put in her hand.
I pulled my fingers away and looked up through the holes into the sky, dark and black. And small. Something so massive, made so small by two tiny holes in the roof of a car.
The stars were there. The moon was there. But I’d been trying to see the whole sky, the universe—the grand, inexplicable, magic universe—through my damage. Through tiny, man-made holes.
I stepped out of the car, looked up at the billions of bright stars that lit and dimmed in the summer night. That moon, giant and whole and golden, a sentinel in the twilight.
All the magic in the universe. Planets and beauty, comets and humanity, black holes and love.
The finite and the infinite.
It was all a divine mystery.
Author’s Note
This book was inspired by my Aunt Dea, who died by suicide when I was fourteen. She never knew how “big” she made me. Even in her death, she continues to inf luence me.
Tragically, while I was editing this book, a young man very dear to my heart, Brooks Rolfness, also died by suicide. The loss shattered our very close-knit community. He is deeply loved and desperately missed.
Any one of us who knew these two precious people would have done everything in our power to help them and get them the support they needed. If you are struggling emotionally, reach out to the people around you, be it family, friends, or strangers. Please reach out so that we can reach back.
If you or a friend are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is a national network of crisis centers around the United States that provides free and confidential emotional support to people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. For more information, visit SuicidePreventionLifeline.org.
Acknowledgments
I am just so grateful. I will never be able to convey all my thanks, but here are a few thank-yous …
The best writing advice I ever got was from my friend Mark Teppo. He said, “Sit your ass down in a chair and write.” He’s an author and a publisher, so I believed him. And, lookie here! A book.
The best publishing advice I ever got was from my mom. She said, “Don’t give up after a hundred rejections. Not even two hundred.” She is my mother, so I believed her. Her love of reading (she always had a book in one hand, and a cigarette in the other), and my dad’s love of crossword puzzles, meant I grew up surrounded by beautiful words. It is my deepest heartbreak that my mom will not read this book. She is why I read, and she is why I write.
I am the luckiest person in the world to be surrounded by people who have loved me and supported me, whether it’s with great advice or the space to write or the willing ears to listen to my rants. My family, my friends, and my community make a tribe of creativity cheerleaders. Andrew Sage built me an office and shooed the kids out of it so that I could write. He provided a special place and priceless time. Christy Johnson, Michele Goode, Melissa Murschall, Sarah Olson, and Aaron Richards listened, read, and answered my questions. More importantly, they asked me the questions. My aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, in-laws, nephew, niece, mom, dad, and brother believe in me, no matter what crazy idea I have, including writing a book. And all my students—past and present—offer me the joy and inspiration to tell stories.
A huge thanks to Karen Johnson, Jessica Lewis, Leif Peterson, and Lindsey Keaton for reading the first draft and saying yes to my ideas, then feeding me their better ones. Thanks to Amber Walker for fostering the love of literature among my students. Her book club members became my beta readers, and nothing motivates me more than a group of teenage girls (and food!). Thank you to the Book Worm girls: Analise Walker, Abi Baker, Liz Racine, Carleigh DeLapp, Jessica Reitan, Salena Scoccolo, and Alison Barry. And thank you to the Yak, Snack & Read girls: Sophie Walker, Haley Yandt, Makena Miles, Elly Mark, Mya Wagner, Hailey Wagner, Samantha Lucier, Olivia Levchak, Petria Russell, Tara Hale, and Gaeby Wilson. Thank you, Knowledge Bowl, especially Emily Paris, for asking and asking about covers and titles and how it was going. All of you are the best kind of readers.
Katie Reed and Elizabeth Staple held my hand when I took my first steps in this publishing world. Melanie Jacobsen, Nikki Urang, Kimberly Derting, and Patrick Swenson gave great advice at every turn.
Sky Pony Press is full of rock stars! Rachel Stark is a lifesaver and a world changer, and I am #blessed to have her as my editor. My life had been in turmoil throughout 2016, but on Election Day of that year, she gave me hope. She offered to take my weird little book and put it out into the world. She has worked tirelessly to make this story the best book it can be. And then she gave me the greatest team of creatives. Emma Dubin believed in this book, and she has been its cheerleader and my wise counselor. Kate Gartner, Pete Ryan, and Joshua Barnaby designed a book that—inside and out—is more perfect and clever than I ever could
have imagined. Seriously. Thank you, Sky Pony Press.
Natalie Lakosil took a chance on this absurd tale, and she took a chance on me. She is a supreme navigator, and I would be lost and stepping all over my own feet without her. Thank you, Bradford Literary Agency.
And best for last … McKay and Cole, you are the reason I do any of it. My favorite stories have all been for you, starting with the nightly installments of “Dream Boy”! All I ever want is to bring you as much joy and delight as you bring me. And maybe not embarrass you too much along the way. I hope you always have a lot of wisdom and a little madness.