Two Roads

by L. M. Augustine

  Following a whim, I step in front of her while she reaches for a glass of champagne, and stick out my hand.

  “I’m Cali,” I say simply, blocking her path to the drinks. She seems decidedly irritated by this, but she takes it in stride and glances at me. After a second, she shakes my hand, and her face slips into a genuine smile.

  “I’m Katherine,” she says like I’m her peer. She looks maybe twenty-four years older than I am, all blissful and sophisticated, but there is a certain softness to her face, a strength to her brown eyes, a power and assertiveness I could probably worship.

  “So you’re a blogger,” I say, cocking my head to the side and watching her closely. A turquoise earring hangs from either of her ears and they dazzle in the light, complimenting her smile. I keep my face blank as I speak to her.

  I think she can tell I’m interrogating her because she raises her eyebrow at me, thoroughly amused. “I am,” she says, but not unkindly.

  “What’s your blog?” I say. I give her my best “I mean business” look.

  “Forward, aren’t you?”

  “I like to think so.”

  She laughs a little. “What’s your favorite poem, Cali?” she says, reaching around me to get her coveted champagne. She looks calm, too calm considering she’s dealing with me.

  “What does that have to do with--” She waves her hand before I can finish.

  “Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

  I sigh. She’s good. “’The Road Not Taken,’” I say. “That’s my favorite poem.”

  “Ah,” she says, taking a sip of her champagne and watching me with a certain intensity that only Logan has ever looked at me with before. “Let me guess: you have a big personality and you’re afraid to show it.” She studies me, and I feel myself blush. “You’re afraid of other things, too...” she continues, narrowing her eyes and pausing for a moment, and then all of a sudden her face lights up like she understands. “You’re in love,” she says quietly. “You’re in love and you’re afraid to say it.”

  Okay, so I might be staring at her in awe right now. My heart skips a beat and I open my mouth to say something stupid and senseless but even that refuses to come. “How did you--” I start to say.

  “I’m magical,” she says so seriously I could laugh. “Just kidding,” she adds, noticing my stunned expression. “People aren’t really hard to read when you know what to look for. Then you factor in their favorite poems, which tells you the themes they cherish in their lives, and also add in their physical expressions and then it isn’t hard to tell the rest.” She takes another sip of champagne, tossing her red hair to the side like her figuring me out from one look is nothing. “Plus, you’re a special case, because I see myself in you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve been in love like that before. I loved a guy who I never thought loved me back.”

  “Your best friend,” I say.

  “Right. And it kind of sucked. I was afraid to tell him what I felt for so long, because I knew there was no way he could love me back. I mean, I guess we were always perfect for each other, but we were best friends and I thought there was no way that was happening… Anyway, I did a lot of stupid shit to get close to him and hide my feelings, and when I finally came out and told him, he rejected me.” She leans in. “But now I am happier than ever with him,” she says quietly, “and all of it was worth it. I can tell you’ve been in love for a long time, too, just by your eyes. I don’t even know if you realize it, because yeah, it’s hard sometimes. But with a love as strong as yours, with that kind of passion you have, you can’t let it go. Don’t let him or her or whoever it is go. It’s scary, I know, but it’s worth it, because like I said, sometimes the best love is the love that is right in front of you all along.”

  She pulls back then, and once again I am speechless. I look into her eyes and she just smiles at me, one of those motherly sort of smiles like she is telling me to go out and fulfill my dreams, which, considering the graphic dream of Logan I had last night, she kind of is. She seems to get me, though. Like, really get me. I feel like I know her, or I’m supposed to know her, or something, something deep and something strong. “Thanks,” I say after a minute, unable to think of any other words that will express my emotions right now. “I… I will.”

  She just nods at me.

  A few more seconds pass before I regain coherent thought, and then I focus back on my original goal. “Okay, so you’re a brilliant psychic with great hair,” I say curtly. “Now answer my question: what is your blog?”

  She drains her champagne glass, looking amused. “You really want to know?” she says.

  “I do.”

  She sighs. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone?” she says after a while.

  “Um.” I glance at my feet. “Um… yeah. Yeah, I won’t.”

  She smiles lightly. “Good,” she says. She steps closer to me after that, and she whispers, “I run the Two Roads blog. I’m The Roadkeeper.”

  Then, she brushes by me, clicking her heels on the hardwood floor, and when I finally get the sense to turn around and run after her, my whole heart pounding like crazy, she is gone.

  Gone.

  Gone.

  Gone.

  ~

  I THINK I might actually jump up and down a billion times as I race over to the lobby, where I saw Logan slip away into.

  The Roadkeeper! I just met The Roadkeeper! I won the bet and I found her, the woman whose blog has been keeping me afloat these last six months, the woman who I have pictured in my head so many times recently, the woman who I idolize more than anyone in the world--well, maybe aside from Robert Frost.

  And she was totally awesome.

  And weird.

  And creepy in all of the best ways.

  And to top things off, I did not go into fangirl mode and make a fool out of myself, although I totally would have had she waited around any longer.

  My heart races so fast as I skid into the lobby, wanting to jump up and down and up and down and up and down until everything else goes away. A weight seems to be lifted off of my chest, and I feel all weird and gooey, something that would piss me off if it wasn’t so welcome right now.

  When he isn’t there, I head up the seven flights of stairs to our room. I find Logan sitting in the front of the door, his eyes on something in his hand, and I keep on beaming as I run toward him, ready to tell him that I found The Roadkeeper and that I won the bet and that he finally has to tell me about what happened.

  It’s night now, and no one is here but us. I am starving despite all I’ve eaten today, but I push the feeling aside and just head straight to Logan. As I get near him, though, I find myself slowing down, and whatever imaginary water I was walking on seems to shatter under my feet.

  He’s looking at something in his hands, a picture maybe, and he looks so painfully vulnerable it makes me want to do nothing but hold him, just hold him, until we forget everything else except for each other. “You found The Roadkeeper?” he says, still not looking at me.

  It takes me a second to realize the picture in his hand is the hostage I never destroyed, the one of Ben and Logan on the beach all those years ago.

  “Yes,” I say, standing over him. My pulse is pounding as I stare at the picture. Everything hurts all of a sudden. Everything rises up and fills this void between us, and the silence is the worst part of all.

  Logan is leaning against the door, his eyes locked on the photo. “Then I guess it’s time for me to ‘fess up.” He laughs, but it isn’t funny, and the tremor in his voice makes my heart break.

  The air in the hallway feels off for some reason, too thick and too cold and too ominous. Something about this whole situation is wrong. I move closer to Logan, leaning in and watching him breathe, breathe, breathe.

  “Do you want to know why I feel guilty?” he asks. My insides twist and I look away, because suddenly I realize that I don’t, in fact, want to know but I can’t sto
p myself.

  “Tell me.”

  Logan hesitates. “You know the night he died, how you were at a friend’s house and I was at mine? How he was alone the whole time?”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly.

  “Well, he wasn’t alone the whole time.”

  My heart rate picks up speed. “What?” I whisper. “Were you--”

  “Yes.” It’s all Logan has to say. “Yes, I was with him before it happened.”

  “H-how?” It’s all I can get out, because just the thought of my not being there makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide until everything else goes away. But I know that I can’t, that I have to be strong, and so I just watch him and wait.

  “He invited me over,” Logan says quietly. “Said he had something he needed to tell me. And then… well… he asked me what I thought of him as a person, and I told him he was the greatest human being I’d ever met, and it was true. He didn’t seem to notice, though, because he continued to ask me questions in this weirdly urgent voice.” Logan takes a deep breath. “And then he told me to leave. And at first I refused because I knew he was acting weird, because I knew something was wrong, but then he promised me he was okay. He said he was just having a bad day and that he really wanted to be alone, and so I left. But,” he says, dropping his voice and meeting my gaze for the first time. “I remember right before I stepped out of the door, remember pausing and thinking to myself: should I wait here? But then I told myself it was stupid, because of course he was fine, and I stepped out of the door thinking nothing would happen. And I was wrong,” Logan says, biting his lip--and hard. I see Logan’s hands trembling, his body shaking, but he keeps his gaze strong and emotionless. “I was wrong. I had the chance to save him, and I didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I whisper, because that’s all I can think to say. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t either of ours.” I’m not so sure I believe it, but as I sink against the wall beside Logan, the mantra is the only thing that makes me feel somewhat okay. My hands shake as I brush against him, and I can feel the stiffness of his whole body, the sadness racking through him, and it hurts more than anything in the world. “Why did he do it?” My voice is hoarse and sad, but I’m unable to keep myself from asking it. “Why… why did Ben kill himself?”

  Logan just shakes his head. “Because he just wasn’t happy,” he says. “It wasn’t anything in particular, and I know that now. He loved us, Cali, he really did, but he…” Logan squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying not to cry. “He just didn’t like being alive. I think he was unhappy for a long time, and he kept fighting through it because he loved us and didn’t want to leave us… but then he just couldn’t. He gave up. It wasn’t our fault,” Logan whispers, squeezing the photo of Ben in his hand, and then we’re flooded in the worst silence in the world.

  I feel myself choke up, feel the tears threaten to come out in a downpour, and I don’t know what to do. Don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to stop this. Don’t know anything.

  And then I look into his eyes.

  And my heart breaks.

  No. “Breaks” does not even begin to cover it.

  My heart completely shatters.

  It’s worse than a glass bowl flying into a million pieces after it hits the ground. Worse than getting punched in the gut over and over again. Because as I look into his eyes, all blank and desperate and laden with tears, my heart is wrenched out of my chest.

  I don’t even know what to do. It’s like I’m frozen in my place, like I can’t move a muscle. I can only look into his eyes, so deep and so strong and so powerfully broken, and force myself not to cry. Only one tear runs down Logan Waters’ face, but it is the most heartbreaking goddamn thing I have ever seen. My heart shatters and shatters over and over again as I watch him, unable to speak, to move, to do anything but gulp and stare.

  I think about what he said about Ben, how he did it because he was unhappy and not because of anyone, and then I think about all the signs, all the times Ben looked so sad to me, and I hate how real it feels.

  It wasn’t my fault, wasn’t Logan’s or my parents’ either, but there is nothing comforting in that because it doesn’t change the fact that he is freaking dead and never coming back.

  Logan does not say anything for a long time. He just gives me the most piercing stare I’ve ever seen, and I feel myself breaking under his gaze, just waiting for him to mention the picture. His lips tremble ever so slowly, and he feels so stiff against me, so real and raw in a way I’ve never seen him before. The laughter is gone. The smiles are gone. It’s only a thick wall of emotion between us, a pane of glass that I can feel shattering as I inch closer and closer into his arms, his warmth. His body is on fire and so is his whole face, all white hot and passionate. My heart hammers in my chest, and I force myself to keep from crying, to breathe once, twice, three times.

  He holds out the picture of Ben for me, of his smile and false happiness, and I mouth I’m sorry and Logan whispers, “It’s just a fucking picture,” and then I touch my trembling thumb to it and feel a sob rack through me and everything seems to collide at once. Then I whisper “I love you, Ben,” and I feel the tears start pouring out so I say, “Come back to me,” and my heart shatters some more.

  And then I’m running.

  I don’t even know what’s happening, but suddenly talking to Logan is too much and all I want to do is get the hell out of here. I spring to my feet, ignoring Logan as he reaches to stop me, ignoring him as he calls after me, “Where are you going? I was going to--” and I turn the corner and fly down the stairs before he can finish.

  I race through the lobby and leap into my car, not even knowing what I’m doing anymore. I turn the key in the ignition, floor the vehicle, and it’s not until I start speeding out of the parking lot that I can breathe again.

  My heart hammers furiously in my chest as I turn onto the main road and just drive away as fast as possible. The night sky is so dark that I can barely see where I’m going beyond the faint streetlights looming above me and the moonlight overhead. The steady hum of tires on pavement fills the car, and I force myself to breathe, to relax, but the pounding in my temples does not fade for a second. Everything aches--my arms, my legs, my head, my heart. I feel so stiff and uncomfortable after that conversation, like I’ve been trapped in a box for days and now someone has finally let me out.

  Ben’s death isn’t his fault.

  It isn’t any of our faults.

  I should really feel relieved. I should be rejoicing, honestly. I should be doing anything but running away, but I can’t bring myself to stop because stopping means losing Ben, means letting go, and I don’t ever want to let him go.

  I drive and drive, fighting back tears, clutching the steering wheel so tightly my fist turns white. I have no idea where I’m going but I can tell it’s somewhere important because something about the drive is so achingly familiar, I just can’t place it.

  It takes me a few minutes and several sped-through red lights to realize I’m going to our old house, the one Ben died in. I don’t even know why, but for some reason I know I have to be there now. I drive so quickly that the hum of the engine seems to drown out each of my deep breaths, the steady thud of my heart, the thoughts racing through my mind after what Logan just told me.

  I can’t lose Ben.

  I can’t.

  Something about knowing the truth is worse than not knowing why he died at all. The truth is so final, so dead-in-the-water. No room for speculation. No room for wondering. It’s like he really is gone. And it hurts--it hurts to let him go. But I also know that I have to.

  A part of me feels relieved that I’m not the reason he’s dead, though, and even a little bit relieved that Logan hasn’t been handling the suicide better than I have after all. It’s good to not feel so alone. Good to know I’m not such a freak after all, or if I am a freak, at least I can be a freak with him.

  Another sob racks through me then, and when I try to force it back it come
s out more like a choking sound than actual tears. Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek, but I just brush it aside and keep my eyes focused on the road in front of me. I have to be strong. I have to be strong for Ben.

  It’s another five minutes before I finally pull the car into the driveway of our old house. No one is home and the whole place is dark, as it always is. In fact, the whole neighborhood is pretty much silent. Technically, we still own this house. My parents never had the heart to sell it but couldn’t bring themselves to return to it, either, and since we had the money, we let it stay, a memory of all we had lost. Our own personal gravesite for both Benjamin Monroe and our happiness.

  As I climb out of the car my eyes dart automatically up to the roof. I feel my stomach seize as soon as I look at it--old and rickety and still torn on the edge from where Ben’s body landed. My breath catches.

  The roof is the site of where all of the pain of the last four years began, the site I have been ignoring and abandoning for the longest time, and as I look at it, I know what I have to do. Everything becomes so incredibly clear in that instant: everything from Ben’s death to my feelings toward Logan to The Roadkeeper’s poems to why I always hid behind the version of myself who didn’t care, and I know the solution lies here, on this roof.

  I know I have to face the truth.

  Our old home is small and ancient, with broken windows, falling-apart shingles, and a crumbling chimney like it’s something straight out of a horror movie. As I wipe some tears from my eyes and head straight through the front door, I half-expect for someone to jump out and bludgeon me to death. No one does, though, and I make my way around the house, listening to the gentle creaks of floorboards beneath my feet, the creepy whistle of wind through the trees above. The air is thick with the smell of sulfur and dust, and the whole house looks almost scarily untouched.

  When I look around me, I remember things: the streaks of purple paint along the fading beige walls from when Logan and Ben decided our house could use some sprucing up in fourth grade, the broken dining room table from when Ben bet me twenty bucks that I wasn’t heavy enough to snap it and so I spent hours jumping up and down on the table until I finally succeeded, the picture frame on the ledge beside the staircase, the one that showcases Ben’s second-grade portrait of me as a stick figure he made in art class. Slowly, I reach out and touch it. My heart is in my throat now, but I can’t stop myself. I stare at the flat brown line Ben drew for my hair, the way one of my eyes is sufficiently bigger than the other, and the signature at the bottom of it--Benjamin Monroe--and then I feel those goddamn tears rise up all over again.