Forsaken: A Brother's Best Friend Romance (Gritt Family Book 2)

by Gabrielle G.

  And in my agony, she makes me smile because she’s the rainbow after the storm, the sun after the snow, the hope after the misery.

  And I know as long as she’s beside me, I’ll be okay.

  8

  Salomé

  There are noises you never want to hear after ten at night: scratching coming from behind the wall, your brothers talking dirty to a girl or a guy, a creaky door when you’re alone, and a cell phone blaring over and over. I want to ignore it, but unfortunately, as we haven’t heard from Jordan in two days, I need to get it.

  The asshole disappeared into thin air, without any explanation. I stayed with Chris the first night, soothing him late until dawn, waiting for him to fall asleep. We woke up the next morning, tangled in each other’s arms, him still in his tux, his eyes puffy from a night of crying, and his breath as tempting as an exploding diaper.

  Not the way I ever imagined waking up with Chris for the first time.

  After being treated to Mom’s best breakfast, Aaron forced him into the shower while I continued calling Jordan and every person I could think of who knew him.

  But nobody had heard from him.

  Aaron drove Chris back to the city Sunday afternoon and I stayed behind, finishing cleaning up the mess of a wedding that never happened.

  Aaron is staying with Chris at his apartment, so if Jordan reappears, someone would be there with him. I went back home today and refused to go over to Chris and Jordan’s place, knowing that if J came back, I would punch him so hard, it would break his jaw. I haven’t seen Chris since last Saturday but talked with Aaron at least twice a day, updating him on my non progress about Jordan’s whereabouts and keeping tabs on Chris from a distance.

  As they were due to leave for Costa Rica this morning, I didn’t think he would be at work but still called his office, pretending I didn’t know he should be on his honeymoon and asked to talk to him.

  He wasn’t there either.

  I even checked the airline in case he took someone else with him, but still nothing.

  Aaron asked me to go with Chris and him in the morning to file a missing person’s report, as I was supposed to be the one knowing the grooms’ schedule to the second. Jordan’s brother and his mother Cassandra, flew back to Carson City on Sunday, saying they would let me know if they hear anything from him.

  And they haven’t.

  So, I’m surprised, excited and mad when I see the area code of Nevada, praying in a way that Jordan is man enough to reach out to me after reaching out to Chris.

  “Hello, Jordan? Is that you?” I hear someone crying on the line. “Hello?”

  If this asshat can’t even talk, I will ask Dex for his plane and drag him back home to man up.

  “Salomé? It’s Cassandra.” Shit, a crying mother is not a good omen.

  “Hi, Mrs. Purdie. Is everything alright? Did you hear from Jordan?”

  She cries some more.

  “Did something happen?”

  I’m an asshole. Thinking that something bad could have happened to J, and all this time I was insulting him, doesn’t really sit well with me.

  “I don’t have Chris’ number, and my husband didn’t want me to contact you,” she continues crying. “I don’t have the money to come back to New York; I need your help.” She doesn’t make much sense, but I’m trying hard to understand her.

  “I’m sorry, you want to come to New York for what exactly?” She breathes in deeply.

  “The police called this afternoon, well early evening for you. They found a man with Jordan’s driver’s license in his pocket. We need someone to identify the body. They said if we couldn’t come, we could send someone. We can’t afford to come, they sent photographs, but someone has to go to the hospital to identify him, someone…” I don’t hear what she’s saying because my phone is on the floor.

  Jordan is dead.

  I was ready to kill him because he walked out on Chris, but he had already died. I… Running to the bathroom, I throw up, more than once, imagining how we’re going to announce the news to Chris, how Jordan’s mother asked me to go to the hospital, how I can’t punch my ex-friend because he’s dead.

  I don’t know how all this is possible.

  Scrambling on my hands and knees, I find my phone again and call back Cassandra.

  “How?” I ask her when she picks up.

  “He was found in the East River this morning. They think he jumped off a bridge early Saturday morning or late Friday night…”

  We stay on the phone silently crying into each other's ear, me sitting on the cold bathroom floor close to the toilet and Cassandra, I imagine, lying on her bed, hiding the tears from her husband for the son she lost. I bang my head against the wall, bile coming up and down my throat until I have the courage to hang up, until I feel brave enough to tell Chris.

  I’m not sure how I arrived at Jordan’s apartment.

  I remember shooting Dex a text, and him appearing with Luke not long after.

  I remember them helping me change back into my jeans and T-shirt.

  I remember Luke talking on the phone with Aaron, but now that I see my tears falling in the cold cup of coffee I’m holding, I don’t know who told Chris, and how.

  I’m numb and disoriented.

  I want to throw up again.

  I hate being here, in his apartment, where he lived with Chris.

  Chris.

  I look at him.

  He looks like a ghost shaking his head. He repeatedly says no, over and over.

  I run to the bathroom but don’t quite make it and throw up in the shower.

  It’s mainly nothing, just enough for my stomach to hurt and my head to pound.

  Luke carries me back into the living room and sits me down on his lap.

  Aaron is taking care of Chris.

  Dex is barking into his phone, pacing, fixing and taking charge.

  Nobody has words for what happened. What could we say? We all hated him for the last forty-eight hours. We all wanted to kick his ass while he was dead this whole time. We all believed he was an asshole when he was hurting.

  How could he think that his life was so unbearable that he preferred to jump off a bridge rather than get married?

  I feel so close and so far at the same time, so guilty and so angry, so lost and so cold.

  I shiver on my brother’s lap.

  “I need air. I don’t want to be here.” I sob on his shoulder. Luke nods, kissing my forehead.

  “You’re coming to our house tonight. I’m not letting you go back to your apartment alone.” When Dex and Luke are in New York, they live in a three-bedroom residence on Brooklyn Heights waterfront near Brooklyn Bridge Park. I look at Chris and Aaron.

  “I don’t think he can stay here tonight; you don’t have enough room for all of us. I can go home,” I tell my brother.

  “Of course, you think of Chris before thinking of you, Baby Cakes. Aaron can share Chris’ bed or sleep on the couch. Don’t worry, we have room for everyone. Nobody will be alone tonight.” Luke rubs his beard against my cheek.

  “Did you call Mom and Dad? Barn? Chris’ parents?”

  “Dex did. Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of.”

  Dex disappears in Chris’ bedroom and comes back with a bag of clothes for him for a few days.

  “We’ll take two cars,” he says. “I’ll drive Sal to her apartment so she can pack a few things, and Aaron will drive Chris with Luke to our place. Okay?” We all nod except Chris.

  “I want to drive with Snot,” he mumbles, still dejectedly looking at the floor. It’s the only words he has said for the last hour.

  Dex sighs before looking at me. I nod. I can’t not be here for Chris.

  “Okay. Sal, give me your keys. You’ll go home directly with Luke and Chris. Aaron and I will stop by your place. Anything you need in particular?” I shake my head.

  Luke slides me off his lap and helps me walk to the door. We ride the elevator in total silence again, little sobs and si
ghs coming from Chris.

  Once in the car, we both slide in the back, making Luke our driver. I lose myself in New York by night, looking through the window at the life that continues to beat when one of ours isn’t anymore.

  Somewhere over the Brooklyn Bridge, Chris takes my hand and squeezes it, assuredly wondering, like I am, from which bridge his fiancé jumped off. My brain starts to imagine him falling from different bridges. It’s an awful picture I wish I could erase. But my mind is in a loop, and it’s the worst gif I’ve ever created.

  We don’t utter a word when the car stops. We don’t need to talk when we walk into Luke and Dex’s place still holding hands.

  We don’t acknowledge Luke when he shows us the room I can sleep in and Chris follows me.

  We still don’t speak when we lay in bed, dressed entirely, each on our side, facing each other.

  But when my guilt is too much of a burden, I find Chris’ desolate eyes, and in the darkness of the bedroom, I finally speak.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head not accepting my apologies or wanting me to apologize some more, I’m not sure anymore.

  I repeat it.

  “I’m sorry, Chris, I was such a bad friend.” Then I start to sob, trying to cleanse my remorse with my cries. Cupping my face with his hands, he wipes my tears with his thumbs and kisses my forehead. And by doing so, in a split a second, all the suppressed feelings I had for this man rush back into my heart, leaving me to fight the growing culpability that is taking over my soul.

  If I hadn’t loved Chris, I wouldn’t have needed to walk away.

  I could have seen that Jordan was hurting.

  I could have been there for my friend and find a way for him to talk to me, find a way to make him happy again, find a way to save his life.

  9

  Chris

  Step one: go to the hospital.

  Step two: identify Jordan.

  Step three: make arrangements.

  I repeat over and over the three steps Snot hammered in my head as the only three things I have to do today while her family is packing up the apartment, taking care of my lease, and sending back Jordan’s belongings to Nevada, all his clothes, his life, his body.

  Aaron gave me three options: stay at Dex and Luke’s, come back with him to Springs Falls or go live with Snot.

  I chose her.

  Of course, I did.

  I can see culpability pouring through her skin.

  I can’t have her do something stupid.

  I can’t have her feeling guilty.

  I can’t have her jump off a bridge. Not that she would. Or would she? I don’t know.

  I didn’t think Jordan would.

  If it’s someone’s fault, it’s mine.

  I didn’t see that my fiancé was hurting.

  I didn’t see he would rather die than to marry me.

  I didn’t see he needed to talk, needed help, needed to be saved.

  My love for him wasn’t enough. His love for me, neither. He didn’t leave a suicide note, an explanation, a word to appease me, his family, or Sal. Nothing.

  He kept as silent in his death as he was about his pain.

  Was he so afraid to lose me that he preferred me being the one losing him? Didn’t he think about what it would do to me, for him to die on our wedding day? Did he ever think of me?

  I spent all night trying to find a clue, a sign, anything to bring me to the conclusion I could have known.

  Then I obsessed over the Internet.

  Two thirds of people who commit suicide don’t leave notes. I hated myself for making him a statistic, but I needed answers, so I continued reading. I learned that the ones who leave without a sign are the ones who are sure they want to end their lives.

  They don’t want to be talked off the edge; they want to disappear, without warning, without goodbyes.

  He never let on what he was really feeling.

  Was he planning it all along?

  Did he keep his plan to himself to be sure to carry it out?

  Cruelly wanting to die on the day that should have been the happiest of our life?

  Did he just decide it in a snap of his finger?

  Was it seeing his mother again?

  Did she say something?

  I want to know, but I can’t ask her. How could I ask a mother if she pushed her son to commit suicide? Or was it all an accident? How can we know he jumped? We’re assuming because he had nothing to do on that bridge, but what if his hat flew away and he tried to catch it and fell? What if he saw someone else jumping and decided to help? What if he got mugged, and his body was thrown over?

  I shake my head to go on reset mode.

  Step one: go to the hospital.

  Step two: identify Jordan.

  Step three: make arrangements.

  Salomé takes my hand as we step into the hospital.

  “Do you want me to do it alone?” She looks tired, but not the way someone looks after a bad night of sleep, more like she’s letting her emotions eat her alive.

  I want to tell her she shouldn’t care.

  She should let it go, after all, Jordan has been awful to her the last few months.

  What if this was a sign?

  Walking away from Sal?

  Did she know something?

  Did he talk to her, and she didn’t listen?

  Did she try to help him, and he didn’t accept her hand?

  “Chris? What do you want to do?” I let her hand go and walk in the direction of the morgue. Aaron, Dex, and Sal, they all called it the hospital, but let’s be freaking real now; we’re going to the morgue because my fiancé took his life.

  The morgue.

  The mortuary.

  The dead bodies’ warehouse.

  The fridge.

  The storage of human corpses.

  Bile comes up my throat, and I run back outside. I hunch forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe. Salomé rubs my back.

  “It’s okay, honey. Take your time.”

  Take your time.

  I can’t suppress a laugh.

  Take your time.

  Not like Jordan is going anywhere.

  I laugh some more before starting to cry.

  Her thumb and index finger lift my chin. She makes me stand and steps into my arms. She’s so small in flats; the top of her head presses against my lips. Her arms wrap around my waist, while mine cape her shoulders. I tilt my head to inhale her shampoo. Vanilla.

  She tilts her head up, my eyes fall on her lips, and for a second I imagine what it would feel like to kiss her. She rises on her toes, her lips coming closer to mine. I’m still crying for my fiancé, but I’m sure that kissing her would soothe me.

  Time has stopped.

  My broken heart pulses in my neck.

  I bend down, ready for our lips to touch. I close my eyes, take a breath in, wait, and then I feel her lips on my wet cheek.

  “I know it’s hard, honey, but we have to do it. Are you ready?”

  I’m such a piece of shit wanting to kiss her when I have to identify the body of my dead fiancé.

  I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours that he has been dead, and I already want to kiss someone else.

  Stepping back, I let her go.

  I nod.

  Let’s rip off the bandage.

  Step one is done. We are here.

  Step two.

  Identifying a body is not like in a CSI episode.

  The morgue isn’t cold.

  There is no sheet over his face, no body in a bag, no weird guy looking like a pedophile in a corner.

  We don’t step into the morgue.

  We don’t see a body.

  We aren’t surrounded by corpses.

  A nice-looking woman led us into a room. She sat us down and proposed something to drink that we both refused. Now an older man just came in.

  He’s the morgue attendant I think, maybe the medical examiner. I don’t know, I didn’t hea
r him say who he was. We wait for him to speak.

  When he does, I’m kind of relieved we’re halfway through step two already.

  “Mr. Purdie died from multiple blunt-force injuries. These are pictures of his body that will help you to identify him.” I imagine his massive cock on display in the picture. It’s inappropriate, but it helps to get through all this. “We realized he had a birthmark and a scar.” The guy continues as he places the pictures face down on the table, “That’s mainly what we’re going to show you. Are you ready?”

  Jordan had a scar along his elbow because of a fall he took when he was nineteen.

  It looks like a lousy pirate wound.

  It’s easy to remember.

  He also has a birthmark that looks like a mouse cursor on his chest.

  “Take all the time you need to turn the pictures over,” he tells us. I look at Sal and nod. Rip off the bandage, fast, let me breathe again.

  When Sal turns the pictures around, I know it’s him. I nod, Sal nods, and she reaches for my hand, but I pretend I didn’t see her do so.

  They needed us here as part of the procedure; to make arrangements, to claim the body, these kinds of things.

  His fingerprints already confirmed his identity.

  He is… was a lawyer. His prints were in the system.

  Our role is just a formality.

  “If you need,” the man says, “we have grief and crisis counselors you could see, or maybe call later?”

  I don’t want to talk to anybody about this.

  In a way, I just want to forget.

  I want to numb my pain in whatever I can find, alcohol, sex, even drugs. I’m not picky. I don’t care. I want to stop hurting. I take a big breath.

  “For the funeral,” Sal speaks in a broken voice, “his family would like to have a burial in Nevada. We’re not sure what to do, and how to do it.”