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“How are you so blasé about it?”

“Blasé?” He chuckles and scrubs a hand across his bald head. “Far from. My brother and I were out riding bikes the dayhe died. We stopped for lunch at a little burger place and bickered about the route. I wanted to go through the hills; he wanted to ride by the river. I won.” He smiles but it’s hollow. “We went to the hills . . . truck hit that sonofabitch on a left-hand turn. Killed him instantly.”

The story sits between us, horrendously heavy.

“You blame yourself?” I finally ask.

“Hm.” He sighs. “I did for a long time. Always thought I should have just agreed to go to the river. Should have kept my mouth shut. Should’ve, should’ve, you know?”

My throat feels like it’s been filled with sawdust. I absolutely know.

“Now?”

He shrugs.

“Now I know I was giving myself too much credit for how much I can control. I’m not God; life’s a gamble. Shit happens. Some of it really sucks.” He smiles—really smiles. “If that day was bound to be his last, I’m glad we had it together. And I see him every time I take a ride.”

It’s as sad as it is beautiful; I’m envious of this viewpoint. Of his ability to stand and smile and speak without jaded animosity. Wren’s shouted words blast through me.

“I was told I’m fucked up and obsessed with Zeb’s memory.”

He considers this. “What do you think?”

I drop my forehead to the bar. I think of Ford. Of Glory. Of Zeb. Of me coming out of the woods twenty years ago and never being the same. Of never letting myself see the world the same. All waslost—every single person—because I didn’t do enough to keep it from happening. Then, I think of the baby who was never destined to be mine—in my arms then gone.

A life defined by loss, fighting anyone that tried to test that theory.

Fighting Ford.

Fighting June.

Going to LL meetings and fighting the whole room.

I wish so badly I could see things the way Ben does. Theshit happensmentality he was so blessed with. I don’t know how to let it go. If Ideserveto let it go.

“I think I should move,” I blurt, making Ben’s brow furrow. “To Tucson.” I don’t know if that’s directed to him or myself. “Somewhere far away. I wasn’t going to. I was going to stay. But . . .” My voice trails off as my eyes start to burn. “I don’t know how to see it like you.”

When I saw Wren sitting on my porch with sleeping bags, something flipped like a switch inside of me; I never wanted to leave them. They wanted me to be part of their lives, and as much as I fought it, I wanted that too. Desperately. But now I see I’d gotten it all wrong. We were good while we lasted, and that’s all this was. A few good months before the crash and burn I pretended I could avoid for once. I can’t subject people to this. Can’t be with Ford the way he deserves. Wren was right. I ruin everything and everyone.

I stand up, slam the rest of my drink, and sway slightly as I put my coat on.

“I’m not like you,” I slur. “I can’t-can’t-can’t love knowing loss comes. I am loss. That’s my superpower. Losser. Loser. I lose.” I might be crying. “And I take happiness. I’m the dementor. Ford knows. He’s good like you. He’s great. The best. Ford is the best person I know.” Ben stares at me as I ramble on. “Nobody will even sing at my cremation.”

I openly weep at the image of me burning to ashes with nobody there to press the button.

“You sure you should drive, Scotty?” Ben asks in a low voice, concern etched on every feature. He looks so sincere. He’s so nice to me.

“I’m—”

“Hey!” the abrasive laugher calls over his date’s shoulder. “Hey, I know you. You own the crematorium, right?”

I force a weak smile as I push my barstool in. “Guilty.”

“My ex-wife works there. Wanda.”

This news makes me stone-cold sober and rabid as a rottweiler.

“Cal?” I ask, seeing the man in a new, slimier light.