Page 83 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

Is it a warning or just a stupid gimmick meant to make me feel like I should be looking over my shoulder?

Just wait. I’ll see.

I wait.

I drink.

When we get to dessert, I push my plate away and stumble to the edge of the veranda. It overlooks the cliff and the beautiful sea, and I can feel its pull. I’m not going to do it, but it does cross my mind that my life would be so much easier if it was over.

I read once that most people who commit suicide only spend five minutes thinking about it before they do it. It’s not some long-term plan, but the impulse of a moment, with the opportunity at hand. I never understood it before, but as I stand here and imagine what the rocks below might do to my body, I get it now.

You make a quick decision and then that’s it.

There are no more decisions to make.

“Don’t jump,” Oliver says gently, resting his arms on the stone next to me. He’s wearing a white shirt and his face is tanned from our day in the sun. He’s so appealing I want to wrap myself in his arms and—

Oh God, is this why I came to stand here? Was I trying to draw him to me?

I mean, obviously I was. And it worked.

I am the worst.

“I won’t.”

His eyes are troubled. “But you were thinking about it.”

“How do you know that?”

“You were talking out loud again.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

He smiles. “It’s one of your more charming characteristics.”

“Why, thank you.” I run my hands over the smooth stone of the wall. “What did I say?”

“‘One little jump…’”

“I wasn’t being serious.”

“I hope not.” He sighs and adjusts his body. He’s closer to me now, the fabric of his shirt touching my arm. It’s hard to concentrate.

“What was making you think about it?”

“The usual.”

“Life, et cetera.”

“Pretty much. Which makes me a fucking brat. I mean, look at this place. I have no right to complain.” I sweep my hand out in front of me, taking the setting sun over the Med, that clear blue water, the sailboats with their white sails, and the megayachts. The cliff face full of multicolored buildings built long before we were born. That scent of lemon and olive in the air. The warm breeze on my face as the sun sets on the horizon. The stone steps below us, winding down and down and down.

“Everyone’s allowed to complain sometimes,” Oliver says.

“Sure.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”