Page 43 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Twenty-Nine

Zeb used to go to a scenic overlook on the outskirts of town with his guitar to write music. “Lyrics just live out in this mountain air,” he’d say. Sometimes I’d go with him, sitting on a rock and reading a book while he strummed chords and wrote lyrics in a notebook.

The Bronco must drive itself, because I don’t remember anything between the police station and cutting the engine in the parking lot.

Memory told me it was a grand vista with valleys as deep as the mountains were high, but the harsh lens of reality reveals that image to be a lie.

It’s nothing more than a slab of asphalt and a glorified ditch.

A motorcycle rumbles up beside me and parks; a man takes off his helmet, flicks me a wave and wanders to the tree line where he takes a piss before getting back on his bike and riding away .

With a shaky breath, I open the folder, my hands trembling as I dump the contents—a file folder and two cassette tapes—onto the passenger seat.

I pick up the cassette with 875 Valley Drive scribbled on the lines in the front into the tape deck and voices start instantly.

Dispatcher: 9-1-1 What is your emergency?

Caller: It’s my friend, he’s breaking into a house. 875 Valley Drive in Ledger.

I suck in a sharp breath, recognizing a young Ford’s voice instantly.

Dispatcher : Is he armed?

Ford: I don’t know. I don’t know! I tried to talk him out of it, I told him not to.

Dispatcher: Is there anyone else in the house?

Ford: I don’t know—I don’t think so. [voice cracks] Dammit. I don’t want him to go to jail. Can someone come and help him? An officer? Talk to him. I don’t want him to go to jail.

Dispatcher: Sir, please stay calm, I’ve notified the police.

Ford: [sniffs] I think he’s high. I don’t know—I don’t know!

Dispatcher: Sir, can you tell me where you are? And your name.

Ford: Ford. Callahan. I’m in the truck. He’s my best friend. His sister . . . I just want to help him.

Dispatcher: Sir, is his sister in the house?

Ford: No. She’s on a trip in the mountains. I—I love her. He can’t go to jail.

Dispatcher: I understand, sir, help is on the way.

The tape clicks to a stop, and a loud silence fills the air as a brand-new truth crushes down on me: Ford called the cops on Zeb. He set every single thing that came next in motion.

I pick up the file, terrified of what’s inside but opening it anyway.

The first page contains a mugshot. Zeb’s.

Despite the sudden oppressiveness of gravity pulling down on my shoulders, I smile slightly, dragging my thumb across his features.

Same dark hair as mine, but instead of the hazel eyes I got from Glory, he had our dad’s brown.

Maybe it’s the ink or the lighting used when they take a mugshot, but they’re lifeless.

Maybe that’s the way they were in those last years, and I just never noticed. Never wanted to notice.

He has a faded scar under his right eye, a cluster of four freckles under his left. His lips are as flat as his eyes. He looks like Zeb’s ghost. He was.

I scan the rest of the page, stopping at the bottom line: Bail posted by Archie Watkins.

No matter how many times I read it, the words don’t make sense. I always wondered who bailed my brother out—who had the money or cared enough or both—but Archie? In all his years of morning visits, he never told me. Never brought my brother up once.

I flip the page. Zeb’s death report. Cause of death: heroin overdose.

I knew as much. I called the police station after, but the details were vague.

The officer was short with me. I always assumed it was because Zeb was just another addict, and I was just another family member he didn’t want to deal with.

Neighbor or something found him, the officer had said, not bothering to get the police report. Dead when we arrived.

I continue reading.

Zeb Armstrong, age 21, deceased upon officer arrival on April 17, found in his home by friend Ford Callahan.

What? I reread it, nauseated, my stomach twisting as my eyes move faster than I can keep up with.

Callahan returned from college, concerned when he couldn’t reach Armstrong after calling repeatedly and unable to reach immediate family. He called 9-1-1 after finding deceased nonresponsive with a needle in his arm, administered CPR until paramedics arrived.

The rest of the words on the page are a blur.

Ford found Zeb. Dead. He pressed into his lifeless chest and breathed into his breathless mouth trying to save him.

Emotion clogs my throat. The other tape, scribbled with Zeb’s apartment address, must be the recording of Ford calling 9-1-1 when he found Zeb dead. I can’t listen to it .

For twenty years, I hated Ford for leaving without a reason. Without caring he left me drowning in sadness . . . alone. Turns out, he cared more than I ever knew. Carried more than I ever knew. The same way I made choices like I was standing in a burning building, so did he.

Tears fill my eyes. I should have chased him. I should have made June drive me straight to his parents’ house or his apartment at college the second I didn’t see him standing at a trailhead waiting for me.

Reading the whole thing again, my life becomes a heaping pile of shoulds. Even if what Glory said about him feeling guilty is right, he’s lugged all this with him for all these years. I’ve always thought I should have done more; Ford called the cops in an attempt to do just that. Zeb died anyway.

I move to the next paper—a printed article with a young woman’s face in a photo.

She’s pretty, young. Blonde with a smattering of freckles on her cheeks.

The headline: “Local College Student Killed by Drunk Driver.” The article names Riley Vander as the driver—Wren’s mom.

None of the other names are familiar, but there’s an inkling like I know them as I read.

Michelle Hill was survived by her mom, Emmeline, and brother, Michael, in their hometown of Ledger, North Carolina.

I suck in a sharp breath: Riley killed someone from Ledger ?

The names mean nothing to me, but knowing the small town, I’ve probably at least seen them. Ford too.

Finally, the last item, a small envelope, my name written on the outside. I peel it open; it’s dated from April.

Scotty,

I’m writing this with a sore jaw thanks to you. Our first meeting in twenty years and you didn’t blink at the opportunity to take a swing at me. If I didn’t know it was a direct reflection of how badly I hurt you, I’d laugh. But I deserved it. I know that.

Despite my tears, I laugh—the first day we ran into each other at Fight Club.

I left Ledger a scared boy, thinking if I got away, I’d be able to sort out what happened.

Maybe escape it. I was so sure you’d never forgive me for what I believed at the time was my fault.

I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve accepted it all for what it is—I tried to save Zeb and failed.

I couldn’t have known what would come next.

What events me calling the cops would set in motion.

My only solace all these years later is that I did try.

Sometimes, that has to be enough. Trying even when the results are failure .

I have a kid who reminds me of you a little bit—a spitfire through and through who hates me as much as loves me some days.

I only dated her mom briefly, but she was an addict.

I thought I could save her the way I couldn’t save Zeb.

The way I’ve tried to save every addict I can’t.

I had a partner call it a savior complex—he probably wasn’t wrong.

Either way, I failed again. She killed a girl driving drunk and high and went to prison.

The girl she killed was from, of all places, Ledger.

So, I’m here now, probably twenty years too late. I have no idea how I’ll ever give you this after seeing you today, but I’m hoping I do and you’ll read it. Hope you know I’ve missed you. Hope you’ll forgive me.

I’m going to try to do right by Zeb. I stopped by to see Glory and she’s as ornery as ever.

In some small way, hearing her spin her tales and gripe about things the way she always has while she sucks down her Lucky made me feel like a kid again.

Like I was just sitting on your living room sofa waiting for you or Zeb to finish getting ready so we could go to the lake.

If you’re reading this, I hope you forgive me. Even if we aren’t destined for anything more than what we were, I have no doubt, even now, I still love you. I probably will forever.

Ford

I read it—over and over—as if I’m trying to rewrite every memory of the last twenty years. I read it until my ringing phone pulls my eyes away from it. June. I send it to voicemail.

She calls back immediately; I answer with a sniffle.

“Joo, listen, I just found—”

“Scotty,” she says, frantic. “There’s been a shooting at the Fast Fuel. The one on Route 17.”

“Okay,” I say, confused. “Wha—”

“It’s Ford,” she fills in. “He’s been shot.”