Page 61 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Forty-Three

I blink at the field, trying to remember how I got here.

After I called June, I hibernated into a cave of blankets and stayed in bed like a wounded bear.

The house I had come to love like a cozy nest betrayed me by morphing into a depressing museum without permission.

Every item was a memory belonging to Wren or Ford.

When I contemplated burning the damn place down, I poured a drink.

Ford texted and called too many times to count; I smashed my phone.

Molly whimpered in the kitchen; I threw a turkey leg against the crooked tiled backsplash.

I went for a run; I cried.

I played some of Zeb’s records; I snapped four of them in half.

Finally, I climbed into the Bronco and just drove, without music or direction and with the windows down despite how cold it is. Muscle memory got me here because I don’t remember making a single turn.

The field is the one where Ford brought me on our date. The one I ruined like I ruin everything. Like the universe has preordained to be ruined because it’s me. Like no matter what I do or how I try to help, heartache is all I will ever have. Ever cause.

Where the landscape was filled with yellowing cornstalks and still mostly green leafed trees when I was here before, the corn’s been harvested and the trees are bare. Dead like me.

Unable to contain it, my mouth opens: I scream. I drop my head back and don’t stop until my throat feels like it’s bleeding. Until I can barely breathe.

As abrupt as I start, I stop. Breathless and panting as I look out at the field of death.

And then it happens.

The murmured chatter.

The soft flutter that turns loud.

The thousands of birds that act as one.

The starlings lift from the branches of the bare trees, raising into the air like a big cloud, stretching apart before snapping back together. I watch them put on a performance more beautiful than I deserve. One bird changing the direction of the seven around it. Just like Ford.

When they stop and the sky goes quiet, I realize I’m crying. Maybe I never stopped.

“Hey,” Ben says, leaning over the bar with a low voice. “You sure you need a drink, Scotty?”

“You turning me down, Ben?” I ask with a too-long wink.

He’s probably not wrong. Between the field of lost dreams and Liberty Tap, I stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of whiskey, and slammed half of it in the parking lot before I walked in here.

He hesitates, eyes pinging down the bar. “I’m serious. You okay?”

I wave my hand through the air. “I’m fine. A bad day.” I pause, shake my head and chuckle. “No, that’s not right. A bad life,” I correct. “A bad life. Just one teensy drink and I’ll leave. Cross my heart.” I use my fingers and put an X across my chest to prove my honesty.

He sighs but reluctantly pours me a glass, much less than usual, which makes me snarl. I barely taste the first sip. It barely even burns.

The bar is almost empty. A few people dining at tables. One other couple at the bar. I don’t know what time it is. Maybe everyone’s already home. Maybe it’s breakfast. Maybe I don’t give a flying fuck about time.

Ben cuts lemons behind the bar, and I turn my attention to the couple.

The woman’s back is to me, but I can see the man’s face, animated as he speaks to her.

He leans in close, probably giving a stupid line.

He’s okay-enough looking. Three more whiskeys and he’d look good enough to fuck, I suppose.

He laughs a loud abrasive sound, and I wince.

Four more whiskeys.

Ford and I never had a proper date here, and that makes me want to impale myself with the knife Ben is using to cut lemons.

“You’re so nice, Ben. I shouldn’t have slept with you.”

He looks at me, mouth open as he hovers the knife midair.

“Because I’m so mean,” I clarify.

He laughs softly, resuming his work with the lemons. “Maybe don’t tell my new girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend,” I echo, dropping my chin to the back of my hand on the bar as I watch him work. “You ever lose someone?” I ask.

He glances at me with a slight smile. “Haven’t we all?”

“Who?”

“My brother a few years back. Motorcycle accident.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice wobbling. “I had no idea.”

He pulls a towel from over his shoulder and wipes his hands, squaring up to where I’m slumped, shrugging slightly. “Name of the game, you know?”

“How so?”

“C’mon, Scotty. You’re around death every day, you know more than anyone the trade-off of living is dying same as loving is losing.”

I sit up with a start, feeling like in fact I did not know this.

“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 day he 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 was lost—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. The shit happens mentality he was so blessed with. I don’t know how to let it go. If I deserve to 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.

He grins, like this is good news. Like he knew I’d know who he was, like he’s some kind of steaming-hot pile of golden shit I’d be lucky to step in.

“The one and only,” he says, preening as he raises his glass.

I am no longer in control of my body, covering the distance of the six barstools that separate us. This is the guy that beat the shit out of Wanda and never paid; no way in hell is he coming out of this place with both testicles.

“And my lovely date, Jessica.” He beams .

And then I look at the lovely date and know for the first time in my life the stars have aligned. I’ve won the mother lode.

“Jessicunt,” I say, feeling my lips curl into an evil grin. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You two know each other?” Cal asks, oblivious to the revenge story I’m plotting, which involves me flushing their ashes down a shit-filled toilet.

Jessica looks at me, and it pleases me to see that she hasn’t aged well. Lines run like canyons on her face and, in an attempt to retain her youth, she wears too much foundation and has lips filled to the point of resembling a balloon animal.

“Oh yes,” she says, lifting a martini— she would drink a martini —up to her lips. “I’ve known Scotty since she was trailer trash. Now I’m getting to relive our glory days as the Callahan girl plays pretend too.”

Bitch. She knew—probably helped—execute whatever was done at Homecoming to Wren.

“Ben,” I call, not looking away from her ugliest shit shade of brown eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You know June’s number?”

“Uh. Maybe? I have Camp’s for sure. Why?”

“I need you to call them. Tell them I’m sorry, but they need to come get me. I smashed my phone.” He’s quiet, but I don’t take my eyes off Jessica. “Got it?”

“Yeah. ”

I turn to Cal. “Cal, I wish Wanda would have been a better killer.”

He blinks, confused, but there’s no time for him to say anything.

I sling my arm back and snap it forward, punching him right in the nose.

Blood spurts.

Jessicunt screams.

Ben shouts, “Jesus, Scotty!”

Cal cups his hands around his nose with a grunt and spits, “You stupid, crazy bitch.”

I pick up his drink, dump it on his head, then bring the glass down to his crotch, pressing the rim into what I assume to be a pitifully small penis until he wails with pain. I increase the pressure as I lean close to him.

“Bet you won’t be so keen to beat up a woman when you’re a dickless eunuch.”

Cal moans in pain, begging until I coolly return the glass to the bar.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jessica jumps to her feet, toppling her stool over. “You always were a piece of trash. Never did see what Ford saw in you.”

I guffaw. “You never could handle the fact he wasn’t interested in your deep throat,” I snark. “And we fucked on the hood of your Camry.”

Her jaw drops; I grin, jerking my arm back then sending my fist flying forward straight to her jaw, which it connects to with a crack.

“That’s for fucking with Ford’s kid,” I grit out .

“You bitch,” she spits, swinging a hand that slaps my cheek.

I stumble slightly, laugh loud, and punch her again, this time hitting her eye.

She screams.

Hurtles her body toward me.

And then . . . I black out.