Page 104 of The Holy Grail

What an asshole

“How have you been since Monroe died?” Lauren asked Malcom, her expression full of compassion.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t be forced to sleep.

To his horror—and mortification—Malcom felt his eyes prickling and before he could stop it, a few tears gathered and fell, which he angrily wiped away. “These aren’t because Monroe is dead. It’s because I’m exhausted and feeling really pissed off, which isn’t a good combination.”

“Do you want to tell me why you’re really pissed off?”

“Well, the main reason is because I’ve been doing all this work so I could tell him to go fuck himself, and he goddamn dies before I get to say any of it.

I mean, what an asshole.” Malcom heaved a giant sigh and rubbed at his face, thankful all traces of tears were gone.

“I don’t know what to do with all this anger.

I’m so fucking pissed I didn’t have the balls to confront him when he was alive.

He just keeps winning, even though he’s dead. ”

“We never got around to talking about it, but how were you envisioning your meeting with him going? ”

“Well … I pictured it many different ways, actually. In one scenario, he slams the door in my face and I don’t get to say what I want.

In another, I barge into his office and tell him everything I want to say, loud enough for his colleagues to overhear—and I know that one is a bit over the top, but it was fun to picture it. ”

“Of course.”

“The most ridiculous scenario, though, plays out like a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, and takes place in Monroe’s penthouse.

I’m the Clint Eastwood character, wearing the leather poncho for effect, and as I’m in the elevator, heading to the top floor, that theme music is playing overhead—you know what I’m talking about? ”

“I do.” Lauren’s expression was amused. “Are you smoking one of those brown cigarettes?”

“No, but that would have been a nice touch, had I thought of it,” he said.

“Anyway, after I pound on his door and he opens it, I push my way in and verbally unload on him. Every time he tries to interrupt, I just talk over him, because fuck him. I say what I want to say, tell him to go fuck himself with whatever sharp object comes to mind right at that moment, then I leave, with him leaning against a wall, completely destroyed. As I’m heading down in the elevator—which I conveniently don’t have to wait for—the theme music plays again and everything fades to black. ”

“I really like that one. It’s very creative.”

“I know it’s goofy as hell, but it made me smile.

” Malcom paused, growing serious again. “I know the most likely scenario would have been as soon as I told Monroe what he didn’t want to hear, that I was making the ‘wrong’ decision, according to him, he’d cut me out of his life.

” Malcom sighed. “I’m just really angry at how this has ended .

.. with me not being able to do a damn thing. ”

“You can still write a letter, you know.”

He leaned back on the loveseat. “What’s the point, though? Monroe’s dead, so it’s not like he can read it—not that he necessarily would have if he was still alive—but he really won’t read it now.”

“The letter wouldn’t be for him. It would be for you, so write the letter anyway.” She gave him a long look. “Write the letter you want, using all the words you want, to address every shitty thing he said to you and every shitty thing he made you feel.”

When he still looked skeptical, she added, “And when you’re done, you can take your letter to the cemetery and read it at his grave. ”