Page 58 of The Lies Always Told (Baker Oaks #4)
TWENTY-SEVEN
SHUT IT ALL OFF
A WEEK LATER
Hallelujah, Pentatonix ; Keep Holding On, Glee Cast ; Heal, Tom Odell
Nellie
I never thought I’d be here my first year as a counselor, standing at a funeral, surrounded by friends and family—the funeral of a man I’ve known my whole life.
Someone who is loved, cared for, and appreciated by this community.
A father, a husband, a friend. I definitely didn’t think he would lose his life at the hands of a student, one who never meant to hurt him. A student he loved.
But here I am.
The September air is thick—humid with grief, suffocating with the weight of things that should never have happened.
There’s a crackle on the microphone, a brief moment of feedback that makes some people flinch, and then the head football coach’s voice drones over the silent crowd.
He’s guiding the funeral, as he was not only Nick’s head coach, but also his high school coach when he played.
Coach has been part of their family for years, and it just made sense.
He speaks about loss, about tragedy, about faith, about God’s plan.
I wonder if he actually believes a word of it.
Does he believe this was His plan all along?
That Josh was going to be bullied so much, he snapped?
That he was so distraught because his parents kept punishing him for his grades, grades he couldn’t bring up because he wasn’t getting any help?
Was His plan to give him access to his parents’ gun and for him to bring it to school to scare his bullies into leaving him alone, but it turned into a disaster?
A disaster that came at a high cost. A sentence for a sixteen-year-old boy who was hurting so much.
A boy whose parents took out their frustrations on him, and he never said anything.
A sentence for the sixteen year old boy who needed help and didn’t know how to ask.
A sentence for that boy’s teacher, who now is gone.
That boy’s teacher and coach who stood between the gun and his students while he was trying to figure out what was going on.
A teacher who called for a code red so nobody else would get hurt.
A teacher who managed to pull half of his homeroom out of the classroom.
A teacher who had been trained on what to do in case of an active shooter, but when put in front of a kid he cared about, he forgot.
A teacher who tried to take the gun away.
A boy who accidentally fired in fear. A teacher who took a bullet for the kids under his watch. Was it His plan all along?
I’m having the hardest time believing everything truly happens for a reason.
What’s the reasoning behind this? None—this is just a tragedy.
Praying won’t turn it around. Praying won’t do anything.
Actions will. More safeguards in place. More awareness and more consequences.
More access to mental health care, more talking to kids about kindness.
Maybe we did everything we could here, but Josh was still hurting before any of us knew it.
We needed to do more. Not everything happens for a reason.
Not everything is fair. This shouldn’t have happened. This is unfair .
I stare at the closed casket, but I can’t bring myself to look at Natalie standing in the front row, shoulders shaking, her hand over her baby bump.
She hasn’t stopped crying since she got here.
Someone—I think it’s her mom—keeps rubbing circles on her back.
It doesn’t seem to help. Next to her is Bella, equally distraught.
I’m going to be sick.
People say things in hushed voices as they place flowers over the casket.
They whisper condolences to his family, to his parents, to Natalie and Bella and into the air.
Whispers of him being a hero. That it could’ve been worse.
That he protected the kids. Nobody who goes into education should be choosing this. Nobody should be put in this situation.
But there hasn’t been justice . A courtroom, a gavel, a sentencing that hasn’t come—none of that makes this better.
Josh is only sixteen. They want to sentence him, but it’s trickier than that.
Does he need mental health treatment? Does he need prison?
What is the right thing to do here? Nobody knows, and in the meantime, they’ll keep looking.
Nothing will undo what happened. It doesn’t change the fact that a kid brought a gun to school.
Nothing changes the fact that he thought that was his only way out.
Nothing ever will. He chose to take the gun, even if he didn’t mean to fire it, even if he didn’t mean to hurt anyone.
It’s all so complicated and sad. Everything’s under investigation, and nobody knows what to do.
There were other victims here. Josh, who needed help.
Josh, who had been suffering in silence for years.
Josh, who felt he needed to respond with violence.
Nick, who lost his life trying to protect others.
His family, who is mourning a father in the wake of receiving another daughter.
His friends, who will have a Nick-sized hole in their hearts forever.
Baker Oaks and our schools that will never be the same after this.
Cody, who’s being sent to live with his grandparents because his parents are under investigation.
A loaded gun at home without a safe. A loaded gun unaccounted for.
The perfect family in the eyes of the public but monsters behind closed doors.
They were the aggressors, not just this kid.
Maybe the true aggressor was the system, the broken system that keeps perpetuating the cycle.
I close my eyes.
Monday, the school will open again. Classes will resume.
Teachers will take attendance, lessons will be taught, kids will fill the halls and talk about this in hushed tones, afraid of what others might think or say.
I hope I can provide a space for them to share, but will I?
Will I be able to get back to things? They’ll talk about the funeral, about how Josh, not the shooter as some are calling him, cried because he never meant for any of it to happen.
About how Josh’s name should be said because we failed him.
The adults in his life failed him. Kids will talk about how the bullet was never meant for anyone.
Kids will talk about how Josh didn’t think the gun was loaded.
Some will call him a school shooter. Some will call him an assailant.
There will be vigils and rallies and press coverage.
His family will talk. They’ll try to defend themselves.
Nick’s family will talk, and they’ll want justice.
A town divided, torn. Because who’s completely in the wrong here?
Josh? His parents? The system? What we know for a fact is that everyone’s hurting, and Nick didn’t deserve this fate.
I feel like I’m falling, like I’m unraveling from the inside out, and no one sees it. This is not about me, so I need to keep my shit together.
I should’ve done more. I should’ve seen it coming.
I should’ve stopped it. My breath is short, shallow.
I can feel the walls closing in, the heat pressing down, the scent of lilies and candle wax making me nauseous.
I walk away abruptly, leaving the funeral and walking fast toward my car. People glance at me. I don’t care.
And I drive. I drive without focus. I drive until my thoughts are clear. I drive until my tears are dried. I drive. I drive. I drive. I don’t even realize where I’m going until I make it there and park.
Gus’s house. I asked him not to come. I didn’t want to answer more questions, and my family can be so nosy.
By the time I reach his front door, my hands are shaking. I knock once, twice.
It takes a moment, but then I hear footsteps. The door swings open, and Gus stands there, eyes heavy with sleep, hair a mess. His mouth parts slightly in surprise.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” I say, my voice breaking.
He doesn’t ask any questions. He just steps aside, letting me in.
I follow him to his room, the floor creaking under my feet.
Neither of us turn on the light. The darkness feels safer.
He feels safer. He’s been there for me this entire week.
He stayed silent and gave me the space I needed.
He let me cry, scream, and vent every day and every night for the past week, but tonight, I want him to be loud.
Not with his words, but with his hands. With his mouth.
I loop my arms around his torso and hug him, sliding my hands under his shirt and touching his back. I lift his shirt up and over his head.
“Nellie,” he pleads. He would let me do whatever I wanted. He would let me take whatever I needed. And right now, I need him.
I kiss his chest, bringing my hands around his neck, and I breathe him in. I pepper kisses along his jaw, and when I thrust my pelvis forward, rolling on him, he hisses. “Nellie, we can’t. Not like this.”
“Shut it all off, Gus. It was my fault. Shut it all off.” He’s still tense, and I give him space.
“It wasn’t your fault, Nellie. What do I have to do to make you see it?”
“I don’t want to talk. I just want to shut it all off. Can you? Can you make me feel something? Anything…ot her than this?” His eyes are on mine, but the intensity I would usually find is replaced by a feeling I hate: pity.
“Stop looking at me like I’m broken,” I whisper.
“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he replies as indecision washes all over his face.
“I’m already hurting. I want to feel something other than pain. Please,” I plead with my voice, with my hands, with my lips.
“I want to feel something, but not this, please,” I whisper on his lips.
He finally loosens up, melting around me, cupping my ass and lifting me up.
We kiss in the dark, quiet and slow. Not rushed, just two people exploring each other.
Two people who know each other well. One of them hurting, the other one helping.
One trying to be there, the other one using him.
One just trying to do the right thing, the other one escaping reality.