Chapter 21 Crash Out
CRASH OUT
ALICE
Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you crash out.
It happens quick and unexpected, a light bulb popping; one minute you can see, and the next you’re in the dark. The filament gets too hot, the light’s been on too long. It dies.
You die too, a little bit, every time it happens.
9:03
The time stares back at me. Above it, the date. Sunday, June twenty-second.
9:04
The clock changes shape on the screen. Another minute gone. Four in total have passed since the notification popped up with a bright ding. Why hadn’t I turned off the yearly reminder?
Oh right, I’m a masochist now.
Other notifications light up my phone—junk emails and spam texts—but I swipe them away, my eyes burning as I stare at the calendar icon on my lock screen.
Today: ANNIVERSARY!!!!
Four exclamation points. I was that happy when I typed it into my phone. I didn’t need the reminder back then—how could I ever forget—but the dot it put on my calendar gave me joy. I relished the countdown leading up to it, and to our subsequent celebrations.
Now, the date takes me by surprise.
How did the first third of summer go by in such a blur?
Is it the salty air that dulled my senses?
Did Meadowbrook ruin me with that mystifying sensation of being on vacation, the one that makes you wake from a coma every morning, not knowing if it’s a weekend or a weekday, but it doesn’t actually matter because you’re away?
Or is it the company I’ve been keeping, who have distracted me better than any piece of media can?
How could I forget?
I haven’t prepared as I have the last two years. I didn’t crack open our fifty dates book and scratch one off, so I’d know what we’d do today. I didn’t make a reservation at a new restaurant. I didn’t buy a lemon-raspberry cake to split with my favorite ghost.
10:32
The clock shapeshifts again, this time accompanied by a buzzing. Steph calls. Then Erica. But they know I don’t want to talk today. I hit end on their calls without picking up.
Texts follow. Concern. Reminders that they’re there if I want to chat. Sending love. I swipe those away too.
11:04
Two hours. I’m still in bed.
Time is weird like that. It moves quick as lightning and then not at all.
Thoughts rush but don’t stick; emotions lurk in the corner, threatening my numbed defenses.
I turn over. Fresh cold pillow hits my cheek. Sheets get caught and twisted in my legs. I kick at them to no avail, then give up, accepting my fabric shackles.
Jessa’s messages come next. I glance away from the calendar reminder to read their previews.
Concern. Questions. Am I not coming to train today? More concern.
I don’t swipe them away, but I don’t open them yet. I can’t.
I can’t get up yet.
Today: ANNIVERSARY!!!!
11:35
Jessa’s picture pops up with the rhythmic vibration of her call. She set that up in her contact for me—a selfie of us and Harley at the beach. It almost makes me smile. We look happy.
I let it run through without picking up, but feel bad about it, so I gather the courage to open up my messages.
I click on Harley’s name and type quickly.
It’s my anniversary. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed today. Can you tell Jessa and let her know I’m sorry for missing training without warning?
Alice :(
HARLEY
What do you need? Do you want to be alone? Do you want to paint?
HARLEY
Do I want him here, he means. His presence, in whatever way I need—existing together, no pressure. My thumbs pause, thinking. Finally, they speak, much more concisely than my tongue could right now.
Can you both come over?
Bring your choice of takeout. Something new.
And lemon cake.
Please.
And thank you.
You got it. Give me an hour.
HARLEY
An hour.
I sigh, exiting my messages and staring at the lock screen.
Today: ANNIVERSARY!!!!
I will give myself one more hour.
I’m waiting by the window when they roll up in Jessa’s truck. They each carry two plastic bags as they rush up the gravel driveway, rocks crunching under their sneakers. I catch a glimpse of a yellow smiley face on one of Harley’s bags—there’s nothing like crying over a pint of pork fried rice.
When their boots hit the porch, I swing open the door. The violent screech of ungreased hinges catches them off guard; both jolt to a stop halfway up the steps.
Jessa has the same soft smile on that she gave me the day I asked her to explain Arcadia.
I hadn’t clocked it then, but it’s a tentative tilt of her lips, the kind of cautious tenderness you reserve for a wounded animal.
As if it will bolt if you move too fast. As if it will break if you handle it too rough.
“Hey,” Jessa says, and the velvety rasp stabs my chest.
Their faces go blurry.
“I miss him so much,” I whine as the first tear falls.
Jessa’s bags of takeout hit the porch, and she rushes forward. I stumble as her body collides with mine; I’m encircled in her warmth, steadied by her strong arms. She tucks my head into the crook of her neck, squeezing me tight.
“Oh, Trouble…” she whispers into my crown.
For some reason, that’s what wrecks me. Those three syllables burst open the damn, smash it all to pieces; the waters begin to flow in sincerity as I heave.
I hate it—the way my eyes burn. The way I can’t catch a breath. The way my heart keens, wails, throws a tantrum and bruises my ribs with well-placed kicks. The way my tears soak Jessa’s shirt and the way the fabric sticks to my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
Another presence curls around us, Harley joining in on the group hug. His chest presses into my back, strong and soothing. They wrap me in safety.
“We’ve got you, Alice,” he mutters. “We’ve got you.”
“Why the lemon cake?” Jessa asks, sucking icing off her fork. “I thought you were partial to chocolate.”
We’ve made a pillow fort in the living room. Oddly enough, this was one of the dates in the book I have tucked in the drawer of the TV stand. Ryan and I did it on our second anniversary.
It’s a nice tribute.
“You know how people get the same cake every year to celebrate?” I say, picking at my cuticles.
“Ah,” she croons in somber understanding. “Should have connected those dots.”
“Ryan loved lemon,” I say. It’s weird speaking about him like this.
But also, kind of nice. They didn’t know him, so it’s as if they’re meeting him for the first time with every new piece of information.
I’ve found I can’t talk about this stuff with Steph or Erica; their memories are also tainted by grief.
It always ends in a sob-fest with them. “He was a fiend for anything sour. But lemon was his favorite.”
“He had good taste,” Jessa says. She lifts the plate and her tongue darts out, licking a long stripe through the icing stuck to the ceramic.
“Did you seriously just lick the plate?” Harley asks with disgust.
I snort. I’d do the same if I had more of an appetite. My half-eaten piece is sitting on the coffee table next to Harley’s empty plate.
“Hey. It’s a no judgment zone. That means Alice can snot all over my shirt and I can lick icing off the plate,” Jessa says.
“What do I get to do then?” Harley asks.
“Lie there and look pretty.”
“But I do that all the time. What’s something equally as gross that I can do?”
I shake my head at their heatless bickering. “Can we watch another movie?” I ask, interrupting.
Jessa discards her plate and crawls onto our makeshift mattress of couch cushions. “We can do anything you want. We don’t have any plans except for you today.”
Harley rolls closer and tugs me to his side. It’s as if he can read my mind—or maybe he simply noticed I needed grounding. I can’t linger in one thing too long when I’m like this, otherwise I space out. And when I space out, large chunks of time escape me.
He physically pulls me away from the cloying, itchy sadness.
“No plans except for cuddling you,” Harley corrects. “Because you cannot have a pillow fort without cuddles. That’s a rule. I read it somewhere.”
“You say that about everything. Now stop hogging her.” Jessa smacks him with a throw pillow, but since I’m tucked under his arm, she also hits me. “Sorry, Trouble, you’re necessary collateral for his punishment.”
I shake my head again, but this time I actually smile with silent laughter. “You can both cuddle me. I’ll lay in the middle.”
After a one-sided pillow fight, and Harley’s valiant effort to fight back one-handed, Jessa puts on a movie and curls up on my other side. They make comments about what happens on the screen, but I don’t pay attention.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Not when I’m stuck in my head. Certainly not with Harley’s heartbeat under my ear. And definitely not with Jessa’s hand twining with mine over my stomach.
Bracketed by these two, I manage to fall asleep.