Chapter Eighteen
RACHEL
After my second margarita, and I don’t know how many shots, my vision slips.
Everything softens at the edges, the room losing its shape.
I blink hard, once, twice, but the blur doesn’t leave.
My hands feel slow, clumsy even, when I reach for my purse.
A tight breath escapes me as I sit up straighter, the motion enough to make me sway.
Okay, maybe I pushed it too far. The thought brushes my mind, but I shove it down. Keep moving. Always keep moving.
The bartender, Stu—who’s been checking in on me throughout the night—catches my eye as I stand.
“Hey, honey, you know I can’t let you drive.”
I shake my head too quickly and wave him off, words tumbling out thick. “Oh, I’m not—driving. I’m getting a ride.” They blur together, but I don’t bother fixing them.
He studies me for a beat, making sure I’m not about to topple over, then finally nods and steps back.
I dig out my phone, squinting against the light of the screen. My fingers miss the buttons the first time, then fumble their way back, tapping slow and sloppy.
“What’s the address here again?” I mumble, not looking up.
He calls something back. I don’t catch the words, but my fingers seem to know what to do. I type it in and hit confirm.
Ping.
Notification from rideshare
Charlie will arrive in five minutes.
I let out a small breath and head for the door.
“Thanks, Stu,” I toss back with a lazy wave. “For… company.”
The night air slaps my skin the second I step out.
Cold, sharp. It cuts through the liquor’s warmth but not enough.
My arms fold tight across my stomach as I walk toward the sidewalk.
The street is quiet except for the click of my heels and the occasional hum of traffic blocks away.
I lean against the brick wall by the entrance and tilt my head back, allowing my eyes to close.
Just five minutes. I can wait five minutes.
The blare of a horn jerks my eyes open. A red Honda Civic idles at the curb, headlights spilling across the pavement. The driver gives a quick second honk.
That must be Charlie.
I push off the wall and walk toward the car, moving more slowly than I usually would. My steps aren’t quite steady, but I make it to the door and slide into the back seat.
“Rachel?” Charlie asks, half-turned, just enough to check I’m the person he’s supposed to be picking up.
“Yep. Please tell me you’re Charlie?”
He nods and pulls away from the curb.
I rest my elbow on the window ledge, forehead pressing lightly to the glass. The city passes by me in streaks of light and shadow, blurred and fast. My stomach twists with each turn, but I stay still.
About halfway through, Charlie speaks again. “Weird drop-off spot.” He mumbles it more to himself than to me.
I keep my eyes on the road and don’t answer. I don’t have it in me to explain it to him. I don’t owe him an explanation, anyway.
The next fifteen minutes pass in silence. The car slows as we make a turn off the main road. A black iron gate comes into view, tall and clean-lined with gold lettering across the top.
We roll to a stop.
“Windsor Lane Cemetery,” Charlie announces, glancing at me through the mirror.
I nod, already reaching for my purse. “Thanks, Charlie. Have a good night.”
He gives a small wave, and I step out into the chill, pulling the door shut behind me. The Civic glides away, taillights disappearing down the street until I’m alone with the gate.
The iron bars creak as I push through. When it swings back, the latch clicks shut, creating a sound too loud for the silence that engulfs me.
I let my feet follow the woven path, feeling the gravel crunching under my heels. The night air presses cold against my skin, though my cheeks burn with the heat of the Tequila still clinging to my blood.
I don’t need to look where I’m going. My body already knows. Every turn, every bend, every tree along the path—it’s mapped in my bones. Even now, tipsy and blurred around the edges, I could walk this blind.
My brother’s name has been carved into stone longer than I can stand to remember, yet tonight it feels fresh, raw, as if I’ll find him sitting there, waiting for me.
Only if I could be so lucky. I’ve had a lot of time since his death to think about all the things I would give up if I could just talk to him one more time. I’ve come to realize it’s easier to list the things I wouldn’t give up.
When I reach the headstone, I stop. My throat knots tight under the swell of emotion. I press the back of my hand against the cold stone, grounding myself before sinking onto the damp grass. The chill seeps straight through my jeans, and I lean back until the marker digs into my spine.
The air smells of wet leaves and earth. I breathe it in anyway, slow and shaky, because it is the closest thing to him I have left; the earth that holds him.
Josh was my only brother. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to him.
Before I knew who I was, I knew who he was, and I knew I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.
He was my protector. My constant. The thing that stood between me and whatever might hurt me.
He stepped in before I ever had to ask, before I even knew I needed help.
When people said cruel things, Josh was already there.
When I cried, he didn’t tell me it would be okay.
He made me laugh instead, like joy was something he carried in his pocket just for me.
In eleventh grade, when Veronica decided to make fun of the dress I wore to Homecoming, Josh appeared and told her to fuck off.
Veronica looked stunned. I think she expected a fight.
Instead, she got dismissed. I don’t even remember what she said after that, because Josh had already turned back to me and asked if I wanted to go get french fries, like the whole thing was over. And it was.
He went to every single one of my high school volleyball games. Wins and losses didn’t matter. He was always there. And every boy who wanted to take me out had to meet him first. Not because Josh didn’t trust me, but because he trusted the world even less.
To me, Josh was never just my brother. He was the reason I believed I was worth protecting in the first place. And I know it is unfair of me to have found my value through him, but I can’t change that.
I tilt my head back, letting it rest as my eyes blur on the name carved above me. I allow myself one moment of misery, and I take my index finger and trace the outline of his name where it’s carved.
“Hi, Joshy,” I whisper, lips twitching into a crooked smile that dies too quickly.
The stone is rough under my skin, unyielding, nothing like the warmth of the boy who used to chase me through the yard, who used to make faces at me across the dinner table until Mom yelled.
My throat burns, and I swallow hard, but the lump doesn’t budge.
I position my body so I can press my forehead against the cold granite, closing my eyes as if I could fold myself into the letters, crawl into the hollow they leave behind.
I just want to be comforted by him one last time.
“Fair warning,” I mutter, pulling my forehead from the stone. “I’m drunk. And very, very self-deprecating tonight.” A weak laugh huffs out of me.
The burn builds in my chest, climbing higher until I feel it in my nose, in my eyes. I swipe the back of my hand over my face, but the wetness stays.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Josh.” My voice cracks. With my back to the stone, I curl forward and press my forehead against my knees. “I don’t know who I am.”
I press harder against the stone. It is the discomfort I deserve. I should have been the sibling who died. He should be the one still here.
“Sometimes I tell myself I’m lucky,” I whisper.
“That I should be grateful I’m the sibling on this side of the ground.
What I have here is enough, because at least I’m alive.
But he never shows up when it counts, Josh.
” My sleeve drags roughly across my face as I swipe at the tears on my cheek.
“You’d hate him. You’d take one look at him and tell me to run.
And I’d probably ignore you anyway, because apparently I’m an idiot. ”
The breeze shifts, brushing across my face. It carries the smell of damp earth and the faint rustle of trees. I pull my jacket tighter around me as I cling to my knees.
“A lot has happened since I last visited. Uh, for starters, Margo got married,” I say. “Did you know that? Yeah, of course you know. It’s weird for me. I mean, it’s wonderful, what she found, but I wish there had never been a reason she had to find it.”
I suck in a breath between my teeth. “You’d like Anderson. He is so in love with her, Josh. He treats her the way you would have, if you’d gotten the chance to do it longer. He’s the kind of guy who sees her for who she is. She doesn’t have to fight for his love. She just gets to be loved.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve until it snaps.
“I saw Rhett,” I mutter. “Or, uh—whatever. I keep seeing him. He’s back in town. He says for good, though I’m not so sure. Did you know that, too?”
The damp grass clings to my jeans while the cold breeze slips under my jacket until I shiver. I pull my legs in tighter, trying to hold the warmth that isn’t there.
“He looks the same… maybe a little older. But still very Rhett-like. Still, the guy who used to sneak you beers and give me rides when you couldn’t move off the couch.”
A bitter laugh slips out.
“You’d be furious if you knew how I think about Rhett. I guess how I’ve always thought about him.” The words scrape out raw, unbuffered. “But don’t worry, it makes me furious too.”