Every Beautiful Mile

Prologue

The day I don’t know the difference between sadness and anger is the day I drink half a bottle of whiskey for breakfast.

Standing behind the wooden podium of the church, swaying side to side, I catch the looks on my teenage kids’ faces—their eyes, bloodshot from crying, are also wide with horror as they watch me.

I’m numb enough not to care.

Leaning heavily toward the too-tiny microphone, my mouth collides with it. I feel the thick, sticky slur of my voice before I hear it.

“Hellooo.” The word comes out like molasses—oozing across the crowd. Hanging.

I tug at the neck of my dress, squinting at the fuzzy words scribbled on the paper in front of me. Nice words. Loving words. The thought of reading them in front of all these people makes bile rise in my throat as the dress I’m wearing actively tries to strangle me.

I’m trapped like a dolphin in a net that gets tighter whenever it moves.

In this dress.

In this nightmare.

I clear my throat to make room for my smeared words.

“You are all here because of the best person we have ever known, Travis—” I stop, glaring around the room at all the familiar faces.

I can’t do this.

I won’t.

Not because of breakfast whiskey—because of them.

I hate them.

I shove the paper off the podium. It floats through the stuffy air until it lands on the faded maroon carpeting, earning a wave of gasps and whispers from the jam-packed pews.

They’re shocked.

Good.

I tug at my sleeves, desperate for air, but the dress only gets tighter.

I bring both hands to my neckline and pull.

Again.

And again.

It rips—finally!

The small amount of relief I get is enough to keep me going. Every inch of torn fabric feels like a prize.

The ripping sound cuts through the air and bounces off the stained-glass windows until I have torn a hole all the way from my neck to the seam under my armpit.

Black pieces of cloth sag off my shoulder just enough for my skin to feel the relief of the air.

I smile proudly as the taste of burped whiskey fills my mouth.

“Sorry about that.” I squint to refocus the faces that gawk at me and my half-bare chest.

“You know what?” I ask, tone sharp as my smile drops. “I’m not sorry—I wouldn’t be wearing this damn dress if it wasn’t for all of you!”

I grip the podium so tightly my knuckles might split.

“You claim to love Travis?” I scoff. “Well, I call bullshit! This,” I hold my arms out toward the altar covered with ridiculous flower arrangements that surround me, voice strained, “is you giving up on him.”

I wipe my nose with my sleeve as I swallow the sob that feels like shrapnel in my throat.

“You all can sit here in your stupid black clothes and sad faces and do nothing, or you can go look for him like I’ve been telling you!” My voice cracks.

The priest, who has been sitting quietly, is now walking toward me, undoubtedly plotting to throw holy water on my face and begin an impromptu exorcism.

I have to get out of here.

I lean into the microphone one last time, pause, then croak, “You can all go to hell!” and let tears fall that I have no power to stop.

I stumble down the aisle by every pew filled with every person I’ve ever known until I push through the heavy doors.

After being in the dimly lit church, I flinch from the brightness outside.

I hate the sun for even existing on a day like this.

Straight ahead, I see the marina and the turquoise water of the Gulf of Mexico only blocks away.

That’s where he is.

There’s no time.

I kick my heels off in the middle of the parking lot and start to run.

The hot pavement mixes with tiny rocks beneath my feet and cuts like shards of glass with every step, but I don’t care.

I don’t stop.

Not when my feet start to bleed.

Not when I hear someone yell my name.

Not when the roughness of the road turns into wooden planks of a dock beneath me.

When the planks end—I don’t hesitate—I jump.

It’s only seconds until I hit the water, my dress instantly ballooning around me like a black jellyfish as I try to paddle and kick.

My lacerated feet feel like they’ve been lit on fire by the salt water, and everything goes heavy. I barely move.

The land has an invisible leash on me and will not let go, no matter how hard I fight it. With my chin barely floating above the surface, my small tears become drops in the big ocean.

“Penelope!”

Gabe?

My head turns as he drops his suit jacket on the dock just before diving into the water.

“Go away, Gabe!” I try in vain to swim again. “I’m going to get him!”

As I shout, the taste of saltwater fills my mouth in gulps.

He’s too fast, and I’m too drunk. He catches me within seconds, hooks an arm around my waist, and drags me back to the same dock I had jumped from as I scream belligerently and thrash wildly. My elbow hits his face—blood spraying out of his nose in an instant.

I don’t know what he says because I’m yelling through sobs, water filling my ears and eyes and mouth with every word.

We’re at the ladder—he drags me up. My soaked dress clings to my legs like a wetsuit, ripped fabric drooping heavily off my chest.

Gabe bends over next to me in his dripping wet clothes, hands on his knees, panting.

“Jesus Christ, Nel! What the hell are you doing?” He spits the words out as he looks at me, blood running down his face. “You pulled that stunt back at the church, and now this?” He jerks to a stand and points to the water we were just swimming in. “You could’ve died!”

He shakes his head and rubs his forearm under his nose. The bright red blood spreads across his soaked white shirt and stains.

Looking at my brother, I don’t feel a drop of guilt, only rage.

“You!” I grit my teeth, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You did this! You and everyone else in that goddamned church! You gave up—all of you!” My voice cracks, fresh tears streaming down my face making him look like a blurry blob. “It’s barely been two weeks, and you’re just going to give up?” Every single word burns my mouth. “Who has a funeral without a body, Gabe?” I demand, voice loud. “He’s out there, waiting for us!”

He”s silent.

A group of tourists on a boat tied to a nearby dock in the marina point and stare. A woman—wearing a wetsuit with goggles on top of her head—points a cell phone in my direction, recording me.

I smile coldly through my mascara-stained face as I raise both fists and wave my middle fingers.

Assholes.

People from the church are here.

My mom is on the dock next to me.

Where did she come from?

“Honey, you’re scaring me,” she says softly.

Nothing makes sense, but I lean into her anyway. She’s the only thing holding me upright while my entire life washes away like grains of sand in an outgoing tide.

“Mom, why?” I ask in a hoarse whisper. “Why won’t anyone help me find him?”

“Shhhhh.” My mom hushes me as she gently rubs my back. “He’s gone, Penelope, he’s gone.”

I want to argue. I desperately want to scream the words I know are true, but they don’t come. Somewhere between the blurred lines of grief, anger, and smoke-flavored liquor, I know my mom is right.

The scream that comes next is a throat-shredding, ear-piercing sound that takes me to my knees and drains me of my ability to breathe or think. I don’t notice my kids crying beside me or the car that shows up to take me away.

The only thing I know at this moment, the only thing I’ll ever know again, is my husband of seventeen years is gone.