Chapter 6
The whiskey bottle slips out of my grip and lands in the sand at my feet. But I don’t care. I keep walking because it’s empty anyway.
I only make it another few steps, which I think is more than yesterday, but when I turn my head and gaze down the beach, I find I haven’t gone further than the lifeguard tower. I haven’t made it any closer to the water.
Taking a deep breath, I raise my arms to place my hands on my head but curse because of this fucking splint I have to wear. It’s better than the hard cast I had on, but not by much. Below it, my skin is hot and itchy, nowhere more than on the scar of my left index finger, the X that marks the spot where doctors had to operate, placing a small metal bar where what was left of my bone once was.
They were talking about the operation—about my finger—like I was lucky to still have it. A finger. A fucking finger on my non-dominant hand made me lucky .
I wanted to ask if they thought I was lucky to still have all my fingers, what did they consider Nate?
The sun has finally risen higher and beats on the back of my neck, heating my dark hair that I imagine is tangled in one large knot at this point. It makes me want to get in the water more. My brain is telling me— go, you’ll feel better .
That’s what the ocean always was for me, a way to feel better.
Hated my dad? Go for a dip in the ocean.
A teacher made me feel like a dumbass in front of the whole class? Skip his next class and run into the surf.
The ocean or surfing never took away all my problems. But what they did do was give me a minute away from them. No matter what, I’d get back onto the shore a little clearer headed, a little less angry.
And now all I want is just to feel a little less devastated.
But no matter how hard my mind talks me into it, I can’t bring myself to get into the water. It’s been weeks, I think. Weeks of sleeping beside it, eating beside it sometimes, staring at it from The Shack and hearing its waves through the wall of my office where I’ve been staying. Because I can’t go home, not when I’m the reason the house will never be Nate’s home again.
There’s no way I can go and face Harper, who no longer has a husband. Or Lucas, who no longer has a father. Not when it’s my fault.
Tears start to sting my already strained and red eyes and I wipe at them with my left hand. The Velcro of the splint scratches my skin, but I don’t care. It’s a welcome irritation. Anything other than feeling like I want to crawl out of my body is welcome. I curse, trying to move my legs forward, trying to get to the water, but I only take a step.
“Riley?”
I shut my eyes and hang my head.
“Not again, man.”
Finn doesn’t mean not again because he doesn’t want me in the water. Finn says it because he means he doesn’t want to have to drag me out of it again like the day of the funeral.
“Riley!”
I’m running, but I can’t out-run Finn while he drives .
“What are you doing?”
I ignore him, ignore the people who stare as I get to the Boulevard, which is only a few blocks from the cemetery I just ran out of like a bat out of hell. My feet burn, they ache from these shoes. My skin overheats in these pants, the button up dress shirt suffocates me. Everything that Caroline bought and left for me to wear feels so wrong.
But everything about this day is wrong.
Nate in a coffin, is wrong.
Harper crying, sobbing into Lucas's back is wrong.
But what made me flee the funeral, where I had stood in the back until I approached the coffin, was Lucas happy to see me.
Nothing could be more wrong than that.
Finn calls me again as I cross the Boulevard without looking. One car’s breaks screech. Another honks at me. I almost trip hopping up to the boardwalk flanking the west side of the street. I don’t wait for a break in the shops to get to the beach. I run through the coffee shop’s street-side door, nearly knocking over a barista before I rush through the door leading to the boardwalk and hop down onto the sand.
I don’t hear Finn calling anymore. If he is, it’s drowned out by the ocean.
Or my sobbing.
The beach is empty like it would be on any other chilly, cloudy winter day. I’m grateful no one is in my way, that there’s no barricade between me and the surf when I finally meet it.
It’s cold.
But nothing—not even the fresh water of the Arctic—will ever be as cold as the water that night.
The plaster of my cast begins to soften and my hand starts to ache as I slam the water with each stroke. My clothes weigh me down. But the soaked fabrics and hurt is no match for how heavy and painful my heart is.
“Riley!”
Finn’s voice comes in and out, but I keep swimming, dipping below crashing waves until I’m beyond the break .
“You son of a bitch,” Finn screams. “If you think I’m letting you kill yourself out here you’re wrong.”
His voice becomes clearer now, and I don’t know how he caught up to me so quickly. I keep paddling even though my body grows heavier, my strokes less powerful even in calmer waters.
Finn grabs me by the back of my shirt. “Get out.”
“Leave me alone.”
My struggle against him is of little use, but I don’t stop, not even when my body grows impossibly heavy. I won’t give up trying to break free. I shove at his chest. “Get out of here. Don’t make me kill another friend, Finn.”
It’s Finn who stops struggling. He lets go of me, but doesn’t move away and continues to tread, my now soggy cast barely knocking into him. “You didn’t kill Nate, Riley.”
“I didn’t save him.”
“That’s not the same thing, man.” He shakes his head to clear the blond hair that has matted to his forehead. “Not even close.”
But what difference do the means matter when the end is the same?
“I left him. I left him to die .”
“Riley.” Finn reaches out, looping an arm around my side. I have to stop struggling now because I’m so fucking tired. “He was already gone, man. There’s no…it doesn’t mean you have to die right now. I won’t let you.”
He begins to swim, and I let him and the tide take me to shore.
“Riley?” Finn sighs, moving to stand between me and the water, like he doesn’t trust me.
To put him at ease, I sink down into the sand.
Finn squats beside me. “He wouldn’t want this, Riley. You know that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You have to come home.”
Finn’s words sting because I know they’re true. But I also know what Nate wants from me. And I can’t give it to him.
You gotta look out for my family, man.
I pull my knees to my chest. “I can’t give him what he wants. ”
“What do you mean?”
You gotta look out for my family, man.
My chest feels tight. “I can’t go home.”
Finn sighs and stands. “Yes you can.”
When I look up, I see his hand.
“I’ll take you. Come on.”
The home Finn takes me to is his and my sister’s condo where I take my first indoor shower in what feels like forever and promptly pass out in their guest room for what ends up being the entire day. By the time I emerge, it’s dark outside.
“Hey,” Caroline says. She’s sitting on the couch beside Finn, typing on her laptop. “We didn’t want to wake you, but I left you a plate. I can heat it up.”
I walk over to the breakfast bar, lifting the aluminum foil. “No thanks.”
“Don’t worry, Riley. I made it, not her.”
Caroline rolls her eyes and gets off the couch. “Do you want a sandwich?”
I shake my head, opening the fridge and pulling out the bottle of orange juice that’s about a quarter fill. I decline the glass she offers me and bring the bottle to my lips.
“I…” Caroline begins, watching me guzzle down the remaining juice. “I did your laundry, but it’s not much.”
Lowering the empty bottle, I put the cap back on. “I don’t have much.”
Caroline hands me a hair tie from her wrist when she sees me swat at the hair hanging in my face. “It’s a bunch of swimsuits. You can stay here, but you need some clothes. Do you want me to go get them?”
“I don’t need you to baby me,” I tell her, looking down at the sweatpants that must be Finn’s because they’re too short for me. “You’re my little sister. I’ll be out of here in a few days.”
Finn clicks off the TV and gets up off the couch and Caroline folds her arms over her chest.
“You’re not going back to The Shack. If you do, I’ll report you and we’ll get fined. It’s a retail space, not housing.”
“Who said I’m going back to work?”
Now that I slept on a real mattress, I’ll never go back to a futon.
Finn sighs. “Where are you going to go, Riley?”
I purse my lips together. “Somewhere. I gotta get my stuff though. you take me to get my car?” Finn brought it to the beach not long after the funeral.
“Now? It’s almost ten. Harper is probably sleeping. It’s a Tuesday night.” Caroline shakes her head, taking the empty orange juice bottle to the sink and rinsing it out. She’s about to dry her hands before she stops, reaching over for the small vase of flowers, lifting the stems and dumping the water before holding it under the tap and refilling it.
It’s Tuesday.
Tulip Tuesday .
My fingertips flutter against the ghost of the petals in the water. I wonder how many tulip Tuesdays I’ve missed.
“Riley?” Finn calls my name.
“What did you say?”
“I’ll take you tomorrow. Why don’t you eat something?”
I shake my head. “I just need a ride.”
When I unlock the apartment door and step inside, I anticipate being hit with stale air, maybe some awful smell from something I left in the mini-fridge that doesn’t even work all that well to begin with. Instead, I find the window cracked to let fresh air in. The bed I don’t think I’ve ever made more than just pulling up the comforter, is pristine—sheets and blankets pulled tight and tucked in, pillows fluffed.
I reach for one, lifting it to my nose. The faintest scent of laundry detergent lingers and I notice how there are no creases in the pillowcase. They’re crisp, like someone ironed them along with the abundance of clothes that I must’ve left in the dryer. They’re folded and stacked neatly, sitting on the only chair I have.
The room is littered with Harper’s invisible fingerprints. And I don’t know how I should feel. She shouldn’t look after my space after everything and even more so, after my absence. But she did.
Why?
I did come here for my belongings, but there’s one thing in particular. I step over to the end table by my bed that also doubles as a bar cart and pull open the drawer. It’s as I left it, which means its untidy and full of an array of things—condoms, a bottle opener and a bunch of loose papers. But beneath all of them, I find the envelope Nate gave me on the day he deployed.
Riley—
I hate writing this in a way you’ll never really understand even though it’s not going to be that kind of letter. This isn’t me asking you to take care of Harper after I’m gone. I’m asking you to take care of her when I can’t. There’s a difference. I won’t be able to now, but if you want me to get out of Afghanistan, I need to know someone is, and that someone has to be you.
I know you two can get into it like cats and dogs. But I also know you’re the best man I know.So do me a favor and be kind to her. Look after the house, take out the trash, all that stuff. But make sure she’s doing a little more than just okay, especially now that she’s pregnant. And here’s the most important thing—on Tuesdays, pick up a bouquet of tulips. I’ve never missed a week. I say this because I love you, but do me a favor and set a reminder in your phone.
Now, I said it wouldn’t be this kind of letter, but I figured you wouldn’t read it if I opened with my contingency plan.
If I don’t make it, do me another favor. Don’t move out, or at least not for a while. Be there for her, even if Harper doesn’t want it. She’ll just need to know someone’s there. And my son? Just make sure he knows the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was say goodbye to him before he ever said hello to me. Tell him I loved the idea of him before he ever existed and my favorite sound in the world is his heart beating inside of his mom. I want you to teach him to surf and ride a bike if I can’t. But the most important thing for you to do is to teach him to be a good friend like you’ve been to me.
You won’t have to remind Harper that I love her madly and she’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, but if she’s having a tough day, it might help her to hear it.
I hope you never have to do any of this, but there’s no one I’d want to look out for my family than you.
See you soon, man.
Nate
I fold the letter and slide it into the envelope. We never talked about it after he came home, but I know he knew I never missed a Tuesday.
And here’s the thing. If I’m being honest, I often need the reminders—the alarms, the extra notes. I learned when I was diagnosed, dyslexia can do that to people. So, technically, Nate wasn’t wrong about the reminder. But what he didn’t really know is some things I don’t need to be told twice. Words with this kind of meaning are easy to read and impossible to forget.
I glance at the foot of the bed where I left the large paper shopping bag filled to the brim with all the bouquets I missed—eight, and one additional bouquet for the flowers that died with Nate in the water.
I reach into the bag for the receipt and the paper authorizing my credit card for weekly deliveries.
I won’t miss any more weeks now, even after I leave. The rest? I can’t do it. Because when Nate wrote that letter, he did so never knowing that the cause of his demise would be me.