“Sorry, I don’t,” he said after too long a pause.
“No worries! Have a nice day!” Off she went, looking at her phone, probably texting her friend that she’d just met a creepy guy.
After a minute, he followed her. He had no destination in mind, and seeing the sunlight bring out the colors in her hair, so very, very close to Lauren’s . . . it seemed like a beacon. Where was she going again? Ah, yes. The Golden Gate Bridge.
He’d never seen the Golden Gate Bridge up close. He was afraid of—
Do something you’re afraid of. He was afraid of heights.
Thoughts of the girl forgotten, Josh summoned a Lyft to the bridge, suddenly on fire to be there as soon as possible.
It was more beautiful and graceful in real life than any photo. The sun was shining, and against the violently blue sky, the bridge did seem to glow. It stretched impossibly far across the water to Marin County. Sailboats and shipping vessels dotted the water, and birds flew above the bridge, below it, between its cables.
The bridge was ridiculously high. Really. It was unnecessarily high. Surely he could skip this and have a drink at the Top of the Mark and be done with it, right? Wouldn’t that be easier? He could just . . . just . . . yeah, nope, he was already here.
Already, his heart was pounding at the thought of walking across it. Was he dizzy? He felt a little dizzy. A lot of people fell off this bridge, didn’t they? No. No one fell. They . . . they jumped.
Shit.
Sweating, he started walking. Fast. He was wearing his hiking boots—the last time he’d worn them was with Lauren when they drove up to Acadia National Park last fall, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had panicking to do.
Just keep going, he told himself. Haul ass. Get across and take a Lyft back to the hotel.
He walked as fast as he could, staring straight in front of him, concentrating on the people. Cars shouldn’t be allowed up here. That was a horrible idea. Cars were so heavy! Had this bridge ever snapped, or was that just in disaster movies? Shit. What about earthquakes?
Oh, God. He glanced to his left to see if the city was crumbling, and saw the water below him. Far, far below him. That was a mistake, looking down. His knees buckled, and suddenly he was on all fours, heaving for breath.
“You okay, mister?” someone asked.
“Yep,” he said, his voice sounding overly loud.
“Are you having a heart attack?”
Probably. “Afraid of heights.”
Could he get up? He didn’t think so. His heart was shuddering in his chest, and his shirt was damp with sweat, despite the cool temperature and breeze.
He felt the tremor coming, felt the earth begin to shudder . . . no, nope, that was just a pickup truck. But what about the wind? Was the bridge swaying? Was it about to break, and all these people would fall to their deaths, screaming, clawing, all the cars and trucks pouring into the bay, the noise thunderous and—
“One step at a time,” came the voice. “You got this, bud. You can do it.” A white hipster dude with a red beard reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Deep breaths, yeah?”
“Yes,” Josh said. He knew all about deep breaths, after all. All that respiratory therapy he’d done with Lauren.
It worked. His fear dropped from a ten to about an eight and a half. The hipster dude beamed at him. “So awesome that you’re doing this. Good for you. He’s afraid of heights,” he added to the few onlookers. Most people ignored him, cruising past, looking at their phones or taking pictures. He appreciated their lack of interest.
“Need an escort?” Hipster Guy asked. “I’m walking to meet up with some friends over on the other side.”
“Um . . .” He didn’t have much choice, did he? He was on the damn bridge. He was stuck. He would take this up with Lauren later. In his imagination, anyway. Maybe it would be good to fight with her.
“I’m David,” said the hipster. “From Arkansas originally, but you know, the culture out here is so intense, and I came out to see a friend a few months ago? And I was like, dude, I’m staying. Seriously. Arkansas cannot compete with this place. Also, weed is legal, right? Just another perk.”
Walking was slightly easier with David, because David did not stop talking to draw a breath. He was overcoming some issues of his own, right, doing great, eating clean, and he was so psyched to see other people, you know, confronting their fears and the past and future, and wasn’t it, like, crazy that the world was so beautiful even with all the shit going on?
Josh tried not to look at anything other than the pavement in front of him, though his peripheral vision showed the cables that made the bridge stand. Would one snap? Would it hit him in the head and send him tumbling over the side, or would it hit him in the throat so he’d bleed out, clutching at the geyser of blood? Would this cause a chain reaction that would then send cars careening into pillars and the bridge crashing into the water, the people screaming—
“We’re halfway across, dude,” David said. “Let’s take a minute so you can look around.”
Josh stopped. He was shaking violently, but his knees hadn’t buckled again. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground. If he didn’t look up, did it count? It would. It did.
But Lauren would want him to see the view. She loved new experiences. She loved heights, the ridiculous woman. She’d never backed down from anything, at least not that he knew of. That time in La Jolla, when she went hang gliding, and she was so happy, so alive.
He raised his eyes slowly, slowly, got his gaze about a foot off the ground, saw the glittering water, then looked back at the beloved pavement. If he ran, how long would it take him to get back on solid ground? Bicyclists whizzed past on the walkway, and hey, wasn’t it a walkway, did they have to be so fast, and what if a car jumped the lane and killed him, and all these people, really, did they all have a death wish?
Don’t be a loser.
Lauren’s voice was so clear . . . the fond way she had said that line, the challenge he’d always accepted. He gripped the railing and forced his head up and kept his eyes open. For a second, the scene swam in front of him, and he thought he might vomit, or faint, or fall, but then the view came into focus.
San Francisco’s buildings, white and sharp against the sky. Alcatraz. Marin. Boats and birds. He turned around and saw the Pacific spreading out, so blue and vast.
It was . . . stunning.
I hope you can see this, honey.
A deep breath that didn’t quite work. Another one. Another, slower one. Relax and breathe, he used to say to his wife. Relax and breathe, nice and slow. If she could do it, so could he. After all, she’d been facing death. He was just being a wuss.
The blue was so intense against the sunlit bridge that the air seemed to shimmer. “It’s beautiful,” he said, though his knees were still shaking.
“Right?” David asked.
“Right.”
“Check it out, dude. Fog’s coming in.” David pointed behind them, to the San Francisco skyline, and there was the legendary cloud bank, tumbling over itself. In seconds, it had erased the view and swallowed the bridge. Josh couldn’t see the water, or the city, or the sky.
“I should get going, man. You headed to Marin? We can walk together if you want.”
“No, no. I’ll go back to the city. Thank you.”
“You cool?”
“So cool.” Josh stuck out his hand. “Thank you, David. This meant a lot to me.”
“A pleasure . . . uh, what’s your name?”
“Joshua.”
“A pleasure, Joshua! Take care, dude!”
Some people were simply, undeniably decent. Radley. Jen. Darius. This guy.
The walk back was easier. Piece of cake, really, since he couldn’t see how high up he was. He wove through the other pedestrians, dodged those taking photos. Dang. He shoul
d have taken a picture for Laur—
Nope. He couldn’t take pictures for her anymore.
That thought would’ve dropped him a few months ago. This time, it only stopped him for a few seconds.
Then, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a shot of the bridge, the upper reaches fading into the now-gray sky. He texted it to his mom, Jen, Radley and Ben. Then, after a second’s pause, added Sarah to the chat. What would Lauren say?
Walked over the Golden Gate Bridge like a boss. See you later, acrophobia.
He hadn’t been a loser. He’d done something he was afraid of.
His wife would’ve been so proud.
24
Joshua
Month nine
November
ON A COLD, dark evening in November, Sarah came by with a letter.
“I have a date, or I’d be more sociable,” she called as Pebbles whined and barked and wagged. “Bye!”
“Have fun,” he said, picking up the envelope.
A date, huh? She did look really pretty, her hair shiny, red lipstick on. He knew she dated—well, Lauren used to tell him about her misadventures, and there was the pyramid scheme guy who’d come to his first, disastrous dinner party. But he’d never met her boyfriend per se. He’d just seen her a few days ago when Radley and she had come over to watch a movie, and she hadn’t mentioned anyone, so maybe this was just another bad first date in the making.
Well. He had a letter from his wife to read.
He went through his pre-letter tradition—shower, clean clothes, a half glass of wine. Then he picked up the letter, holding it carefully, studying her handwriting, the fat swirl of the J, the long tail of the a.
Joshua, #9
Counting this letter, there were only a few more waiting for him. After that, she’d really be gone.
Nine months since she died. How could he have lived this long without her? It seemed like nine years, nine decades. Every memory was so precious, and yet . . . his throat tightened to think about it . . . every memory also receded further into the distance. Sometimes, he felt like he was remembering the memory, not the actual moments—remembering the times he remembered their wedding, going over every minute they’d spent together . . . well, except her last day. That one could stay suppressed for eternity as far as he was concerned.
He wanted to think of her, in real life. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her scent, not just describe it to himself. He’d watched the movies they’d taken of each other. Every one. He watched their wedding video at least a hundred times. He scrolled through thousands of their pictures on his computer.
He looked like a different person in those photos. He looked so . . . young. Even in the pictures where she had a cannula, or she was in the hospital, he looked happy, assured and in love. Dazzlingly in love, confident that he was loved back just as much.
At least he had given her that. All his love, his whole heart. He’d known such happiness, such love every damn day. And these letters reminded him of that.
With a deep breath, he opened this one reverently, slowly.
Hello, honey!
How are you? I wish I knew what time of year it was so I could give you better things to do . . . you know, like if I knew it was winter, I could say, “Make a snowman with some random children!” (Except you might get arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, so maybe not that.) Or if I knew this month was May, I could say, “Plant a garden!” (Better! Make sure you do that in May!)
Last month’s “task” was lame, and I’m sorry for that. I was trying to be well-rounded and wanted you to do something related to your career. It sounded like the advice you’d get in a fortune cookie. “Do something you’re scared of.” Lame, Lauren! (But if you did, I’m SO PROUD OF YOU!)
So this month’s is better. But also worse. But better. You ready? You are? Good.
Kiss a woman. Not a peck on the cheek to Jen or my mom . . . kiss a woman not related to you by blood or marriage.
Josh felt abruptly ill.
You can do this. You never have to see her again, but I’m guessing it’s time. It’s been nine months. Time for me not to be the last woman you kissed. Moss will grow on your lips if you don’t use them. Everyone knows that. It will get too weird if you wait much longer (assuming you haven’t already slept with half of the East Coast). And once you pass a year, it might take on too much significance. Do you know what I mean?
He didn’t. He had not once considered kissing anyone since her death. He absolutely wanted her to be the last woman he kissed. Ever. In his entire life.
I know what you’re thinking . . . that you’d be disloyal to me if you kissed someone. But it won’t be, because if you did what I asked, I’m a tree now, and you need to start thinking about your future, which, aside from my tree-ness, I’m not in. Them’s the hard facts, honey.
I’m so sorry. It’s not what I would’ve chosen, but then again, Josh, we were so happy. If my IPF helped bring us what we had . . . that beautiful, intense love . . . then maybe I would have chosen it.
But that’s a letter for another time. As I’m writing this one, I want you to know I’m happy. We’re sitting in your mom’s living room on a Sunday morning, and she’s making cinnamon rolls and it smells like heaven.
I love our life. I think I love it even more because of IPF, because yes, every day is a gift (sorry to sound so sappy). Would I be this appreciative of everything, from the smell of cinnamon to the sight of you in the shower? I don’t know. I’d like to think I would, but I don’t know. I DO know I love you more than I ever thought possible. You just brought me a glass of peppermint tea and smooched me, which brings me back to kissing . . .
Remember that song (you probably don’t), but there’s a song that says, “A kiss is just a kiss.” This kiss you’re about to have doesn’t have to be a great kiss, or a meaningful kiss. Just do it, as they say. You might even like it, and that would be wonderful as far as I’m concerned. You’re a great kisser, and that talent shouldn’t die with me. Okay? Okay.
But, honey, our life together ended. I want you to have a new life. I hope with all my heart that these letters are helping you. Who knows? Your second wife could be burning them in the sink. But I think not.
I love you, honey. I want you to be as happy as you made me.
Lauren
He drained his wine and poured some more. Drank that down fast, too. Looked at Pebbles. “She wants me to kiss someone. A woman. You don’t count, sorry.” He raked his hands through his hair, tugging.
He knew how her mind worked, and in Lauren’s head, it all made perfect sense. A nice kiss, just to get it over with. Enough of a kiss to—maybe—stir some feelings, even if they were simple lust.
He did miss kissing. God, he missed it. He missed sex and hugging and touching, and laughing and her hair, and her softness, and her breasts and her legs and her feet and her neck. He missed kissing every part of her. “There is nothing hornier than a marathon makeout session,” she used to say, her voice breathless, face and throat flushed, rosy with love.
He called Radley. “Got time for a drink?” he asked.
“I do! Where?”
An hour later, he and Radley sat at the Eddy, the type of bar that had drinks containing egg whites and burnt rosemary and eucalyptus-infused ice cubes, which Josh knew because he was sipping one right now. Liquid courage and all that. He could see why Lauren and her friends had loved “drinkies,” as they called it.
Radley, who had chosen a much more manly drink—Coopers’ Craft bourbon, straight up—was delighted at the letter’s task. “God! I wish I’d met her! She sounds like an angel with a dirty sense of humor.”
“That’s a perfect description.”
“So how do you feel about this?”
Josh cut him a look. “Please, no therapy tonight.”
Radley laughed. “Okay. Wh
y am I here, other than the fact that I make you look cooler?”
“Do you know anyone who would kiss me?”
“I would kiss you. Right here, right now.”
Josh laughed. “That’s very kind.”
“A woman, huh?” He tapped his black metal ring against his glass. “Do you like this ring, by the way? I’m thinking it’s a little much.”
“I like it.”
“Okay, good. You look nice, by the way, but untuck your shirt a little, like this, so you don’t look like my grandfather.” He reached over and tugged Josh’s shirt on the left side so it hung free, then took a sip of his bourbon. “Five more months at Banana Republic, and then I’ll be a licensed therapist. I cannot wait. I’ll have an advanced degree and can fix people for a living.” He smiled, and Josh smiled back.
“That’s great, Radley.” I’m proud of you, he wanted to say, but who was he to be proud? He’d had nothing to do with it. “Um, it’s really impressive. Working and going to school full-time . . . it’s a lot.” He paused. “And also, you’re a good friend.”
“True, true,” Radley murmured. “Throw me a party in your fab apartment when I graduate?”
“Of course. I’ll even cook.”
Radley smiled. “Thank you! Okay, back to the kiss. I know someone. Yes. She’s wicked nice, a little Worcester, you know? A girl-gangster vibe, a little roller derby . . . tats, piercings, leather, the usual. But super pretty. Wicked, wicked pretty. And she’s a very nice person. Really fun.”
“What’s her name?”
“Cammie. Should I text her right now?”
Josh felt sweat break out on his forehead. “No, no. Uh . . . no. I’d like to think about it.”
“Let’s do it. No time like the present.” Josh winced, but said nothing as Radley’s thumbs began flying over his phone. Radley narrated as he typed. “Hi, Cams, I have a friend who would love to meet you for a date, okay? He’s a doll, but he’ll be nervous. Been off the market for a while. Love you!” He looked up at Josh. “There.”
Pack Up the Moon Page 25
