While prepared to check in with the nurse’s station on the third floor, After stepping out of the elevator and walking halfway down the hallway, I see Pete’s name scribbled on a whiteboard next to a room across from the nurse’s station.
He’s watching TV, looking worn out and bored out of his mind. What’s more concerning is that he’s all alone, hours after committing himself to an infinity of loneliness.
Pete twists his head slowly, giving me a quick look before returning his focus to the TV. “Why are you here?” he snaps.
“Why isn’t anyone else here?” is the only reply I can conjure. Maybe it’s the worst question to be asking at this moment, but I’m not well versed in how to react to a post suicidal friend.
“You mean my asshole parents? They’re too busy fighting over whose turn it is to sit with me. I’m surprised you didn’t hear them from the elevator. They’ve been out there longer today than they’ve been in here, thankfully.”
I take an uninvited seat next to his bed. “Look, I know you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t want to be here. At all,” Pete says.
“Okay, I get it. Sometimes, when things feel like they can’t get any better, it is, in fact, a point for change, but—” I can’t remember where I was going with my thoughts. He’s staring at me as if I just spewed cruelty, asking, “how dare you?” with only the darkness in his eyes.
“Do you have any clue what I’m going to have to go through now? If you knew, you would have let me jump, Brody.”
“Why did you page me? Why did you want me there if you didn’t expect me to stop you? Why?” My volume is quickly rising to a level that could get me kicked out of here, but I need to know. If I was on the other side, would you just have let me jump?” I demand.
“No, yes, no … I don’t know, okay?” I notice he tries to lift his hands, but they rise simultaneously beneath the sheets. They strapped to him to the bed. “For a minute, I thought maybe I was making a mistake, but it wasn’t a mistake. The only mistake I made was sending you a message.”
“You waited until I arrived,” I say. I’m still not convinced he didn’t expect me to stop him from jumping. Maybe he’s embarrassed, and this is his only defense mechanism.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” he says. It was my original thought last night, but that was following the rest of my assumptions, which don’t add up.
“I don’t understand, Pete. I really don’t.”
“Okay, well, understand this … get out and please don’t come back because you’re nothing more than a reminder that the only control I had over my pathetic existence was whether to live or die, and you took that away from me. I’ll never forgive you for the torment I’m about to endure from this day forward.”
15
There is nothing sexy about my story, but Journey is looking at me with bedroom eyes, and I can’t decipher if this is her way of showing empathy or comforting me. I don’t know if she understands the depth of what I went through with Pete, but it’s a lot to reveal all at once, even just for myself.
“I know I’m not exactly an open book, Brody, but I understand more than I wish I did.” She’s vague, but I believe that either she or a friend experienced something similar. My concern is if it’s her. I’m not sure I can be the owl in her life. Watching over people is an instinct for me, but being on watch is much different. The responsibility is soul-sucking and endless.
“Are you telling me that you went through something similar, either yourself or with or someone you know or knew?” I ask, feeling the blood drain from my head. Please don’t be you.
“I witnessed a trauma that stole a part of who I am. That’s not something you get back, and I’m certain nobody realizes this when their life shifts in the blink of an eye.”
“What’s your story?” I ask.
Without a moment to think, Journey shakes her head. “Not tonight. I can’t. Our stories shouldn’t be shared back to back—it isn’t fair to the ones we had to watch.”
“I can’t figure you out,” I say, wishing I could decipher the different looks flashing through her eyes. It’s clear she has so much going through her mind and yet will only share a small portion.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little mystery, right?” she asks.
“A little mystery, sure, but I feel like we’re tip-toeing around the truth of our realities.”
Journey shrugs and takes a step back. “I’m fine with tip-toeing around.”
I take a step forward, refusing to give up on this conversation. “Isn’t your soul lonely?”
“Is yours?”
“Incredibly.”
Journey places her hands on her face. I wonder if she’s trying to conceal the red complexion of her cheeks. “I’m not normal, Brody. I don’t live a normal life. I don’t think the way other people do. I appear angry when I'm lost among a thought. I look lonely, probably because I spend more time daydreaming than I should, but when I’m lost inside of my head, it isn’t lonely like you might think. I have hopes, aspirations, wants, and needs—I think I just show it differently than most. My thoughts never stop, even when I’m asleep. My mind is constantly spinning, and it’s hard to stop and—”
“Just be in the moment?”
“Well, yeah.”
“There has to be something that makes your mind stop spinning?”
“There is,” she says as her eyes open wider, and she stares up at me through her dark lashes.
“So, you want to use me to stop your thoughts from racing thoughts?” It’s a joke, but it comes out sounding serious.
“You make yourself sound like some kind of drug,” she replies.
“Well, I have been told I’m an addictive person to be around.”
“You have, huh?”
I shrug. “What can I say?”
“I think you’ve said enough,” she says, pursing her lips to the side.
I’m not sure what’s happening right now, or what’s supposed to happen. I’m nervous, and it’s something I haven’t felt with anyone in a long time. I gave up on the idea of having feelings for anyone after Kristy destroyed my life. Part of me wonders what the point is if things end for no reason. It’s been the notion I’ve stood by since the day I signed the divorce papers. I’ve learned to enjoy life on my terms without needing another person to complete me, but now, I’m not sure about my reasons for choosing to be alone and possibly single forever.
“Now what?” I ask. I don’t want to make any assumptions, not with Journey.
She takes a couple of steps back, continuing this waltz we’ve been dancing to in the kitchen. I’m not sure if she has an answer to my question or makes decisions based on whatever thoughts swirl around in her mind at the moment, but I’d love to know what she’s thinking. “Maybe we should go out for dinner first, you know—before things get out of control.”
“Out of control? I asked you to go out to dinner last night. Doesn’t that count for anything?” I swear she wants me to beg. I can see it all over her face. Journey likes to have control, and she will do whatever it takes to have it. “I hear your invitation, but with that said, I take it you're busy every day for the next two weeks, right?”
She smiles at this question. Of course, she smiles. Journey loves the chase.
“I’m not busy every night. I wasn’t busy tonight.”
I look down at my watch, seeing as it’s almost nine. Restaurants don’t stay open too late around here, but I think one of the pubs is open until ten. “We can go out for dinner. We can go right now since you’re free tonight.”
“I said I wasn’t busy, but now, it’s time to get home. I’ve got a gig tomorrow morning.”
If I let her know she’s torturing me, she’ll continue. “Okay, no problem.”
“I’ll find something in the freezer.”
Journey happens to be standing parallel to the freezer. Without taking her eyes off me, she opens the door and peeks inside. “Were you thinking of having ice cubes or the f
rozen slab of meat in the Ziplock bag? Although the tub of cookie-dough ice cream doesn’t look like a bad dinner.”
“And that is exactly what I was planning to have,” I say.
I wondered if she’d take the ice cream and invite herself to join me, but she closes the freezer door. “Well, I hope you enjoy your dinner. Thank you for sharing the rest of your story with me after I was a jerk last night.”
Oddly, she has no questions about what happened with Pete after that day. It’s like she either knows or doesn’t want to know. “Thanks for listening this time.”
She spins on her heels and walks out toward the family room. She is the most confusing person I have ever met.
I follow her, but nearly walk right into her when she stops and turns around. “Brody, is Pete alive? Did he make it through that awful time?” she asks.
If I hold my focus on her eyes and swallow the lump in my throat, I hope her question will magically go away.
She’s looking at me as if I’m speaking words she can’t hear, but I haven’t said a word. Journey’s head tilts to the side, and stress lines form on her forehead. “Brody?”
“Yeah?” I respond.
“Pete … is he—”
The pain in my chest accompanies the sensation of my heart pounding. I feel trapped when I have plenty of room to move, more than enough words to answer her question. I have a brick wall protecting me from allowing the haunting thoughts to return to a place I can’t let them back.
I need to end the conversation. I shouldn’t have started in the first place. It was a mistake to share this information, just as I thought it would be. “I—um, I—”
“It’s okay,” she says. A cold sweat drapes over me like a thick blanket, but then her lips touch mine, and instead of my pulse racing like it should, it slows—my body relaxes, and the darkness fades into the well-lit room. Her hands cup around the back of my neck—they’re cold, sending chills down my spine. She’s shorter than I am, so I scoop my arm around her back and lift her, making it easy for our lips to meet Her legs wrap around my waist, but she breaks her lips away, dropping her forehead to mine. “I can’t cure anything—I can’t fix anyone. I can’t even mend a broken heart, and I’ve tried. I don’t want to let you down.”
I lift my chin to reclaim her lips. She doesn’t need to explain anything or fix me. I just need this. My heart knew it that one stupid New Year’s Eve. There’s something about her—only her—that takes away my pain and untamable thoughts.
I become dizzy while spinning around in circles, searching for a wall to lean her up against. By the time I find one, her arms tighten around my neck, telling me she doesn’t want to move or let go. I pull away, feeling breathless. “I want you, but not just for a one-night-stand. I want to know what’s next.”
“Time. More time. Just this. I like this part. It reminds me of that night. It reminds me of how much there is before the rest of what comes after.” While her words are completely understandable and honest, they have the opposite effect on me than she thinks they will.
I place her down on her feet. “I want to take you out to dinner when you are free and ready,” I say.
“Will you shave?”
I can’t help but laugh. She won’t drop it with the beard. “I don’t know,” I say, running fingers down the side of the overgrown hair.
“What do you have against the beard?”
Her nose scrunches. “Not my thing.”
“It doesn’t have to be, and quite frankly, I’m glad it isn’t your thing.”
She shakes her head. “Goodnight, Brody.”
I lean down and give her another quick kiss. “Drive safe and call or text me when you lock your apartment door, please.”
“That’s way too fast for me,” she whispers. “We’re not there yet.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I worry about my friends, so whatever it is you’re afraid of happening between us, I’d tell you to text me when you got home whether you were a dude or—well, you.”
Journey rolls her eyes, clearly calling my bluff. “Sure, Brody.”
“Thanks for not pushing,” I say as she walks out the door. “You know—the subject.”
“I won’t do that,” she says. “I’m here, if and when you want to talk or tell me the rest.”
She’s almost too understanding. People don’t usually walk away from unanswered questions without a promise to be told the rest.
I watch as she climbs into her Jeep, blinding me with her headlights as she peels out of my driveway. When I close the door, that old familiar feeling of loneliness fills my chest, exposing the painful void I try to hide from others.
This is why I don't let people into my life.
They leave a hole I have to fill after they’re gone.
16
No one can ever say I give up on anything. Maybe I don’t know when to walk away or stop trying, because I’ve never found a valid reason to do so. Pete doesn’t know it, but he needs me, or maybe he does know, and he’s in denial. There’s no real explanation for why any of this happened. I understand the trouble with his parents, but that shouldn’t have pushed him as far as it did. I didn’t think he was the type. Maybe there isn’t a type. It’s possible anyone, under the worst circumstances, could think this way. Pete’s parents told me visiting hours are only an hour-long, and I should come when they can’t be there so he won’t be overwhelmed. Part of me wonders if they are even with him as often as they claim they are., but I don’t think it would be a good idea to broach the subject with Pete, not that he's spoken to me the last two times I visited.e. From what I hear, he isn’t speaking at all.
I guess I might not be speaking to anyone if I had to stay in this place either, but it’s the only way to keep him safe. He’s got a private room and a window that overlooks a field of wildflowers. The two times I’ve been here, he’s been sitting in a chair with his feet up on the radiator, staring aimlessly out the window. “Hey bud,” I say, making it known I’m behind him. I’m way beyond the feeling of discomfort, but it’s surely nothing compared to what he’s going through, not that I have any idea what that is. It’s unfathomable.
I take a seat on the edge of his bed, wondering if he can see me in the reflection of the window since the sun is beginning to set. I have never been at a loss for words, especially with Pete, but everything I want to say makes me question whether it would help or hurt him, so I continue to question myself. “Pete, I wish I knew the right words to say to you. All I know is, I want to be here whenever you need me, and I’d give just about anything for you to say something.” It feels like he’s gone. Maybe he’s trying to lock himself inside the prison cell of his mind. That way, he doesn’t have to face his demons.
He doesn’t budge. It’s as if he doesn’t even know I’m here. “People have been asking about you, but I told them you were sick with a nasty version of the flu and couldn’t kick it.” I shift my weight around on the bed, finding how uncomfortable and flat the mattress feels. “I heard they want to see if they can move you out of here next week, so that’s good.” I don’t know where he will go next because it doesn’t seem like going home would be a good idea. I’ve heard his mom refer to what happened to him as an episode, but I think she and her husband are downplaying the seriousness of what he tried to do to keep their reputations intact. The episode seems permanent by the way he’s acting, and yet, all of his neurological testing came back normal, same with the bloodwork. He's an anomaly but looks catatonic.
I stay for the full hour I’m allowed, talking about the weather, the Sox line up, and new shows hitting cable, but there isn’t the slightest response or movement. Not once does he turn to face me, and it’s hard to walk out of the room knowing he still blames me for being alive. “Visiting hours are over, Pete, but um, I’ll be back because I know you’d do the same for me.”
Over the last four months, Pete has taken part in intense cognitive and behavioral therapy, group home therapy, post-suicidal recovery meeti
ngs, and rehabilitation. His parents’ workload seemed to increase after the incident. They said their medical bills were out of control, and they had no choice but to spend more hours working. They asked me if I could take him to his appointments when he was living at home. I felt the burden of their requests, but in truth, I would have offered anyway because I don’t think they do anything for him. He’s followed the protocol given by doctors and psychiatrists, but none of the treatments involved a sense of normalcy. We didn’t attend parties or go to barbecues, and definitely didn’t go to The Razor’s Edge, but I never left his side.
School started a few weeks ago, and Pete’s been attending classes with a hall pass to leave when necessary. They’re letting him choose independent study if he can’t sit through a class. I’m not sure it’s what’s best for him, but it’s not my call to make.
“Hey,” Pete says as we follow the crowd out of the classroom to our next scheduled class.
“What’s up?” I respond.
Two months of silence until I made a joke he couldn’t resist. Since then, I’ve spent countless hours on the internet, finding content to keep him laughing. If it’s the one thing I can do for him, I’ll do the best possible. Our conversations are still very short and brief, but at least he talks to me. I don’t know if he’s forgiven me for saving him that night, but I’d rather not know. I’ve had to move forward and convince myself I’ve been forgiven since he’s speaking to me.
“I’m going to come sit at the game tonight,” he says.
Pete was advised to pull out of football this year. He’s unfocused and in a daze too often to participate. I would have been devastated to drop off the team during our senior year, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. Baseball is his favorite, but we have a few months before practice starts, and he has time to pull it together before making a decision.
“That’s awesome, bro. You’re coming to watch Cassandra, aren’t you?” I ask, nudging him with my shoulder. She’s one of the smaller cheerleaders who ends up at the top of the pyramid before being tossed into the air a dozen times throughout a game. He’s had his eye on her for the last couple of years.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set : Complete Series, Books 1-4 Page 79
