The pain in my stomach forces me to stop talking. I don't know if it's the whiskey or my emotions getting the best of me, or maybe it's because I've said more than I should have.
"You're a good person for sticking it out with him. Love like that doesn't happen to everyone, and he was lucky to have you, August."
"It wasn't that kind of love," I tell him again. How do I explain love to someone? Everyone feels it differently. I know there isn't just one way to love someone, but I loved him like he was a deteriorating limb on my body, slowly dying from gangrene. I couldn't just cut it off because it wasn't working anymore. I couldn't abandon Keegan the same way. It was that kind of love. I'd probably do the same thing for a dog, I suppose.
"I get it," he says.
"Why have you been following me, trying so hard to help?"
After the questions pour out of my mouth, I reach into my purse for the flask I had topped off before heading to Kenny's.
I might be tipsy, but I still notice Chance's gaze as it fixates on the flask. "You seemed like you needed a friend. That's all."
"I'm not the type," I tell him. I've spent most of my life as a loner. May was the one with a pack of girls following her around like she was a pop star. I'm more of the silent, book-worm type. I've learned how to handle my pain, possibly in unorthodox ways, but this situation is out of the realm of anything I could have ever imagined. So, what you're seeing is not me channeling my character. I'm merely trying to understand Keegan's perspective, and so far, I'm at a complete loss. We've made our way down the few blocks where a small intersection separates the shops and pubs from the gardens near Lady Bird Lake's bridge. The air is muggier here, and I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the dampness that's causing my roots to curl. It's typically dry and mild around this area, but these storms are wreaking havoc.
"I'm used to doing things myself, I guess. I don't like to share dirty details about my life with people because who wants to hear others complain? I certainly don't. That's why I write down what I'm thinking." I pull a note from my back pocket, one I started earlier—another Dear A**hole note.
"What's in the note, if you don't mind me asking?"
"How about I read it to you? That way, you'll have listened to all my whiney words for the evening, and we can move on from our 'poor August' episode. Sound good?"
"I'd love to hear what's in your note."
Why is he so patient, understanding, and empathetic? He doesn't know me, and I don't know anyone who'd want to listen to a stranger blab her woes.
"I was kidding. I won't bore you with my words."
"No," Chance says, reaching out, then placing his hand over my clenched fist that's hanging onto the folded note. "Read it out loud. Maybe it'll help."
"It's stupid, really," I tell him.
"It's not stupid, darlin'. It's your way of grieving. It's a good thing." He may not think that if he hears the words I've written.
I take a moment to look up at Chance's face, really taking him. He's most likely the same age as me, maybe a touch older, judging by the salt and pepper sprigs of scruff on his chin that I noticed earlier. Right now, in the dim lighting, I can only concentrate on the reflection of the stars in his eyes and the way the orange glow from the hovering bridge-lights make the color in his eyes look more yellow than green. My focus falls to his for no good reason, noticing the perfect curve in the center of his top lip. His face has an overall pouty appearance, but with a hint of happiness peeking out from within his dimples.
"Fine, I'll read it," I surrender.
Chance places his hand on my elbow and tilts his head to the side. "Let's go sit over there on the bench." He's distracted me so much. I haven't had a second to open the flask or take a quick swig, which I had planned on doing five minutes ago.
"Sure," I tell him, following his gentle lead.
We take a seat on the wooden-plank-board bench, and I unfold the note.
I try and focus on the first two words, knowing what it says, but I'm struggling to see without more light. I hold the note up a bit, gaining just enough clarity to make out what I've written.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" I ask.
"Start reading, darlin'."
I clear my throat, wishing it wasn't feeling so tight like it does when I'm writing the words.
Dear A**hole,
Yesterday, I tried to go to your funeral. That's a weird thing to write, isn't it?
You know, I made this promise to you years ago that I wouldn't tell anyone you had a drinking problem. See, unlike you, I'm known to keep my promises because a promise is a form of trust, and you always want people to trust you, even if you can't trust them. Now that you're dead, I don't have a reason to keep my promise, but yet, I still feel the need to protect your secret despite how much I hate you right now.
I saw your dead body, and all I wanted to do was give you your ring back. Thanks, by the way. It was a beautiful waste of money.
When I decided I couldn't sit around the funeral home crying alongside your family, who still quietly blame me for your suicide instead of the alcohol—since I kept your secret safe—I realized I didn't belong there. I'm not mourning you, Keegan. I'm grieving for you.
I don't know if I'm going to get through this without telling your loved ones the truth, although I'm sure they'll still blame me for not doing more to help you. You put me in this position to be damned no matter what I do.
You left the blame on me, and it's why I will never forgive you. You may be at peace now, but you left my life in turmoil. I hate you, Keegan.
August
I crumple the note within my hand and toss it into the water. When my hands fall to my side, Chance rests his hand on my shoulder. "You don't deserve this," he says.
"Does anyone deserve anything they get in life?" I reply.
"Well, I believe those of us who are strong need to be challenged to become stronger."
I huff a snide laugh. "I don't think this is making me stronger, but thank you for the insight."
"You may not see it now—"
I spin around and stare up at Chance, noticing the foot difference between our heights. "Do you always know just the right thing to say?"
"No," he says, sounding weak.
"Thank you for listening to me." I finally untwist the cap off the flask and press the opening to my lips, taking a swig.
"You'll never feel what he felt," Chance says.
"I can try," I argue. How does Chance know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it? I don't understand.
Chance pulls me in for an unexpected hug, and his warmth makes my chest tighten. It's like the blood in my body just figured out how to flow again. "Why are you giving me all this attention?" I ask, my voice is hardly audible.
He doesn't respond, but I feel the shrug within his shoulders. I shouldn't be in this man's arms. I don't need affection or attention right now. I need to hate Keegan, and I need to hate him until all of the pain leaves my body, or I may end up hating myself soon too.
I lift my chin, glancing up at this rough and tumble cowboy looking man, and want nothing more than for him to offer me something else to steal my focus. It's hard to stop myself from lifting my hand to sweep my fingertips along his rigid jaw. He struggles to look down at me, then swallows hard. It's loud enough to hear. I press up on my toes, bringing myself as high as I can go, but for anything else to happen, he'll have to lower his head and meet me halfway. "Make the pain stop for just a minute," I plead through a whisper.
Chance lowers his face, bringing his nose close to mine. His hand finds my cheek, and his thumb sweeps to the side of my ear. "You're not ready for the pain to stop," he says, leaving me with just a soft kiss on my forehead.
I lower my right hand to his chest and clench my fist closed around the flask, pushing him away from me. "What the hell is this? Were you just trying to make me feel stupid? Is that why you gave me a few minutes of your attention? Is it fun to embarrass me? Well, that just makes you look like a je
rk. I shouldn't have even expected any more from you."
I release my grip on the flask, bring it back up to my mouth and empty the contents as fast as my throat will allow the liquid to pass through. "Hey now, stop that," Chance says. "Take a break from the whiskey. It's not going to solve your problems."
"Yeah, it is. It's making you disappear from my thoughts," I tell Chance.
"You can't make me disappear that quickly," he argues.
"Oh yeah?"
The moment I empty the flask, a wave of dizziness overwhelms me, and I take a seat back on the bench. I keep looking for my limit—when to call it quits for the day, but this time it's like a switch flipped. Nausea pulses through me, and I feel the need to lay down across the bench, curling the flask into my chest.
"August," Chance says from a few feet away. I don't respond. It would take too much effort. "August, you can't stay here." I close my eyes in hopes of blocking out his voice again.
Thankfully, it does the trick.
Chapter Seventeen
Chance
This girl is going to test every ounce of strength I have. August is out cold, splayed out on the bench as if gravity were pinning her to the wooden planks.
I had a feeling that there would be a breaking point sooner or later. The way she looked at me just a few minutes ago, I nearly fell into her. Aside from the scent of whiskey, she smells like tropical flowers, and her skin is softer than silk. She's doing something to me, but I refuse to be her crutch. I would be nothing more than a bandage for her, and I can't be that. She needs help, real help.
As much as I don't want to touch her personal belongings, I slip her purse off her shoulder and reach in, searching for her phone.
She has no missed calls or messages, making her statement about being a loner seem accurate. I know her sister seemed to care about her, so hopefully, I can find May in her contacts.
Of course, the phone requires a password. I lift August's heavy-weighted hand and press her thumb against the button, hoping that'll do the trick. Unlocked. Perfect. The background image on her phone is of a peaceful lake with hues of blue and teal. Nothing too personal.
I press the contact button, landing in her Favorites, finding Keegan's name first, then May below him. I dial.
"Auggie, why are you calling so late?" she asks.
"Don't get startled," I begin. "This isn't August. My name is Chance Miller. I'm friends with her, though." Kind of—friends. She tried to kiss me, so I guess that should put me on some friendly page. "She seems to have had a bit too much to drink tonight, and I don't know where she lives, so I'm hoping you could swing by and pick her up?"
"Dear Lord. What is her problem?"
"I—I think she's having trouble dealing with Keegan's death."
"You know Keegan?" May asks.
"It's a long story, but yes. Your sister needs some help."
"Thank you, Chance. I'll—um—I'll be there in about ten minutes. Is that okay?"
"I'll wait with her until then, sure. We're at the bridge near Main Street. There's a bench overlooking Lady Bird Lake."
"I know where you are. I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for keeping an eye on her."
"Anytime." I end the call and go to replace August's phone in her bag, but instead, I scroll through her settings searching for her phone number that should be under her user information. I'm going to want to check on her tomorrow. She may not want a friend, but I won't sleep well tonight as it is, and I don't want to be wondering all day tomorrow if she's all right. Once I transfer the number into my phone, I put her purse back together and set it down by her dangling hand.
I take the free edge of the bench and settle back into the seat before resting my hand on her ankle.
I'm unable to stop myself from glancing over at August's resting, her relaxed face, and beautiful perky lips that are slightly ajar, long dark lashes—perfectly fanned over her high cheekbones. With her hair swept back behind her hair, she's pale under the moonlight. She looks so pure and innocent, which I think she might be, but when someone like her goes looking for trouble, it doesn't always end well.
I tested this theory out myself once.
I was a few months shy of turning ten when I took a look at the reflection in the mirror and told myself I was a man. My next thought was that men shouldn't have to live in a foster care house with a raging lunatic and an angry middle-aged woman.
I wondered what good a foster care house was to me if no one had adopted me yet. The facts weren't written down anywhere in ink for me to see, but I wasn't stupid. I watched the little kids get scooped up after being in the house for less than a week sometimes. I was the oldest and had outstayed the rest of them twice over. There was no luck left for me.
With my torn black Jansport backpack unzipped and hanging open, I tossed the few tee shirts and pairs of blue jeans I owned. I grabbed my lucky rock that looked like a turtle and broke out the paint sealed window. The farther I made it from that rundown ranch, the lighter I felt on my feet. Hope from the unknown seemed brighter than the grit I grew accustomed to every day.
Dale, the foster dad, was terrible at emptying his pockets after work at night, and dollar bills and loose change would show up in the dryer vent day after day. Being the oldest, I was the only one who figured out what time was best to collect the forgotten change. I stashed it away, saving it for the day I'd take a bus ride far away from that joint.
The bus station seemed closer whenever we would drive by it to take a kid to the doctor's office, but it took me a little over two hours to make it on foot. Still, I persevered.
It wasn't until I saw a bus ticket price compared to the amount of money I had that I realized I would need to take extreme measures. At that moment, nothing would get in my way of escaping the town of Montley.
I shuffled my way onto the bus that was going God knows where situating myself between a man and a woman. They were suitable enough to look like my pretend parents for a few minutes.
I got about an hour outside of Montley when the bus driver asked to see my ticket. I stared at him blankly, unsure how to respond. What was there to say?
"I get damn kids like you trying to sneak onto this bus all the time. Not on my watch, buck-o." The driver grabbed me by the back of my shirt, the scoop-neck hem strangled the front of my neck, causing me to choke out as he yanked me off the bus. "Hey!"
A sheriff turned around in response. "Help me out with this kid. He snuck on at some point over the last six stops."
The burley sheriff, slowly, dauntingly, made his way over to me. He looped his thumbs through the loops over his belt, and his mustache was so dark and thick, I couldn't see even a hint of his lips. He had eaten one too many donuts, and he was sweating through his uniform.
My stomach hurt. I knew I had gone too far. I should have stayed on foot and gone as far as I could, leaving Montley that way. I knew I would be reported and sent back to the hell house.
I had two choices. I could remain silent and sweat it out, or I could tell the sheriff exactly why I was running away. At ten years old, I didn't think being honest would lead to a good outcome, but staying silent seemed like a worse idea. It turned out; the truth set me free. Dale and Giana lost their license to foster children, and I was sent back to another group home.
The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
May arrived within ten minutes as she estimated. She must have been crashing for the night when I called her because she's in flannel pajama bottoms and a matching top. She crosses her arms over her chest, fighting off the brisk nip in the air, and runs over to us in flip-flops. "God, almighty. I don't know what in the world has gotten into her." She spots her lying in the same place she was when I made the call.
"Death can have a different effect on all of us, I guess."
"She's lost her damn mind, though. August doesn't even drink. Did she tell you that?"
"No, ma'am, she did not. We haven't talked a whole lot. I've spent a lot of time in that b
ar y'all were at the other night. I'm friends with the owner, and he feeds me after work. I'm not a big drinker myself. Anyway, August has been visiting each night for the last week, and I got the feeling she was going through a rough time."
"Oh, I remember you now. You were sitting a few seats away from us, right?"
"Yes, ma'am." I feel uncomfortable, and the short cough into my hand probably tells her so. "I ran into her at the funeral, too. I was acquainted with Keegan."
"Dear God. She told me she wasn't going to that funeral. I would have gone with her if I had known. She is so stubborn, Chance. She's nearly impossible. It's like she's in a little bubble and isn't considering the consequences of her actions sometimes."
I got the feeling the other night, May was likely the younger sister who didn't always think everything through. Of course, I'm sure both sisters believe they are the smarter, more responsible one of the two.
"Stress can do that to a person," I defend August. I'm not sure why I'm protecting her because I think it's dumb how she's handling her pain, but who am I to tell someone how to go about their business? I've known her for about five seconds, and I'm nothing more than a bystander, who she tried to kiss.
"It's stress she shouldn't have endured. Keegan was no good. He took advantage of her and wasted so many years of her life that she'll never get back."
"Everything in life is meant to teach us a lesson, though. What's the point of life if the universe doesn't send us challenges, right?"
"I think that's silly," May says. "We should find happiness and be carefree. That's the good part of life. I don't see the purpose of wasting time on the other stuff." I can tell there is no use in arguing the fundamentals of life with May, so I decide not to respond.
She crouches down in front of August and sweeps the hair that has fallen over her face. "Auggie, come on. You need to get up so we can go home." May tries shaking her shoulder a few times, but August hardly moves an inch. All she gets out of her is a quiet groan.
Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 10
