Two Roads (22 page)

He holds out the picture of Ben for me, of his smile and false happiness, and I mouth
I’m sorry
and Logan whispers, “It’s just a fucking picture,” and then I touch my trembling thumb to it and feel a sob rack through me and everything seems to collide at once. Then I whisper “I love you, Ben,” and I feel the tears start pouring out so I say, “Come back to me,” and my heart shatters some more.

And then I’m running.

I don’t even know what’s happening, but suddenly talking to Logan is too much and all I want to do is get the hell out of here. I spring to my feet, ignoring Logan as he reaches to stop me, ignoring him as he calls after me, “Where are you going? I was going to--” and I turn the corner and fly down the stairs before he can finish.

I race through the lobby and leap into my car, not even knowing what I’m doing anymore. I turn the key in the ignition, floor the vehicle, and it’s not until I start speeding out of the parking lot that I can breathe again.

My heart hammers furiously in my chest as I turn onto the main road and just drive away as fast as possible. The night sky is so dark that I can barely see where I’m going beyond the faint streetlights looming above me and the moonlight overhead. The steady hum of tires on pavement fills the car, and I force myself to breathe, to relax, but the pounding in my temples does not fade for a second. Everything aches--my arms, my legs, my head, my heart. I feel so stiff and uncomfortable after that conversation, like I’ve been trapped in a box for days and now someone has finally let me out.

Ben’s death isn’t his fault.

It isn’t any of our faults.

I should really feel relieved. I should be rejoicing, honestly. I should be doing anything but running away, but I can’t bring myself to stop because stopping means losing Ben, means letting go, and I don’t ever want to let him go.

I drive and drive, fighting back tears, clutching the steering wheel so tightly my fist turns white. I have no idea where I’m going but I can tell it’s somewhere important because something about the drive is so achingly familiar, I just can’t place it.

It takes me a few minutes and several sped-through red lights to realize I’m going to our old house, the one Ben died in. I don’t even know why, but for some reason I know I have to be there now. I drive so quickly that the hum of the engine seems to drown out each of my deep breaths, the steady thud of my heart, the thoughts racing through my mind after what Logan just told me.

I can’t lose Ben.

I can’t.

Something about knowing the truth is worse than not knowing why he died at all. The truth is so final, so dead-in-the-water. No room for speculation. No room for wondering. It’s like he really is gone. And it hurts--it hurts to let him go. But I also know that I have to.

A part of me feels relieved that I’m not the reason he’s dead, though, and even a little bit relieved that Logan hasn’t been handling the suicide better than I have after all. It’s good to not feel so alone. Good to know I’m not such a freak after all, or if I am a freak, at least I can be a freak with him.

Another sob racks through me then, and when I try to force it back it comes out more like a choking sound than actual tears. Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek, but I just brush it aside and keep my eyes focused on the road in front of me. I have to be strong. I have to be strong for Ben.

It’s another five minutes before I finally pull the car into the driveway of our old house. No one is home and the whole place is dark, as it always is. In fact, the whole neighborhood is pretty much silent. Technically, we still own this house. My parents never had the heart to sell it but couldn’t bring themselves to return to it, either, and since we had the money, we let it stay, a memory of all we had lost. Our own personal gravesite for both Benjamin Monroe and our happiness.

As I climb out of the car my eyes dart automatically up to the roof. I feel my stomach seize as soon as I look at it--old and rickety and still torn on the edge from where Ben’s body landed. My breath catches.

The roof is the site of where all of the pain of the last four years began, the site I have been ignoring and abandoning for the longest time, and as I look at it, I know what I have to do. Everything becomes so incredibly clear in that instant: everything from Ben’s death to my feelings toward Logan to The Roadkeeper’s poems to why I always hid behind the version of myself who didn’t care, and I know the solution lies here, on this roof.

I know I have to face the truth.

Our old home is small and ancient, with broken windows, falling-apart shingles, and a crumbling chimney like it’s something straight out of a horror movie. As I wipe some tears from my eyes and head straight through the front door, I half-expect for someone to jump out and bludgeon me to death. No one does, though, and I make my way around the house, listening to the gentle creaks of floorboards beneath my feet, the creepy whistle of wind through the trees above. The air is thick with the smell of sulfur and dust, and the whole house looks almost scarily untouched.

When I look around me, I remember things: the streaks of purple paint along the fading beige walls from when Logan and Ben decided our house could use some sprucing up in fourth grade, the broken dining room table from when Ben bet me twenty bucks that I wasn’t heavy enough to snap it and so I spent hours jumping up and down on the table until I finally succeeded, the picture frame on the ledge beside the staircase, the one that showcases Ben’s second-grade portrait of me as a stick figure he made in art class. Slowly, I reach out and touch it. My heart is in my throat now, but I can’t stop myself. I stare at the flat brown line Ben drew for my hair, the way one of my eyes is sufficiently bigger than the other, and the signature at the bottom of it--Benjamin Monroe--and then I feel those goddamn tears rise up all over again.

I let them fall as I race up the steps, clutching the drawing in my hand. I bite my lip so hard I think it has started bleeding as I climb my way up to the attic and slip out onto the roof. The night air is oddly cold, especially this high up, and the slight wind makes a shiver race down my spine. I look out at the line of houses down my neighborhood, the maple trees seemingly reaching out to me with their branches, the distant echo of a dog barking. My hand has started trembling now because I know I’m walking a dangerous line, but I also know this
is
the only way.

The instant I lock eyes on the crumbling chimney on the other end of the roof, the one Ben leaned against when he shot himself, I want nothing more than to turn back. It’s like my insides are being ripped out of me all over again as I see that one fucking horrible spot and the tears start pouring out of me in torrents. My heartbeat quickens, but as hard as I try to turn away and run back to my car, something deep inside of me won’t let me. Something tells me I need to do this, for Ben, for Logan, for myself.

So I take one long, deep breath, and then I start walking over to the place where my brother died. The whole world seems to slow, but I just keep my eyes focused on the spot, keep the throbbing and the hurt and every protesting part of me at bay, and I walk right up there, lie against the chimney, and sit down in the same spot where it happened.

And then I cry.

I don’t even realize it’s happening at first, but suddenly my whole face is filled with hot tears and I’m letting deep, powerful sobs escape me. I think about all the times Ben brought me up here when we were little to have squirt gun battles and play cards and laugh at random TV shows and really just enjoy each other, and then I think about how he must have been shaking as much as I am now that night, about what was going through his mind when he pulled the trigger, about whether he was thinking about me, about whether he was already regretting it, and then I sob some more. I might be screaming too, screaming his name I think, but I can’t even tell. I can’t tell anything anymore. Just my tears and my sobs and Ben’s face, which is now more out of reach than ever.

I hear a car park below me, a door slam, and then the sound of someone running up the stairs and slipping onto the roof after me but I don’t even care. I try to block everything out, everything but Ben and his smile and what an amazing brother he was to me.

I feel a warm hand on my back, a voice whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” and I just nod and look out at the dark neighborhood, at what Ben was looking at before it happened, and I let myself cry it all away. I cry until there is nothing left, until the ache in my heart is gone and I’m sniffing, gasping, turning to face whoever is beside me.

As soon as I meet Logan Waters’ gaze, my heart rate slows. He sits beside me, his warmth wrapping me up, his feet dangling over the edge of the roof just like mine are and I can tell being here affects him as much as it does me. His eyes are sad, so sad, but he squeezes my arm to let me know he’s okay, and I squeeze back to tell I am too, and the simple gesture speaks all the words we need.

We stare out at the neighborhood for a while, taking in the cool air and thinking about Ben, about what happened, about each other.

“How did you know I was going to be here?” I whisper after a while, once everything else seems to melt away. As I look around me, as I look at
him
, everything feels a little bit clearer. The weight in my stomach seems to have been lifted, and I can finally breathe again--really breathe.

“I just knew,” he says softly, and I can tell he’s speaking the truth. We just know each other like that, I guess. We know what hurts each other. We know what doesn’t. We know what we love, know the little secret things about each other no one else knows, like that I love root beer and Logan is never happier than when he’s gushing to others about some weird math problem he solved. We know so much about each other through our rivalry and old friendship it’s almost as if…

“You took a cab over?” I ask, not wanting to finish the thought. I take in deep breath after deep breath, letting everything else slip away, everything but Logan.

“Yeah,” he says. “I knew… I knew I had to come.”

There’s a long pause after that, and now that Logan is here, I find myself asking why. Why have I been his rival these past six months? Why have I been acting like I hate him, when I think deep down I’ve always known that I haven’t? And it’s more than just not hating him. It’s--well--it’s love. He’s everything I want, everything I need, and even though I could be perfectly fine without him, I want him with me, want it more than anything in the world. So, why did it never occur to me before?

The only answer I can think of is this: because I was scared. Because I was scared of falling for someone who was so close to Ben’s death. Because I didn’t want to lose anyone else.

It’s amazing the kind of love fear can drive away.

“You really are a bitch, you know,” Logan says after a while.

I force a smile, wiping the tears from my eyes. “And why is that?”

He turns to look at me for the first time since he arrived. “Because you stole my heart, Cali,” he whispers, running his hand along my cheeks. “You stole my heart and now you won’t let me have yours.”

I expect to tense up at his touch, to push him away and freak out like I always do, but not tonight. Tonight, I listen to the crickets chirping and the distant smell of barbecue behind us, and when Logan’s skin meets my skin, I relax, because that’s what his touch is: it’s relaxing.

“Remember when we were kids,” I say after a while, looking past him and out at the sea of old houses in front of us, of the trees swaying in the breeze. “When I was eight and you and Ben decided to convince me I was actually a dog adopted into a family of humans?”

He nods, forcing a smile, and even though I’m on the verge of crying again I force one too.

“Remember how I went to everyone I knew, from my mom and dad to your parents and our friends and you guys followed me everywhere and all of them said that yes, I was a dog, and then I started crying because I didn’t want to be a dog, I wanted to be a person like you and Ben?”

Logan is still smiling, probably remembering all of the dumb things the three of us used to do to each other. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“I knew it was a lie all along.”

He arches his eyebrow. “You did not.”

“I did!” I say, and it feels good to remember with someone else. It feels good to talk it out. It feels good to finally get closure.

“I wasn’t an idiot, you asshole,” I say, smiling some more. “Of course I knew I wasn’t a dog. But I saw how happy it made you… you and Ben… and so I went along with it because it was fun. You told me something while I was fake crying about not being part of the family, though, something that seemed way too deep to come from a ten-year-old boy at the time, and so I’ve remembered it since.” I hesitate. “You said that things in life aren’t always fair. You said that bad things happen sometimes and there’s no stopping them, but that there is no point in worrying about the past and the future. You said that how you got here or where you’ll end up doesn’t matter, which I think you expected would comfort me about being a dog. You said you could worry about any number of things, but the only thing that truly matters is right here, right now, and enjoying the people and the love that you’re surrounded with.” I take a deep breath. “I just… I wanted to thank you. For saying that.”

Logan nods, but he doesn’t seem to want to elaborate. It takes a lot of effort not to ask why.

“What do you have in your hand?” he asks. I look down at where he’s pointing and hold out the sketch Ben did of me. I totally forgot I was holding it.

“Ben did this of me in art class,” I say, not taking my eyes off of the sketch. “Remember?”

He nods. “You two used to love this, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I sigh. The tears have stopped now. The stinging in my heart has stopped. I feel better, so much better, and as I sit in the exact same spot where Ben killed himself four years ago, I don’t feel afraid.

I feel strong.

Logan watches me carefully. “It’s time to let go, Cali,” he says. “It’s time for both of us to let go. Ben would want that,” he says.

“I know.” And I do.

“Then we’re going to let him go, or at least start to. Okay?” he says, and when he holds out the sketch to the edge of the roof, I know what he’s going to do. My stomach twists, but I don’t resist.

“Okay,” I say.

I hold my breath as he lets go. The sketch falls slowly to the ground below, then gets swept off by the wind with a whoosh and flies through the trees until it disappears out of sight. I feel myself freeze up as it leaves me once and for all and a part of me wants to scream and run after the sketch, but then I feel Logan’s hand on my back and I know I’m safe here. I know this is right.

We’re silent for another long while after that. I start to say something, to thank him or yell at him or I don’t even know, but the words seem to leave me. So I just look out at the trees where the sketch Ben presented me with some ten years ago for my birthday, a huge grin on his face, disappeared.

“You know, when you really think about it, sometimes love is like poetry,” Logan whispers out of nowhere, rubbing a finger against my chin and smiling at me. I turn to him, and our eyes lock. “It doesn’t always make sense and it sure as hell isn’t ever simple, but it’s always there, and it’s in the individual to find it.”

I just watch him. Something in his words is so deep and heartfelt that I know he’s talking about it firsthand. I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but he shakes his head and speaks instead. “Cali, I… I have something to tell you,” he says quietly, his jaw tightening. I see him fidget with his hands, see the heat creep into his cheeks, and it’s so totally adorable I can’t help but smile.