BILLIE

Death is an unavoidable faith. You can’t cheat it, bargain with it, or outrun it. When your time is up, the grim reaper stampedes his way to claim what’s rightfully his. But once you’re dead, none of it matters. You’re no longer consumed with the thoughts that preoccupy the living. You’re dead. Now, your only worry is whether you decay in darkness or pearly white gates take you to a promised paradise. The only people who suffer are the living haunted by your memory. 

The service is pleasant. As pleasant as any service can be with people crying or pretending to care about the dearly departed. I glance over the sea of black, trying to figure out who these people are. 

Cold, clammy hands grip mine as they whisper words they were told would bring comfort. All their words do is induce rage. “I’m sorry,” they say. What are they sorry about? Did they put that gun in his hands? They sure weren’t the reason the gun was there. The only people to blame for this are Lars Morgan, Cain Foster… and me. 

I look toward Cain, the sole person left in the church. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and hasn’t taken off his dark aviators. Not once. At least he showed up, unlike Lars. 

Cain doesn’t feel obligated to share in memories of Trevor. He doesn’t believe in being friendly or humoring old elementary teachers who never had a kind word to say about Trevor when he was still breathing. 

I close my eyes, trying to tune out the chatter. 

“He was a good guy, Billie. I’m so sorry.” 

Light floods my vision as I open my eyes to see Clair Vox staring at me. Wetness coats her cheeks, but her eyes appear bone dry. 

“Save it, Claire Bear. You didn’t give two shits about Trevor. If I remember correctly, you took pleasure in pointing out that he grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. You’re pretending to give a fuck about him now he’s six feet under, but you sure as hell didn’t care less about Trevor Parker when he was still breathing. Remember how you mercilessly mocked him about the small tear in his sneakers in the fifth grade? You didn’t care about him then. You didn’t stop to ask him why he hadn’t eaten for a few days or why his mom was on another bender with some random fucker, leaving an eleven-year-old boy alone with bare cupboards.” 

Cain’s deep voice runs through my bloodstream like a life force. His eyes move from Claire to me. His stony expression is a bullet rushing to the center of my heart, making me pray that the ground beneath me would split open and swallow me whole. 

I hold my breath for the venom Cain has ready to hurl at me, but what he does is ten times worse. He pushes past Claire without acknowledging me. It’s as if I’m not there. Invisible. 

“Cain’s still low-life trash, I see,” Claire whispers, flipping her long blonde hair. She grabs my shoulders, kissing each cheek before putting on her Gucci glasses and descending the church steps.

Another man approaches me, but I can’t focus. My gaze is trained on Cain as he climbs onto his motorcycle, helmet in his hand. 

“Excuse me,” I say before running toward him. “Cain!” 

He turns, and his cobalt-blue eyes pierce me like the tip of a samurai blade.

He doesn’t say anything; he just hands me the helmet. 

His coldness gives me a sense of comfort. Unlike the surrounding crowd, who echo words of kindness, Cain represents the uncouth and disdainful. He strips convention until the only thing left is honesty. 

We gaze at each other while we drown in silence. The pain of losing Trevor churns in my stomach. I’ll do anything to make it end, even if it’s a numbing agent that will give me a moment of peace. 

I put on the helmet and wrap my arms around his waist as he starts the motor, and we leave all the superficial bullshit behind. 

The wind whips past as we drive down the interstate, passing the cars. I place my head on Cain’s back and shut my eyes. This moment won’t last. I know it’s a blip of joy captured in my hand. When reality knocks on the door of my life, this will slip through my fingers like sand through an hourglass. So I try not to think about it. Right now, Trevor is alive, and Cain loves me. 

The traffic dissipates, and the bike stops moving. I open my eyes and stare at the dock. Someone sits there, a bottle of liquor and a guitar in his hand. Lars. 

“He’s been drunk since it happened,” Cain says, breaking into my wishful thoughts. “A two-week bender.”

“Lars doesn’t drink. He never drinks.”

“He does now.”

My heart aches, and worry spikes in my veins. Addiction is genetic. It sits dormant in your veins until a simple drink causes an avalanche, burying you so deep that no amount of clawing can dig you out. 

I turn to Cain, watching him light a joint and take a hit. Not all of us Nar-Anon kids are straight edge. Lars was. Guess having your crackhead mom burn up your entire right arm is the best anti-drug advertisement any kid can be exposed to. 

I frown. “How could you let him do this?” 

Cain’s laugh is empty. Without saying a word, he walks past me toward Lars. “I wasn’t responsible for my mother’s addiction, and I’m sure as fuck not responsible for his. That guilt trip shit doesn’t work on me.”

I rush after him, taking two strides to each of his. Why does he have to be so tall? We reach Lars. His head is down as he repeats the same chords on the scratched-up guitar. 

“What’s she doing here?” Lars slurs. “What do you want, Billie?”

He doesn’t look at me. That hurts. Especially since he was proselytizing his undying love for me two weeks ago. 

“Cain brought me.”

Lar’s eyes are focused on his guitar. His fingertips leave red streaks as he picks at the strings. I expect him to say something. I don’t care if he yells. At this point, I’d even appreciate a punch to my face. But all he does is gaze into the void as he strums the opening chords of “Stairway to Heaven.”

Instead of singing the lyrics, Lars turns to me. His golden-brown eyes, usually so vibrant, now appear dull. “You should go, Billie. You never belonged here.”

My hand springs to my cheek as I wipe away the moisture. I didn’t even notice the tears falling down my face. I was too focused on the sharp cruelty of Lars’ words. 

You never belonged here.

“Really, Lars? That’s how it’s going to be? Suddenly I don’t belong because my junkie mom liked her drugs in pill form instead of from a needle?” I jump at the clang of the guitar hitting the wooden boardwalk, holding my ground as Lars steps forward. “You think you’re the only one in pain? You think you’re the only one who loves him?”

“Loved. You can’t use present tense when talking about the dead,” he spits the words as he takes another step toward me. He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his body and his breath on my skin. Lars bends to pick up the bottle of Jim Beam, taking a swig. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. We can all go back to our lives. You, to your fancy school. Cain and me drowning in this shit town until we join Trevor in our graves.” 

“So that’s it? We’re over?”

“We’ve been over for weeks, Billie,” Cain says. “We ended when Trevor died.”

“Guess forever meant nothing to you both.”

Lars grabs my chin, and I wince as he presses his fingers into my skin, holding my face still. “It was supposed to be four of us, not three. We don’t work without him. Without him, we’re just missing puzzle pieces.” 

Lars brings his lips close to mine, and my eyes instinctively flutter closed. Messed-up anticipation swirls in my mind, and lust churns in my stomach.

Lars screams before shoving me and walking away. “Live your life, Billie. There’s nothing left for you here.”

I turn to Cain. He takes another hit from the joint, avoiding my gaze. “He’s right.” He jumps up and nods toward his bike. “I’ll take you home.”

The universe made me fall in love with three men in different ways. The one who became my family died, and the two who lit my soul on fire want nothing to do with me. The universe is a sonofabitch. 

I brush the tears that won’t stop falling from my cheeks and try to control my shaking voice. “I’ll find my own way home.”