Authors: Mila Gray
Before I can stop myself I hit delete.
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From:
Jessa Kingsley
To:
Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date:
February 17
Subject:
news
Dear Kit,
I wanted to write and let you know that Jo had the baby. He
was born two days ago, weighing in at a healthy 9 pounds.
Jo’s named him Riley Kit Kingsley.
I was at the birth. It was amazing, Kit, the most incredible
thing I’ve ever experienced. I was so scared that he would
look like Riley and that I wouldn’t be able to look at him or
hold him because of it. And he does and it’s so wonderful.
He looks exactly like Riley. The same eyes, the exact same
expression – you know how Riley used to look when he was
pissed at something? (Jo says it’s wind, but I swear he’s
inherited Riley’s personality.)
It’s the most amazing thing, Kit. It’s like he’s given us all
a new start. Even my dad is totally in love with him. You
should have seen him hold him for the first time. He cried.
My mom is even smiling again and is almost back to
normal.
And that’s why I’m writing really. It’s not just to tell you
about Riley, but also to tell you that this is the last email I’m
sending you. I can’t keep writing into the void.
I don’t know how you’re doing – your dad says he
doesn’t hear from you either. I wish I could see you, speak
to you face to face, but I have no idea when or even if
you’re ever coming home.
I know you must be hurting and I wish there was some-
thing I could do to make it better. But I’m hurting too, Kit.
He was my brother. And I didn’t just lose him. I lost you too.
Part of the grief process is letting go. I’ve finally let go of
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Riley and am moving on. And now I need to let go of you
too.
I’ll always hold you in my heart and think about you
but this is the only way. Thank you for all the beautiful
memories.
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Kit
I stare at the computer screen, my heart beating in my
throat, nausea bubbling in my stomach. The hiss of static
fills my ears and my eyesight starts to blur. For a moment
it feels as if I might be having another panic attack, but
after forcing myself to breathe and count to ten, the sound
starts to fade and my eyesight returns to normal.
The words on the screen unblur and I read them again,
swallowing hard when I take in the news about the
baby’s name and then gripping the arms of my chair
when I reread the last paragraph.
Finally I tear my eyes away and stare at the wall. What
did I expect? I shake my head, snorting air through my
nose. What the hell did I expect? That she was going to
wait for me to get my shit together? That after treating
her so badly, after ignoring her for so long, she was going
to wait for me and accept me back into her life with open
arms?
It’s been almost six months. Six months of silence. I’ve
only got myself to blame.
I look back at the computer. If I was any sort of man at
all, I’d email her right now and tell her how sorry I am,
I’d beg her forgiveness, I’d tell her that I understood and
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wish her well, but I can’t. Because as I already know – as
has already been discovered – I’m no sort of man at all.
I stumble to my feet, pushing my chair to the side, and
am about to turn off the computer by pulling the plug
when I change my mind. I sit back down and with a shak-
ing hand, the static starting to buzz in my ears again, I hit
delete on the email and then on the dozen other emails
from Jessa that are clogging up my inbox.
Jessa’s right. It’s time for a new beginning. The best
thing I can do is let her go, stop thinking about her, move
on. I left it too late. I’m one big fuck-up.
After I’ve deleted all the emails, I glance at the clock.
It’s almost five. I grab my stuff and walk out the door,
heading in a daze back to my room on the other side of
the base. Once there I quickly get dressed, pulling on my
jeans and a T-shirt, and head straight back out again.
I make a beeline for the nearest bar. It’s a sleazy faux-
Irish pub with floors so tacky with spilled beer my shoes
stick to it as though they’re trying to stop me getting to
the bar. There’s a pool table in one corner and a dozen or
more booths ringing the room – all empty for the moment
– though this being Guam and there being nothing else
to do on the island, it won’t be long before the place is
heaving with marines coming off duty.
I sit down on a stool at the bar and signal to the
barman. He ambles over and asks what he can get me. I
stare bewildered at what’s on offer: beer, spirits, soft
drinks. I don’t know what to ask for. I just know that
tonight I want to drink myself into oblivion.
‘Whatever is going to get me drunk quickest,’ I answer.
The barman’s eyebrows shoot up. He flips the tea
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towel he’s carrying over his shoulder, turns to grab a
glass and fills it with some amber liquid from a bottle
before setting it down in front of me.
‘Woman trouble?’ he asks.
I pick up the glass, eyeing the contents. A voice in my
head is yelling at me to put it down, turn around and
walk away now, before it’s too late. I think of my dad and
his drunken rages − his purple face, his slurred words,
the time I found him passed out in a pool of his own
vomit on the sofa – but then I shove the memory away.
Who’s here to see me get drunk anyway? What does it
matter if I drink myself into a coma? Or pass out in a lake
of my own vomit? Who’s going to care?
I down the contents of the glass in one go. It burns my
throat and makes my eyes water, and when I slam the
glass back down I feel a rush as the alcohol immediately
lights a fire in my stomach.
‘Another,’ I say, wiping the back of my hand across my
mouth.
The barman sighs but then, seeing the tattoo on my
arm just visible beneath the bottom of my sleeve, decides
not to argue. I’m guessing he’s seen more than his fair
share of angry servicemen and knows the best bet is just
to give them what they want.
He pours me another drink and I down that one too
and then a third. My head starts to spin a little. My limbs
loosen up. The hard knot in my stomach starts to relax.
When the door slams behind me I don’t even jump. I
laugh under my breath. Wow. I can’t believe it’s taken me
six months to realize that getting drunk is the answer.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the
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photo album. My fingers are clumsy and slow but I feel a
startling mental clarity, and when I get to the photos of
Jessa – the ones she sent me of herself topless and the
ones I took of her in her underwear – I know exactly what
I have to do. I haven’t looked at them in six months –
couldn’t bring myself to before now – and now I find
myself unable to look away. Even though my breathing
has stalled and it feels as if someone’s stabbing a skewer
between my ribs, I can’t stop looking.
Her smile. That’s what strikes me first. It’s hard to
believe she was smiling like that because of me.
For
me.
Has she smiled like that since, I wonder? The pictures
become blurry and I realize it’s because I’m crying.
Angrily I hit delete.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Stumbling off my stool, I signal the barman to get me
another drink. He eyes me nervously, looking at the
phone in my hand as if it’s a gun or a bomb.
‘She’s gone,’ I say to him. ‘I deleted her.’
A look of pity crosses his face before he nods and picks
up my glass. I start laughing. And then I down the fourth
double shot. The room lurches sideways. I collapse down
onto the stool and rest my head on the bar with a sigh.
I’m not sure how long I stay sitting like that drifting in
a welcome fog, but suddenly I feel someone put their
hand on my shoulder. I jerk upright, half falling off the
stool, grateful to the bar for catching me. My eyelids are
heavy as lead. Someone’s standing in front of me, but it
takes a while for my eyes to pull focus.
‘Dad?’ I say, thinking I must be hallucinating.
My legs give way. My dad catches me as I stumble. The
bar stool tumbles sideways and hits the ground.
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‘Dad?’ I say again, and through the fog in my head I
can hear that my voice is broken. It sounds like I’m
crying.
‘I’m here, son,’ my dad answers.
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Jessa
‘Your parents are going away for the weekend, I hear.’
I glance sideways at Todd. He’s opening the micro-
wave door, trying to look nonchalant, but I know what
he’s implying and my pulse elevates.
‘Yeah,’ I mumble, busying myself with unloading the
dishwasher. ‘It’s their anniversary. I think my dad’s try-
ing to make up for being a total asshole for the last eight
years. It’s all part of the recovery process.’
‘Yeah? That’s great,’ says Todd. ‘I was thinking maybe I
could . . . um . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Maybe I could stay
over.’ He shoots a nervous look my way.
I pretend not to notice while trying to figure out what
to say. It’s been two months. I guess I can’t keep putting
him off. And it’s not like I don’t like him. Todd’s been
good for me. He’s been there for me. And so what if I
don’t feel the same way about him that I felt about Kit? So
what if I don’t get the same level of butterflies? Maybe
that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what happens when
you grow up. And at least Todd would never have the
capacity to hurt me like Kit did.
Todd takes the bottle from the microwave and tests the
temperature of the milk against the inside of his wrist. I
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smile at him and kiss him on the lips as I take the bottle
from his hand.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yeah, sure.’
His eyes go wide. He has so much more of the kid
about him than Kit ever did, but I guess he’s three years
younger.
‘Seriously?’ he asks. ‘You’re sure?’
I nod and he grins. My stomach sinks a little and I try
to ignore it.
Todd puts his arms around my waist and pulls me
nearer so he can kiss me. I let him, trying to summon
some enthusiasm. When Todd first asked me out I said
no. We met again at college, were taking some of the same
classes and started off as friends. Then one day he invited
me to the movies and I went, not expecting it to be a date,
but it ended up being one all the same. I think I saw him
as a way to get over Kit, because even though I had
emailed Kit and told him we were over, I still couldn’t
stop thinking about him. I thought Todd might help me
forget about him. So far, no luck, though maybe after
the weekend that will change. Todd’s good-looking, he’s
sweet, he’s smart. He’s not as funny as Kit and the chem-
istry isn’t as electric, but there’s the added bonus that my
parents love him. And now I’m an only child, I feel the
pressure of wanting to please them even more than I did
before. It’s part of the reason I enrolled at USD.
Just then baby Riley starts crying. I pull out of Todd’s
arms and walk into the living room where Riley is sitting
in his bouncy chair playing with a rattle that Didi bought
him. Picking him up and settling down on the sofa with
him, I marvel at how much a baby can totally and utterly
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turn your world upside down. Before Riley, I honestly
didn’t know how I’d ever learn to smile again. I didn’t
think I’d ever be happy. And now I’m the happiest I’ve
been since it all happened.
I look after Riley whenever I can, and my mom and
dad babysit while Jo’s at college. Everyone’s happy with
how it’s worked out. Riley grabs for the bottle out of my
hands. For a three-month-old he’s remarkably clear about
his needs, and just like his dad he goes after what he
wants with a directness that makes us all laugh and recall
the way Riley pursued Jo.
After his bottle, Riley does his usual routine and spits