Authors: Samantha Schutz
I’m surprised.
I shouldn’t be.
I know Brian and I weren’t
boyfriend and girlfriend.
I know that he was terrible
about calling me back
and making plans.
I knew he had a life
when he wasn’t with me.
But all that dissolved
when we were together.
I wonder
who Sarah is.
I wonder
if she was at the funeral.
I wonder
if she’s the blond Marissa saw.
I wonder
what Brian liked about her.
Is she prettier than me?
Funnier, smarter, sexier?
I get a flash
of Brian having sex with her,
and it is awful.
I can’t be sure that they even had sex,
but it’s definitely a possibility.
I feel like I am going to puke.
a sign from Brian?
If so, it was cruel.
He didn’t need to do that.
He’s already gone.
He didn’t have to make it hurt more.
Or maybe it was the universe telling me?
Maybe it thought that this would help me
get over Brian.
Or was it just chance
that Peter and I were at the cemetery
at the same time?
Absolutely nothing otherworldly at work.
No greater purpose.
No sign.
Nothing.
and see a pocket of darkness.
I want to fold myself
flat and crisp,
slip inside of it
like a sheet of paper
into an envelope.
“Ethan, I should explain
about last night.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.
You see,
I was sort of seeing this guy
and he died of this freak heart thing.
It only happened two months ago,
and I’m still trying
to figure everything out.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean
you
know?
”
“I know about Brian.”
I am so confused by hearing Ethan
say Brian’s name
that anger
doesn’t set in right away.
“I don’t understand.
How do you know
about Brian?”
“I heard your girlfriends talking about it
while you were in the back.
And then I remembered
reading about his death in the paper.”
He must be talking about
when Marissa and Jessica were here.
“You’ve known basically since I started
and didn’t tell me?”
“I figured you’d bring it up
when you were ready.
I don’t understand, Annaleah.
I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You know, I knew
there was a reason
you were being so nice to me,”
I say, backing away from him.
“What?
It’s nothing like that.
I like you.
You’re interesting.”
“Interesting…right.
Like a sociology experiment?
Did you want to study
a real, live, grieving girl?”
“Annaleah—”
“I better check on my tables.”
“Annaleah, wait.”
But I don’t.
I think about my dad
calling on my last birthday.
When I pick up the phone,
he doesn’t say hello.
He just starts singing in a goofy voice.
When he’s done he asks,
“So, do you know
what your birthday wish
is going to be?”
He asks me the same thing every year.
“No. I haven’t decided yet.”
I roll over and look at my alarm clock.
“Dad, it’s really really early.”
“I know.
I just wanted to be the first person
you talked to today.”
“You’re definitely the first.”
“Okay, baby.
Go back to bed.”
“Thanks, Dad.
Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When I hang up the phone,
I pull the covers over my head,
block out the early morning light,
wrap my arms around my pillow,
and sleep
sleep
sleep.
when speaking to them is part of your job.
For the next few days,
I only speak to Ethan about pizza.
I refuse to acknowledge him
in any other way.
Instead of chatting with him
when it’s slow,
I make napkin wraps.
I fill salt and pepper shakers.
I wipe down already clean tables.
I sit in a booth
and count the tiles on the wall.
Any of these things is better
than talking to Ethan.
Nothing was happening.
There was only death.
There was only Brian.
I finally have something to say.
I call Parker.
I tell him about Sarah.
I tell him about Ethan
knowing about Brian.
“All that in twenty-four hours, Lee?
Sounds intense.”
“Yeah.”
“I have two theories.
Wanna hear them?”
“I don’t know.
Do I?”
“I’m gonna tell you anyway.
One: It’s heinous
that Brian was seeing someone else.
But you’ve got to keep it in perspective—
you weren’t officially together.”
“Thanks for the news flash.
What’s two?”
“I think you overreacted
when Ethan told you he knew about Brian.”
“But he lied,” I snap.
“He didn’t lie, Lee.
He respected your feelings.
Apparently, there are still guys
who do that.”
“But I feel
like he had ulterior motives.”
“To do what? Become your friend?
Take you to a carnival? Have fun?
How shocking!
Someone should arrest him
before he befriends someone else!”
“Not funny, Parker.
I don’t want to be someone’s friend
just because they feel bad for me.”
“Whoever said that was his reason?
Did it ever occur to you
that he might like you
just because
you’re you?”
I don’t have an answer.
“So what’s your plan, Lee?
Are you going to keep ignoring
the nice, thoughtful, cute boy?”
I know it’s time.
I know I have to do this.
As I hit
SEND
on my phone,
I feel humbled.
Like I am slinking back
after having done something
terribly wrong.
Now the phone is ringing
and I’m wondering if it’s too late,
if maybe Marissa
won’t want to be friends anymore.
to go to the movies.
The movie was my idea.
I suggested it because it seemed safe.
We could be together,
but not have to talk the whole time.
I’m not sure
how all this is going to go down.
Probably not like Brian’s funeral.
That was our one day of grace—
like she hadn’t freaked out
when I told her that Brian and I had sex,
like she hadn’t said really hurtful things,
like we hadn’t gone weeks without talking.
And now we’re back to weirdness again.
And this time,
it’s my fault.
It’s a comedy about a bunch of guys
driving cross-country
and all the hilariously stupid
things that happen along the way.
It requires no thought.
It is a ninety-minute
vacation from my brain.
When the movie is over,
Marissa drives us to the diner.
Just like we used to,
we order coffee and cheese fries.
It’s nice
that some things don’t change.
But the conversation isn’t easy.
We start by talking about the movie.
But that doesn’t last long.
She asks, “So, how’s work?”
“It’s okay.
Just something to do,
you know.
What have you been up to?”
“Working almost every day for the Grants.
Steven is walking.
And Dana’s talking up a storm.”
“Whoa. That happened fast.”
“Well, not really.”
That feels like an intentional jab.
But she’s right.
Had Marissa and I been talking,
I would have known these things.
She asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Better. Sort of.
It’s hard.
And the last week
has been tough.”
“Why? What happened?”
I want to tell her
about finding out about Sarah.
I want to be close to her again,
but I don’t want her to say
I told you so.
I don’t want her to even think it.
So I only tell her about Ethan.
“And now you’re not talking to him?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
She pauses.
“I know things haven’t been good
between us.
But I have to say this:
You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Shutting people out.
People who want to be there for you.”
I try to take this in.
“Annaleah, you’ve got to talk to me
because I can’t even imagine
what it’s been like since Brian died.
Or what it’s like
to have a dad that walked out
and hasn’t even called in fifteen years.
You never talk about any of these things.
That can’t be good for you.”
Her words challenge me.
They challenge all the stories
I’ve told myself.
“But there are people that you do have.
You have me.
You have Parker.
You have Joy.
And maybe you have Ethan.
Don’t ignore us.”
I want to get up and leave.
I want to go and sit in the cemetery.
I want to tell Brian about this.
I want him to listen
and to not speak.
I want to climb into bed
and think about my dad.
Think about all the things
that could have been.
But I stay.
I stay
and listen to Marissa.
when I asked my mom about my dad.
She always answered as best she could.
“We met and married quickly.
It wasn’t long before
our foundation
started showing cracks.
When you were about one,
he left—not honoring
any promises he’d made.”
“But don’t you want to find him?
To know what he is doing?”
“Yes, of course.
But I don’t want to look for someone
who doesn’t want to be found.
I don’t want someone
who doesn’t want me.
If he wanted to find us
he would have, could have.
But he clearly doesn’t want to.
It’s been over a decade.”
“But—”
“No ‘but.’
I’ve got to go on.
I’ve got to deal with what’s here,
what’s in front of me.
And that’s you, Annaleah.
That’s my friends, my job.”
Her words were never enough for me.
Not knowing
was not acceptable.
That father-shaped space
needed to be filled,
even if it was filled with fiction.
Marissa says, “I’m sorry
for being so hard on you about Brian
when you were together.
I didn’t want you to get hurt
and everything I said
kept coming out wrong.
I want to be close again.
I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“Life’s boring without you.
You know, I haven’t
missed a single curfew this summer!”
“Yeah, well,
I haven’t even been to any parties.”
“We should change that.
Have some fun.
Take a mini road trip or something.
Do you think we can
just go forward from here?
I’ll try to be less bitchy,
promise.”
“And I’ll try to be
less…
absent, I promise.”
I ask Marissa to drop me off at the cemetery.
As I walk toward Brian’s grave
I think about how I believed
that my stories made the Dearly Departed
feel less lonely
and more loved.
But these people don’t need me.
Each stone represents a lifetime of stories—
stories that existed before me,
stories that will exist after I’m gone.
I was the one who needed the stories.
I was the one who needed to feel
less lonely and more loved.