I couldn’t blame them — not really. They were worried about me. They shouldn’t be.
I was sad.
Devastated.
Alone.
Upset.
Angry.
I was all of those things — I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t — but every time I wanted to yell or scream or shoot something, I thought of her face, I envisioned her smile, and suddenly it all seemed pointless.
Why would I respond in anger when I’d been given one of the most priceless gifts of my life?
I crouched down next to her simple grey gravestone and touched it with my fingertips. “You were right.” I swallowed and closed my eyes. “You said I was dead inside, and you were right. I was so pissed at you for calling me out, for upsetting my carefully planned-out life, for making me feel when all I really wanted to do was throw a pity party and lock myself away with a gun.” I opened my eyes and smiled, remembering the way she’d woken me up that first morning. “You said I was dead. I think because of what you were going through, you recognized death easily in others. You saw the signs in me, and, instead of allowing me to follow you, you healed me.” I stood. “Thank you.”
I took a step back and shoved my hands into my pockets.
“I’ll love you… until we both shall live.”
“Eat.” Chase shoved a plate piled high with at least three different types of pastas, two sauces, and enough bread to feed a small country in my direction. “It helps.”
“Eat my feelings?” I countered, picking up a piece of bread. “Don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Drink.” Frank poured me a healthy glass of wine.
“I’m fine,” I said, probably for the tenth time in the last three minutes. “Really, you guys don’t have to stay.”
Mo pulled out a chair next to me and scooted my wine closer.
I sighed in her direction then took it and sipped. The taste wasn’t comforting; it was missing something. I frowned then got up from my chair.
The room was silent.
Swear, they were just waiting for me to snap.
I wasn’t going to.
But no matter how many times I said that, they didn’t believe me.
When I reached the edge of the kitchen, I reached up into the liquor cabinet and pulled out the giant bottle then turned to face everyone.
“Vodka?”
You’d thought I’d just agreed to give all my cars to the homeless and go on a Lord-of-the-Rings-style journey to find myself.
“Vodka?” Frank repeated, his voice just barely above a whisper.
I pulled out shot glasses, filled each to the rim, then nodded to the guys. Each of them grabbed one and handed the other to their significant other.
I held mine into the air and whispered, “To Andi.”
“To Andi,” they said in unison.
Italians drinking vodka at a funeral, never thought I’d see the day.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Sergio
A WEEK WENT BY AND THEN TWO, followed by three.
I counted them; it made me feel less like I was going insane and more like I was developing a serious case of OCD.
Everyone left a week after the funeral.
I was alone in my house again.
And it felt lonely — damn, did it feel lonely. I hadn’t been able to focus on anything except actually making it through the day, eating three square meals and exercising to take my mind off the emotional pain that sliced through my chest every single time I went into the bedroom I’d shared with my wife.
Finally, during the third week…
I woke up.
And felt different.
I wasn’t better, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt… okay, like the world wasn’t crashing down around me. Like I could breathe, maybe, just a little bit deeper.
After breakfast I walked by my study and paused. The door, the door I’d always had shut from the world, was ajar.
I scratched my head.
The last time I’d been in there had been months before. The guys knew not to go in on account that I was a private man, and there was a certain amount of respect between all of us and our offices; it was our domain, where we did the ugly, the dark… where we sat and contemplated our sins and begged for forgiveness.
Curious, I stepped inside.
Nothing looked out of place.
Except the black folder.
I’d placed it on the farthest side of my desk.
But now? It was propped up against the lamp — the only light flickering in the room.
Was Frank behind this?
His final way to get me to read it?
I walked closer.
There was a small pink sticky note attached to the bottom. I picked it up and smirked. “Read me or perish —Andi.”
I burst out laughing. Of course she would. Threatening me even in her death, bloodthirsty Russian.
The folder had no power over me, I knew that, but I also knew I wouldn’t like what was inside. It was the equivalent of seeing all the horrible sins you’d committed in black and white.
Impossible to erase.
Impossible to forget.
Slowly, I pulled out my chair; it rolled against the wood floor. The sound may as well have been a gun going off.
I was doing this.
Because Andi had left me a note.
And I could deny that girl nothing.
The folder was heavy — it would be, knowing what I’d done, the things I’d experienced in my short life.
With shaking fingers, I opened the first page.
A small rubber bracelet was taped to the inside with another pink sticky note attached. “Wear me.”