“Quit calling me Ma’am. I’m younger than you are.”

He chuckles. “Sorry.”

“Where’s Dave?”

Leroy smirks. “What? We not good enough, Riley?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just assumed that he’d be… where is he?”

Conway answers. “Dave’s… unavailable.”

“What happened in the past few weeks—”

Leroy sighs, cutting me off. “Good night, Ma’am.”

Forty-One

Dylan

“Thanks for letting us crash here for the weekend, Riley,” Conway says as Riley places the plate full of bacon, eggs and toast on the table in front of me. Even though I refuse to look at her, I know she’s watching me. I can feel it. She’s probably wondering when it was exactly that she agreed to having two strange men stay in our house.

If I could find it in myself to look at her, to actually speak to her, I’d tell her the answer was never. She never agreed to it, but I had no choice. Besides, I wanted them here. Because they’re the only ones who understood.

They called last night and asked if I wanted to escape. They didn’t ask if I wanted to hang out, go drinking or go somewhere and fucking talk. They said escape.

So we did. We escaped to a bar full of military veterans who didn’t fucking judge us. We drank and we drank and we drank some more, until the numb caused by the alcohol overpowered the fucking pain living and breathing in each of us.

But I felt it the most, and they knew that. I could tell by the way they looked at me, by the way they bought drink after drink after goddamn drink until I felt nothing.

And I wanted to feel nothing—especially after they kept patting me on the back, toasting to Dave and to me—his best friend. Every time they mentioned it I drank some more, praying that they were fucking wrong. Because I wasn’t his best friend. I wasn’t worthy of it.

If I was, I should’ve been able to stop him. But more than that, I should’ve been able to see it coming way before he bled his heart out to me.

All those times he wanted to talk. All those missed calls and messages I never fucking returned… He even sat and listened to me talk about Riley while he was fucking dying on the inside and he never said a word.

He shouldn’t have had to.

I should’ve known.

“I have to get to work,” Riley says, bringing me back to reality. “I’ll be home just after five but I can come by on my break if you guys need anything.”

“It’s the weekend,” I mutter and almost look up at her. Almost.

But what would I say?

How would she look at me?

“I’ve been working an extra day so I could get Fridays off for the next couple months… I wanted to drive down to see you earlier.”

My guilt and my fear outweigh everything else. I keep my eyes lowered but wide fucking open. Because if I close them, there’s darkness. And with darkness comes the need for light. And the only light I see is the one caused by his gun… right before he blew his fucking brains out.

One week.

He just needed to make it one fucking week and we could’ve survived the hell he thought would’ve been waiting for him at home. We could’ve done it together. Every single step.

Just one fucking week.

Why couldn’t he fucking handle it?

I stand quickly and march to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I need space. I need time. I need fucking sleep.

“I’d just leave him, Riley,” Conway says from the other side of the door.

“But if he’s—”

Leroy cuts her off. “Just trust us, okay? We know what we’re doing.”

I’m glad they fucking think so, because I know nothing.

Not a goddamn thing.

* * *

Grief is like a constant daze of a million fucking emotions and I don’t want to feel a single one. But it’s there. All of them. Eating away at my insides until all I want to do is fucking punch something. Maybe it’s a bad idea to have my brothers here—in my personal space—because they just seem to make it worse. Seeing them, knowing what we’ve been through, knowing what we’re one day going back to… I can’t fucking handle it.

We sit in the living room, watching mind-numbing TV because we can’t think of anything else to do that’ll take our minds off the pain.

The news has stopped reporting the events that go on over there. Apparently it’s not as important as some psycho chick in Texas claiming to have been impregnated by a fucking pig. Or a new flavor at Starbucks. Or Kanye. Who the fuck is Kanye? Whoever he is—he needs to get the hell off my television.

Conway and Leroy look up at me when the back door opens, their eyes as tired as mine. Then they shift to the empty packets of food and cans of soda splayed out all over the place. We probably should’ve cleaned up before Riley got home—but I can’t find it in myself to care.

Riley seems to though. I can tell by the shock mixed with disappointment on her face as soon as she’s in my vision. It only lasts a second before she smiles. I look away and focus on the TV again. Now some woman with a huge ass is standing next to that Kanye dick. Great. I almost yell, “My fucking friend committed suicide serving this fucking country and this is the shit you come up with.” I don’t, of course, because that would make me insane.

Maybe that’s what grief does.

Makes you insane.

And that doesn’t even include the voices or the images plaguing my damn mind.

From the corner of my eye I see Riley squat down, placing Bacon on the floor. He runs straight to me and parks himself on my lap. I don’t know why he comes to me. I’ve barely spent time with the damn dog.

“Hey guys,” Riley says quietly.

They both wave—adding a smile faker than hers. “’Sup, Ry?” Conway replies.

“I take it you guys have eaten?” she asks.

We nod simultaneously, then go back to watching TV. “Kentucky Man Tries to Dig Up Dad So He Can ‘Go to Heaven,’” the reporter reads.

“What the fuck?” Conway mumbles.

Exactly, Conway. What the fucking fuck?

In the kitchen, I hear Riley opening and closing the fridge, and then doing the same with the cabinets. I’m pretty sure they ate everything in the house. Probably the only reason they stopped eating. She returns a moment later with her phone, keys and wallet in hand and another fake smile. “I’m going to the store to grab something for dinner. You guys want or need anything?”

Leroy says, reaching into his pocket, “A case of beer would go down well.”

Riley freezes.

I sigh. “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”

“Why?”

I stop stroking Bacon and point to Riley. “Recovering alcoholic.”

Her gaze drops, her shoulders tense.

“Oh, shit,” Conway chimes in. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Riley says. But there’s a scowl on her face directed right at me.

I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like it’s a fucking secret. Besides, I could use a drink.

“Is it all right to leave Bacon here?” she says.