Becoming His

“Ace, Max loves you. I realize this is difficult, but I know Max. He isn’t going to break things off because of this. I’m sure he needs a couple of days to himself to think. Monday, maybe try going to his house. This is one of those conversations that really would go much better face to face.”

I nod in agreement and spend the rest of the weekend close to my dad as he works to distract me and my fears. We watch a documentary on Big Foot, and Lake Champlain and the sea monster, Champ, that supposedly lives there. We go golfing and out to breakfast. He even takes me to one of my favorite used bookstores. On our way home he offers to pick up ice cream, which sends me into a flurry of tears that catches him off guard, and we spend the next hour with him assuring me again.

Sunday is only Je

I hover over it and comb through its contents: a text book I’d been missing, my back-up laptop charger, a folded pair of socks, a pair of jeans, and three T-shirts. A small sliver of me feels relieved; I have many more belongings over there: books, shower things, other clothes. However that sliver is trumped by a crushing pain that squeezes my chest.

I crumple to the living room sofa and clutch a soft pillow against my chest as I heave sob after sob. I’ve never felt so alone, and I don’t know what to do, which makes the tears fall harder.

I don’t know how long I cry for. Eventually my body gives up and goes into sleep mode.

I wake up with a horrible throbbing in my temples from crying and dehydration and slowly make my way to the bathroom.

Facing myself in the mirror, I’m not shocked to see how puffy my eyes are, or the dark shadows beneath them. They’re both familiar to me after this past week. I shower and pour a bowl of cereal, but rather than eating it, I continuously stir it, sending different pieces into the pool of milk with the back of my spoon.

I need to leave for class. I should be walking out the door now, but I’m not.

I shove some clothes and my iPod into my duffel bag and leave. I don’t bother bringing books or school things with me. I know that I won’t be using them. My brain refuses to think of anything besides repairing things with Max. I head home and take a week off of school to try and heal, as I hibernate in the protection of home.

Two weeks and three days after our fight there’s a weak knock at my door. I’ve been turning my phone off at night to fight the incessant need to check if the little green light’s flashing, indicating that I have a text message or missed call, because it only makes it hurt worse to see that it never does. The clock on my nightstand reads two-thirty-three. There’s only one person that would come over at this time. Max.

My heart drums as I try to prepare myself for what I should say to him. Should I be mad? Do I have that right?

My breath stops at the sight of Kendall. Her eyes are swollen with tears, and her face is red and distorted with pain before she falls into me. Her whole body is weak with sadness and tears. I hold her tightly and feel my heart accelerate as I brush her hair back with my fingers in an attempt to soothe her before she makes a couple of gasping sounds like I’m hurting her.

“Dad … Dad died,” she chokes out in a whisper.

Her words pierce my chest like an ice pick, making my body go numb. Horrifying sounds erupt from me. I can’t breathe, I can’t focus, the words just keep racing through my head, over and over again. Dead. He’s dead. Dad’s dead. I clutch Kendall and sob big ugly tears that have my nose ru

“Babe, babe! Oh babe!”

A small part of my brain registers the sounds of Jameson calling as he runs up the stairs of my apartment as Kendall and I remain clutching one another. I haven’t even realized that the door is still agape until he appears. Sadness has the ability to make you weaker than sickness, exercise, or exhaustion, because your heart and soul simply stop.

I feel a strong pair of arms encircle me as a familiar wave of cologne encompasses me. It’s Landon. He lifts me into his arms but remains on the floor with me as he presses me against him, as though he’s afraid I’m going to fall apart. It’s too late though. I don’t have any pieces of myself left. What I didn’t give away was taken from me.

“I need to go.” My voice is hoarse with tears as I push away from Landon and stand on shaky legs.

I just saw my dad two days ago. This isn’t possible. He’s young and healthy. I grab my purse and keys from the kitchen counter and walk out the door.

“Ace!” Jameson yells from behind me. “She can’t drive right now.”

“She’s wrong!” I shout viciously. “He’s not dead!” A few angry tears slip out and I wipe my face. “I need to go see him.”

I head down the apartment stairs, making it down two of the four flights before I sink to the cold metal. I grip my knees and pull them close to me as I listen to the sound of my heart explode.

My father’s been gone for an entire month. I hate that I’m counting the days. They’re going by so quickly.

I sit at the kitchen bar, about to stand up because the memory of sitting here with him for so many mornings causes me to hurt more than providing comfort, when I hear Steven Wright, my parents’ lawyer ask me if I’d like some coffee.

I look up, feeling like I’m waking up for the first time in weeks. Days have just been passing by in a haze. I see him hold the coffee pot out in offering and feel my eyes narrow as I focus on him and try to recall why he’s still here.

“How do you like your coffee, Ace?” His voice sounds jovial, which rakes over my nerves like nails down a chalkboard.

It’s been three and half weeks since the will was read. He’s explained the life insurance policy and the assets, distributed letters to nearly all of us including Max, Jameson, and the two babies. He’s read my father’s wishes on how his funeral procession would be held, down to the music he preferred for us to play. I was shocked to know how much thought he’d put into his own funeral, and what he wanted to have transpire once he was gone. I’ll never be able to hear “Let it Be” again without breaking out in chills and crying.

I don’t respond to Steven as he continues holding the coffee pot out to my nonexistent cup. Instead I turn and head to the den where Jameson and Kendall are looking through an old photo album.

“What in the hell is Steven doing here?”

They both turn to look at me, looking slightly taken aback. I raise my eyebrows at them, and Kendall closes the album slowly and sets it on the coffee table in front of her, then reaches up to brush a stand of hair behind her ear, answering my suspicions.

I turn on my heel and march back into the kitchen, barely noticing Kyle as I pass by him. I stop at the kitchen bar and stare at Steven as he rinses his coffee cup and places it in the dishwasher, whistling, and I realize I’ve been hearing this God awful sound for weeks.

“We don’t need you anymore. You need to leave.”

He turns around and a consoling smile covers his face. “How are you feeling today, Ace?”

I’d rather hear Nate say my name. I cross my arms over my chest to prevent myself from throwing the nearest vase of flowers that still decorate nearly every surface of our house at him and narrow my eyes.

“What are you doing here?”