We hit a bad storm right after we crossed the state line. I’d pulled over, getting the top up just before it started raining buckets. Traffic was awful, visibility was poor, and Emery and I were both so tense by the time we made it out that we were ready to stop for the day.
So, even though it was less than six hours from where we’d started that morning, we called Houston home for the night, checking into a modest hotel in Midtown. I took Kalo for a long walk, fighting back yawns that started hitting me hard after the storm. When I made it back to our room, Emery was already buried under the covers.
“I’m taking a nap. Want to grab dinner in a bit?”
I finally let myself yawn, unhooking Kalo’s leash and digging through my bag for her food and water bowl. “A nap sounds perfect. Should I set an alarm?”
“I’ve got one set for an hour and a half. The concierge said there’s a concert in the park nearby tonight and there are supposed to be a bunch of food trucks.”
“That sounds fun.”
Emery didn’t respond, rolling over toward the wall and pulling his comforter over his head.
His soft snores were the only sound in the room until the air conditioning kicked on with a hum, and I flopped down onto the other bed, eyelids heavy. Kalo was clearly ready for a nap, too. She finished her food quickly, jumping up onto the foot of my bed and curling up into a ball of fluff before I’d even taken my shoes off. I reached for the lamp on the table between our beds but my hand froze in place when I noticed Emery’s journal laying in front of the phone.
Don’t do it.
But already my hand was reaching for it, my eyes flicking to where Emery was bundled under the sheets, the same leg sticking out like it had that morning.
Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I slipped my hand under the worn leather, wrapping my fingers over the bind and pulling the journal to my lap. My breaths were slow motion, heart in my ears as I glanced at Emery again before opening to a page near the beginning.
Dad thinks depression is a mental excuse, not a mental disorder.
I listened to him and Mom fight about it the entire drive to therapy today. She was playing John Cougar Mellencamp’s Uh-huh album way too fucking loud, and they yelled over it instead of turning it down. I told them I didn’t want them driving me anyway, I’m twenty-three, for fuck’s sake, but Mom insisted on dropping me off on their way to lunch and picking me up after. Bonding time, or whatever.
Dad and Mom never fight, not unless it’s about me.
Mom is worried about me, and I hate that I upset her, but I’m not sure how not to.
Honestly, I think my dad is right. I don’t have a reason to be depressed.
We have money, we always have. I went to a good school, a good college, all paid for. I have a job with my dad until the day I die — a good job, one I enjoy, one I excel at, one that will mean I’ll have a life of fortune just like he did. I’ve had plenty of friends throughout the years, even if I did drive them all away. Sex isn’t hard to find, neither is a girl to spend time with, if I want that sort of thing. I’m healthy. I’m not the most unfortunate looking dude, either.
All signs point to normalcy.
Most people would kill to have what I do. I think that’s why Dad grumbles under his breath when my therapy comes up, when Mom tries to make him recognize I have issues. I hate the word, too. Depression. It sounds so fucking stupid, and I feel stupid. I don’t want to go to therapy, or talk about my feelings, or question every fucking thread of my past looking for answers.
What if there is no answer? What if I am just not a happy person. Period. The end.
I think I could have gotten away with it, with just being a miserable prick, if I hadn’t pulled the stunt that I did. That woke everyone up, most of all Mom, and now I have to pay for it.
I didn’t even want to do it. Maybe the day I tried, I did. It was a bad day. Today, right now, I know it was stupid.
But today is a good day.
Even if I did have to listen to Dad tell me how ungrateful I am for a solid twenty minutes.
I think it’s because he grew up with Grams for a mom. She’s the only one who seems to get me, and it’s because she’s the same kind of crazy. People say I got my nose from her, and I guess I got this, too.
I still hate writing in this thing. And think all of this is pointless. And for the record, I fucking hate John Cougar Mellencamp.
My hand found my mouth, fingertips ice cold on the skin of my lips as I glanced up at Emery. He was still sleeping, his breaths even and steady, his mind at peace — at least I hoped. I didn’t know what he was dreaming, or if he even was at all.
I should have put it down, should have closed the journal and vowed never to pry into his private thoughts again. I should have had more respect for him, for the words meant only for him, but I was selfish. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything.
My fingers fell from my lips and flipped through the pages, all the way to the entry from last night.
Grams told me when I took this trip, I needed to keep my eyes open. She said part of the journey would be doing things I’d never done before, taking chances, exploring. She wanted me to invite adventure into my heart.
So, I picked up a hitchhiker.
I scoffed.
Okay, not really a hitchhiker, but a girl who needed a lift.
I don’t even think she realized it, not until the moment I asked her to come with me, maybe not even until we were two hours away from Mobile where I picked her up. But I knew the second I saw her.
She was a caged bird, and when I opened the door to let her out, she didn’t know whether to fly or molt.
Her name is Cooper and she has a dog. The dog came with us, which I thought would be annoying since I hate anything that is adorable, but surprisingly this dog doesn’t bother me. Her eyes are crossed a little bit and her fur is out of control, like she’s never been to a groomer. I like that about her. She’s the ugly kind of cute.
I don’t know if I like Cooper yet.
I chewed my lip, heat crawling its way up my neck.
She talks a lot. She’s naive. She’s young. Her glasses are too big for her face. She’s religious, but I don’t know that I can blame her since she grew up in the Bible Belt. Mostly, I’m just perturbed because under all that, she’s beautiful, and I find myself insanely curious about her.
I wonder how she’ll be on my bad days.
She was my waitress at the diner in Mobile and I asked her my question. She couldn’t answer. But unlike everyone else, she didn’t tell me a bunch of stupid shit. She could have said her dog made her happy or her boyfriend or something else surface-level.
Does she have a boyfriend? I didn’t even ask.
Actually, I really don’t care, so I won’t be asking.
But the point is she didn’t look at me like the question was absurd, or like there were plenty of things in the world that made her happy, or like I was weird for asking. She looked at me like she couldn’t answer because in order to list what made her happy, she had to know she was happy in the first place.
She also looked at me like I was serial killer when I asked her to come with me, not that I can blame her.
Still, she came. And now I’m on this trip with a girl and a dog.
Maybe this was what Grams was talking about, or maybe I’m just fucking stupid. Either way, I’ve got someone to talk to.
Poor girl.
I smiled a little at that, yawning as I closed the journal and gently placed it where I’d found it. I tucked my legs under the sheets, gently removing my prosthesis once I was covered and moving it off to the side. Stretching my arms over my head and pointing my toe, I let exhaustion wash over me, closing my eyes just as Kalo moved to curl up by my side. I rolled over, one hand petting her long, soft fur as the other propped the pillow up under my head.
“You really are the ugly kind of cute,” I whispered to her, and she licked my hand in agreement before laying it down on her paws.
I closed my eyes, thoughts still racing as his handwriting filled my mind. I shouldn’t have read his journal, and I swore to myself then and there that I wouldn’t read anymore. We were on a road trip together. If I wanted to know something about him, I should just ask.
That is, if it’s a day where he’s talking.
I wondered if he’d wake up after our nap in a better mood, with the smile I’d seen a few times the day before. I wondered if tomorrow would be another silent drive, if I would annoy him even more than I already do.
He’d called me a caged bird.
No one had ever pinpointed exactly how I’d felt my entire life until that moment, that sentence, that truth scribbled out in messy, honest, almost impossible to read letters.
I imagined Mobile as my cage, Emery’s hand on the door of his car, holding it open for me to escape. And just before I drifted off to sleep, my breaths even and steady in my chest, I found myself wondering if the nest from his dream really was me, after all.
A few hours later, Emery and I were both rested and cheerily stuffing our faces with the most delicious barbecue pulled pork sliders in the world.
Well, I was cheerily stuffing my face. Emery still wasn’t speaking, his brows furrowed over his bored eyes, but at least he was eating.
We wandered through the park together, stopping now and then to read a plaque or watch the street performers. Emery held Kalo’s leash, and every time we walked by another dog she had to stop to sniff them out. Emery didn’t seem bothered by it, though. He just watched her patiently, eating his slider, and he even shared his water with her once we’d found a place to settle in for the concert.
It was a lively Sunday night, and though it wasn’t much better than Alabama, the night air did seem to be a little cooler in Texas. I even had on one of the light sweaters I’d packed, which made me smile even bigger. Maybe I was forcing it to be sweater weather, but as long as I wasn’t sweating, I was happy.
Emery had purchased a large blanket from one of the vendors and spread it out on the lawn near the front of the stage. We both sat on the itchy fabric of it, Kalo plopped down between us, belly up. Emery lazily rubbed her fur with his eyes on the stage, though he didn’t look like he was really waiting for the show to begin, just like he was there. Existing.
“Are you okay?” I asked, but it was just as the first long note played from an electric guitar, and the crowd cheered, welcoming the local band to the stage.
Emery turned to me, the lights from the stage casting him in a purple glow. He gave me a thumbs up, then his hand rested on Kalo’s head again, and he faced the stage.
The band’s energy was infectious, the crowd swaying and clapping along as they played a mixture of popular covers and their own music. They sounded a little like they were from the 80s, reminding me of Bruce Springsteen with the melodic flow of their voices and instruments. When they took a break and the DJ came on, I took Kalo for a walk around the park and grabbed a four-pack of doughnuts from one of the food trucks Emery and I had been eyeing earlier. But when I made my way back to our blanket, he wasn’t alone.
There was a girl sitting next to him, right where I had been before, though calling her a girl felt stupid because she was more a woman than anything else. Her long, dark hair fell all the way down to her short jean cut-offs, and she tossed it back behind her shoulder with a laugh at something Emery had said. The closer I got to them, the more her beauty struck me — dark, exotic eyes, gold headband wrapped around her forehead, lips full and painted a deep, dark red. She looked like a modern day Pocahontas, and I was the girl with glasses too big for her face.
Emery looked up at me when I made it to the blanket, causing Pocahontas to follow his gaze. She didn’t glare at me or eye me up and down. She just smiled, a beautiful smile, her eyes falling to the box in my hands.
“Oh, my gosh! Those doughnuts are the best, have you had them yet?” she asked with a light, airy voice. Kalo hopped into her lap and she laughed, petting her behind the ears. “Well, hello there!”
“Kalo, down,” I scolded, tugging on her leash until she was on the other side of me.
The only empty part of the blanket was beside our new friend, so I sat down with as much grace as the awkward third wheel can. My leg made a clinking noise when it hit the heel of her boot and she eyed me curiously, but I just cleared my throat, tucking my legs to the side opposite her and opening the box of doughnuts.
“You can have one, if you want,” I said, offering her the first pick. I glanced at Emery, who was watching me with eyes a little less dull now.
“You’re so sweet! Thank you.” She picked up the small vanilla one with lemon icing, taking a bite and wiping the frosting from her stained lips. “I’m Emily.”
“Cooper.”
“Cute name!” She smiled, turning back to Emery, and then she offered him the doughnut she’d just taken a bite of.
They seemed to have some inside joke I didn’t know about, because his eyes flashed, a hint of something there as he leaned forward and took a bite. It felt more like I’d walked in on him pounding her against the wall in our hotel than just seeing him eat a pastry she held in her hand.
The band kicked up again, and Emily leaned into Emery, speaking into his ear over the sound of the music. I couldn’t hear them now, but Emery was laughing, and that same unfamiliar zing flitted low in my stomach as I reached into the box and pulled one of the cereal-covered doughnuts out.
I was acutely aware of the two of them as the band played through their second set. She was so gorgeous, and even with her back turned to me now as she cuddled into Emery’s side, I couldn’t help but trace the lean lines of her frame, her long, tan legs, her shiny black hair. She had one hand propped back behind her and it slid closer to Emery’s, her fingers just barely brushing the top of his.
Why are you staring at them, creep?
I shook my head, trying my best to ignore them. What did it matter? Why did I care she was here, sitting close to him, making him laugh? I didn’t even know him.
His journal entries flashed in my mind and I shoved those thoughts down.
He was single. He loved being single — that much he’d told me. This was probably going to be a part of the road trip, so I needed to get used to it.
But I couldn’t stop staring.
Emery leaned into her, whispering something in her ear as his fingers laced with hers on the blanket behind them. His eyes found mine and I blinked, turning back to the stage quickly and shoving another bite of doughnut in my mouth.
Suddenly, Emily stood, waving at me with flushed cheeks before walking slowly and purposefully toward the park exit, her doe eyes looking back at Emery as she tucked her hands in her back pockets.
“Emily wants to show me her album collection,” Emery said, handing me the keys to his car.
“Oh.” I took the keys from his hand, swallowing down the acid building in my throat. It was like he was speaking to me in code. I had a pretty good idea what album collection really meant.
He eyed me for a moment, like he was waiting for me to protest. When I didn’t, he pushed himself up off the blanket and followed Emily’s trail, hands in his front pockets, just as calm and confident in his walk as she was.
Except, unlike her, he didn’t look back.
“Ugh!”
I tugged my over-the-shoulder bag off, slinging it into the desk chair across the room before sliding the half-empty box of doughnuts on top of the desk. Kalo didn’t seem fazed by my temper tantrum as I hastily unclasped her leash, letting that drop to the floor with another huff.
Flopping down on the edge of my bed, I pulled off my sneakers, a juvenile curl on my lip as I replayed how sweet Emily had been to me. “I’m Emily. I’m a drop-dead gorgeous exotic free spirit with long beautiful hair who eats doughnuts and still manages to have a six-pack,” I mocked, rolling my eyes and turning to Kalo for reinforcement.
She just tilted her head.
“God, they even sound cute together,” I said with a sigh, flopping back onto the bed. “Emery and Emily. Em and Em. Ugh.”
Kalo whimpered, her paw patting my hand like she understood. I ruffled her fur, still sour-faced as I reminded myself again how stupid I was being. I just need a hot shower, I told myself, sitting up on the edge of the bed again. And a good movie.
I texted Lily and Tammy both to let them know I was alive and well before stripping out of my clothes and letting the hot water from the shower wash away my frustrations from the day. It had been a weird one, especially since every other day of my life up until that point had been practically the same.
I still didn’t know why Emery leaving with Emily bothered me as much as it did, even after I’d dressed and climbed into bed for the night. I turned on the TV despite the uncomfortable pain in my stomach, trying my best to ignore it as I flipped through the channels.
Finally settling on an old Lifetime movie, I pulled the fluffy white comforter up under my chin with a sigh, feeling marginally better now that I was clean and warm. Emery’s journal was right where I’d left it earlier, and I peeked over at it, eyeing it like it was a giant bowl of pasta and I was on a no-carb diet.
“No, Cooper. Don’t even think about it.”
I spoke the words out loud, as if that would stop me, like Kalo would hear them and prevent me from grabbing the damn book even if I wanted to.
The air conditioning kicked on and I adjusted the comforter over my shoulders again, watching as the main actress in the Lifetime movie grabbed a knife off her kitchen counter, dropping to the floor with wide, terrified eyes. The man she’d once dated was crazy now, and he’d just broken into the house.
My eyes flicked to the journal and back again.
The actress screamed. He’d found her.
Kalo’s leg twitched with her dream and I reached for her, soothing the fur on her belly, eyes skirting off the screen again and back to the bedside table.
“Whatever,” I huffed, flipping the covers back and grabbing the journal off the desk. I looked around me, like there were cameras ready to catch me in the act. But it was just me. He was with Emily, I reminded myself.
And then I cracked open the leather binding, flipping to the third entry.
Marni is disappointed in me.
That’s my therapist’s name — Marni. I told her Grams gave me this journal three weeks ago, and she was excited I was finally going to give writing a chance.
Since then, I’ve only written two entries.
And so, Marni is disappointed in me.
I told her to join the club.
Today was a bad day. She knew it when I walked into her office and didn’t crack a joke or ask about her cat. I just sat down in the same chair as always and waited for her to ask how I was, to ask how I’d been. And when she did, I just said I was fine. Everything was fine.
Marni knew it was bullshit.
She wants me to write about that day. She thinks not acknowledging it is holding me back and preventing me from moving forward. She said writing about it will be easier than talking about it, because writing is free of judgement, writing is just for me to see and to think about.
I still think all of this is fucking stupid, but I’m tired of adding people to the list of those I disappoint, so here’s my attempt to write about it.
There was a break in the page, a little star between the two paragraphs, and my throat was tight as I continued reading. It was there in my stomach before I even read the next word, the knowledge that what I was about to see would change everything.
I just took a nap. Even thinking about writing about that day exhausts me. Even now, after sleeping half the afternoon away, I’m still just so… tired.
That day feels like a dream.
It’s been almost two months now, and it feels like forever ago and like it was just this morning. It feels like it was someone else and like it was me, too. It feels like I dreamed it and like it happened and I’m no longer here, even though I am.
There was nothing particularly shitty about that day. It was just another bad day, another day where everything felt pointless. I was a month away from graduating college, with a degree I could take or leave, a degree I got because it’s what was expected of me. I had a lot of people who called me a friend, but not a single one of them knew a thing about me aside from my name and what kind of beer I drank. There was a girl in my bed that morning, and I barely remembered the night with her. Her name was stitched onto the little backpack she had with her and her tits were fake. That’s all I knew about her when she left that morning, telling me to call her, knowing that I wouldn’t.
I remember lying there, not blinking, just staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to go into the kitchen and have to make small talk with my roommate or go to my capstone class at one-thirty or meet the guys from my fraternity out at the bar that night. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to live.
That’s how easily the thought hit me.
I was just sifting through everything that sounded awful in my mind and the sheer pointlessness of it all steered me right to that simple truth: I didn’t want to live.
I didn’t think twice about it. I didn’t tick through any of the reasons why I needed to live, why I should want to. I just thought it, and then I walked into the bathroom I shared with my roommate, opened the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the bottle of hydrocodone he was prescribed after his oral surgery earlier that month. He’d only used a few of them, and there were six left in the bottle.
I took them all.
Marni wants me to write about how I felt after I swallowed the pills. She wants me to write about what was running through my mind as my breaths got shallower, as the light slowly faded away, as I closed my eyes for what I thought would be the last time.
But Marni doesn’t get it.
I didn’t feel a single damn thing. I didn’t feel sad, or angry, or scared. I didn’t feel relief, either. I didn’t wonder what people would say or do when they found me. I didn’t think about how it would break my mom’s heart. I should have thought all of those things, but I didn’t.
The last thing I remember thinking was that living was exhausting.
And then I closed my eyes.
My lips quivered as my fingers traced the ink on the page, the cursive lines that made up that last sentence, and then a tear fell from where it had trickled down my cheek and splatted on the page.
I turned to the next one.
When I woke up, for a split second, I thought maybe I was wrong about religion. Everything was white and blinding, but it was because I was in the hospital. I hadn’t taken enough. They pumped my stomach and I woke up. I lived.
So, there it is. I wrote about it. Assignment completed.
Marni said after I finish I should let it digest and write about how I feel tomorrow, after I’ve let it sit for a day.
It’ll probably be another three weeks before I write in this thing again.
The date on the next page was the day after the one I’d just read, but I couldn’t read anymore. My eyes were blurred by tears I held onto as I closed the journal and held it to my chest. I felt so dirty for reading that entry, for being selfish enough to want to keep reading even when I knew it was private, when I knew it was something never meant to be read — least of all by me.
He’d tried to kill himself.
My heart squeezed and I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall halfway down before I swiped at them, and then I tossed the journal back on the bedside table like it was on fire. Flicking off the lamp and the television, I rolled over to face the window, hugging a pillow to my chest.
I couldn’t hold onto a single thought before another one raced into my mind next, quickly replacing the first. Who had found him? Who told his parents? What happened next? Why did he do it? Was he seeing Marni before that day, or was she part of his treatment plan? Was he on medication now? Was he okay now?
Was he still alive?
Suddenly, the fact that he was with Emily didn’t bother me anymore. Annoyance turned to worry in a flash, and I checked the time on my phone, seeing it was nearly midnight. I didn’t know if he would come back to our room that night. I didn’t have his phone number. I didn’t have any way to reach him, or find him, or make sure he still had a pulse.
I could only wait to see if he showed back up.