One Year Later
A YEAR AGO, WE BURIED Lennox in a plot across from my mother’s. It seemed right. Eden agreed, staying around a few more days to help with the arrangements and the burial. Lennox’s parents didn’t offer much input, even though they were devastated by their loss, but they conceded that they’d lost him long before he died. Their son was now at peace and so were they.
The day Lennox died, a part of me did, too. It took many months to realize that the part of me that perished was what held me back from really, truly living. My heart would always ache for Lennox, but he was right in his letter—he set me free when he took his life. It was hard to see any kind of silver lining at first, but standing here now, at the private memorial we’d planned for him, I knew that was a purpose to his plan.
I’m sure you’re curious to know what happened with Denver. A drug dealer with his reputation doesn’t just walk away from a debt that large. When he discovered that Lennox had paid a good sum of that debt with his life, the scumbag actually showed some compassion and accepted the twenty percent I was able to offer. One grand. I didn’t have anything remotely close to that and although Eden was willing to lend it to me with the stipulation I pay her back, I wouldn’t drag her into it. However, I’d be damned if William was walking away from this mess with clean hands. His hands were anything but, and a story like this warrants revenge on the bad guy.
William was a violent, belligerent drunk . . . we knew that. He was also a cheap mother fucker who never spared a dime unless it was for liquor. What we didn’t realize was when he wasn’t beating on me or drinking his sorrows away at the bar, he actually made a decent living as a fisherman. It was by no means an extraordinary career, but it was profitable. In fact, the asshole had enough money saved up that he wouldn’t miss what I took to pay off Denver and compensate me for years of suffering at his hands. My sister and I didn’t need revenge. Knowing our father would rot in misery and loneliness for the rest of his days was all the retribution we needed. And the icing on top was that—thanks to some finagling and scheming—when he finally did kick the bucket, whatever was left of his savings would belong to us.
The day after Lennox died, Eden and I were searching through his belongings for an outfit to bury him in when we decided to explore William’s room. Old passbooks and statements were hidden amongst bills and junk. It wasn’t too hard to crack his password, being as his only two loves were my mother and his whiskey. Lily Hayward’s birthdate and some schmoozing down at the bank—Our father is ill, ma’am. Spends most of his days with the bottle. This money is to clean him up and get him some help—set us free of Denver’s clutches once and for all. I bid that douche farewell without the faintest of regrets; wished him goodwill while cursing him under my breath, and vowed to erase his name from my contact list and my memory.
After the funeral, Eden told me she needed time. I was disappointed at first. I really hoped she would ask me to come back with her, finally get me away from here and allow us a chance to move forward, together, as Lennox had wanted. But I respected her wishes and made her a promise: Once I was sixty days sober, I’d make a trip to New York—by my own means, including transportation and funding—and if I could prove I was a changed person, with ambitions and a plan, she would consider helping me find a place of my own nearby.
It wasn’t hard to stay sober for sixty days. I’d kicked the habit in the weeks prior to calling Eden for help, but I couldn’t say the urge to shoot up or sniff my brains out didn’t come calling on those nights I cried myself to sleep because I missed Lennox so desperately. I checked myself into the same rehab Lennox had been set to enter and imagined what it would have been like to recover together. I’d never had the sober side of Lennox—that belonged to Eden—but I wished for a long time that I had. Knowing it was impossible for that wish to come true was something I thought I’d never get over.
But I did. I persisted with the optimism that I could turn simply surviving into living. Which I was currently doing in New York, in a tiny studio only a few train stops from my sister.
The city was overwhelming at first. The whole transition was, but after some searching, I found my place, my purpose, and I was more than happy to look at my old life through a rearview mirror. I spent my days at the clinic as an interventionist. The idea to help others came to me during my own recovery at Turning Point. I wasn’t good at many things, and going back to waiting tables or tending bar left me wide open for repeating old habits. I had firsthand experience in these types of situations and wanted nothing more than to apply that knowledge where it was needed most.
When I told Eden what I wanted to do she was supportive; enthusiastic, even. Her friend Joy knew someone who knew someone and helped Eden secure a temporary position for me at a place in downtown Manhattan. After a month, I was hired permanently when one of the therapists became impressed with how I’d handled one of the more emotional addicts. It wasn’t easy, by any means. My days were grueling. I worked on cases a lot worse than mine and almost as bad as Lennox’s. But I told so many variations of our story, it had become a part of a repertoire I’d established to convince the most helpless of people to find sobriety. There was a point to all the pain, after all.
I liked my new life. I loved that my sister was a part of it. We weren’t exactly joined at the hip, and we definitely didn’t run in the same circles, but we were working on that, and much like I told my clients, tomorrow’s another day.
Today, while I could have taken ten steps back and erased all my progress just by coming back to this place, I held Eden’s hand as we said a silent prayer in memory of Lennox. “You think I can have a few minutes?” I asked when we were done.
“Of course. I’ll just go visit Mom for a little bit.” Eden’s lips formed a tight straight line. Even that was so much better than scowl I used to be greeted with. I smiled back at her and when she was out of earshot, I knelt down to chat with Lennox.
Placing the purple roses on the ground, I let the tears fall. I gulped back the sadness and tried to replace it with pride. Dusting away some dirt that had settled on his tombstone, I focused on the engraving I’d chosen to represent what he meant to me. Best Friend. I guess I didn’t know it back when the three of us were sharing our first apartment or when we were living it up in Philly, but other than Eden, Lennox was the only person who cared for me. He treated me like a little sister, sharing his laughter, his love, and even his wealth when no one else offered it to me. Even after we crossed the line and got into trouble with both drugs and betrayal, he was still the best friend I ever had. In a weird way, in his own way, he loved me by always being there. Sure, we had an unhealthy dependency on each other, but he was all I had to call my own. He branded me his best friend in his final goodbye, and that was how I’d forever see him. I couldn’t label him the love of my life because I still had a whole life ahead of me. Who knew what or whom it would bring? And while I might one day fill the hole in my heart that was once occupied by Lennox, I would never find another friend as all-consuming as him.
“Goodbye, Lennox.” I leaned forward and kissed the black marble, leaving a lip shaped mark next to where his name was etched into the tombstone. I was certain it would be a long time before I was back again, if ever. There was nothing left here for me. No looking back. The past was in the past, where it belonged.
One Year Later
VIOLET WAS BORN INTO A series of unfortunate events. Our mother died giving birth to her, our father resented her and made sure she knew it every chance he got, and her insecurities and self-loathing whittled away at the precious little girl I raised as my own when I was just a young girl myself. Of course, Lennox was the light of my life—up until now, once upon a time—but there was no love more rewarding, more soul satisfying than the unconditional love I felt for Violet while we were growing up. She needed me and I thrived off that, never imagining anything or anyone could ever come between us. But something and someone did. Neither of us could ever forget that; it couldn’t be erased. It was who we were. It was our story. And we could not ignore how intricate Lennox’s part in that story was.
I did as he asked and chose to remember him at his best. Handsome, healthy, full of life and love. As I had since our break-up, I stayed away from football—especially the Eagles—because it was a painful trigger that reminded me of what could have been. But that didn’t deter me from thinking of him wistfully. I recollected an old inside joke and smiled at the thought of his infectious laughter. His scent washed past me at the most unexpected times, sparking a memory of the two of us buried in the warm cocoon of his sheets. And whenever I caught sight of a man with his features, my stomach flip-flopped with butterflies, remembering how all he had to do was walk into a room to get my heart rate pumping wildly.
I missed him. A lot. I always would. When things were good they were perfection, and I wondered if I’d find that kind of love again in this lifetime. For now, though, I was content. I needed to focus on my heart before I could worry about someone else’s. I also needed to figure out how to hold on to it if love ever came my way again.
When I lost Lennox that first time, I was mistaken to think I lost him to Violet. That was never the case. I recognized that now. Years and years of therapy brought that to light, but I ultimately came to the understanding on my own. I lost Lennox because of his accident, because of what happened that fateful day on the field. I could blame football, the opponent, the doctor who prescribed his pain pills, and sure, Violet was partly responsible, but it wasn’t her who took him away from me. It was a culmination of things too powerful to defeat that stole the Lennox I knew and turned him into the Lennox we buried a year ago.
So, I guess you could say I came to terms with everything and forgave my sister. If you chose to see it that way, that’s fine, but I chose to believe that our bond was what kept us fighting when all we wanted to do was give up. It was what unknowingly convinced me to return home a year ago, and it was what surprisingly gave me the strength to open my heart back up to her two months later. Make no mistake, I’ll forever be wary, but Violet’s strong. She’s even stronger with me behind her.
With the past behind me, I snuck a peek at her over my shoulder after saying goodbye to my mother. A once brittle, breakable doll was now glowing with a fresh start, a hopeful future. She loved what she did at the clinic, and she was good at it. I was proud of how far she’d come, how far we both had. I smiled when I looked her now. It felt good despite all the bad we’d endured together.
“You ready?” I asked, after she kissed Lennox’s tombstone.
She spun to face me as I approached. “You’re not going to talk to him?”
I shook my head and brushed the hair from my eyes. There was nothing left to say now. I said my piece during his eulogy and spoke to him in my own head often enough over this last year. The time for tearful goodbyes was over. The everlasting memories of the good we shared together were what I chose to remember him by.
Violet nodded with a smile, respecting my decision. She patted the top of the stone as I joined her.
Just before we set off, I released her hand and clutched the spot just below my heart where Lennox’s name would brand my body forever. Leaning down, my lips met the cold, black marble. “Goodbye,” I told him for the last time.
I rose again, standing close to Violet. Extending an open palm to her, I nodded and reassured my sister, “We got this. Together, right?”
Violet accepted my offering and laced her fingers with mine. We walked away from the grave hand in hand, ready for whatever came next. It would forever give me peace when I pictured the stain of both of our lips decorating Lennox’s tombstone, on either side of his name. He belonged to both of us; he was loved by both of us; he would be remembered by both of us as the man who tore us apart but then brought us back together.