Page 1 of Every Beautiful Mile

Prologue

The day I don’t know the difference between sadness and anger is the day I drink half a bottle of whiskey for breakfast.

Standing behind the wooden podium of the church, swaying side to side, I catch the looks on my teenage kids’ faces—their eyes, bloodshot from crying, are also wide with horror as they watch me.

I’m numb enough not to care.

Leaning heavily toward the too-tiny microphone, my mouth collides with it. I feel the thick, sticky slur of my voice before I hear it.

“Hellooo.” The word comes out like molasses—oozing across the crowd. Hanging.

I tug at the neck of my dress, squinting at the fuzzy words scribbled on the paper in front of me. Nice words. Loving words. The thought of reading them in front of all these people makes bile rise in my throat as the dress I’m wearing actively tries to strangle me.

I’m trapped like a dolphin in a net that gets tighter whenever it moves.

In this dress.

In this nightmare.

I clear my throat to make room for my smeared words.

“You are all here because of the best person we have ever known, Travis—” I stop, glaring around the room at all the familiar faces.

I can’t do this.

I won’t.

Not because of breakfast whiskey—because of them.

I hate them.

I shove the paper off the podium. It floats through the stuffy air until it lands on the faded maroon carpeting, earning a wave of gasps and whispers from the jam-packed pews.

They’re shocked.

Good.

I tug at my sleeves, desperate for air, but the dress only gets tighter.

I bring both hands to my neckline and pull.

Again.

And again.

It rips—finally!

The small amount of relief I get is enough to keep me going. Every inch of torn fabric feels like a prize.

The ripping sound cuts through the air and bounces off the stained-glass windows until I have torn a hole all the way from my neck to the seam under my armpit.

Black pieces of cloth sag off my shoulder just enough for my skin to feel the relief of the air.

I smile proudly as the taste of burped whiskey fills my mouth.

“Sorry about that.” I squint to refocus the faces that gawk at me and my half-bare chest.

“You know what?” I ask, tone sharp as my smile drops. “I’m not sorry—I wouldn’t be wearing this damn dress if it wasn’t for all of you!”

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