Page 9 of I'll Be Waiting

The letter is from the guy who hit us. After I blocked his email, he resorted to old-fashioned letter writing, which I suppose is also better than laying on my buzzer at two in the morning.

I’ve read a couple of the letters. He alternates between begging forgiveness and blaming me for ruining his life. After all, he hadn’t been driving drunk or high. He’d just been going too fast, typical twenty-four-year-old guy confident in his skills, not about to be slowed down by a little snow.

Now his life is ruined because of a momentary lapse of judgment. And was it really his fault? Couldn’t my husband have veered out of the way? What about the airbags? That’s the real villain here—the airbags that didn’t go off. I’m suing the company, right? Suing for millions, that’s what he’s heard. So what right do I have to complain? I’ll be rich.

Anton didn’t have time to veer. That was never questioned. Yes, I am suing the automaker, at Keith’s urging, and it’s not for millions, and that money will go to charity because I have enough and what we really wanted was the recall, which has been issued. But the kid who hit us isn’t the only one who snarks about that.

Did you hear the widow is suing the car company, too—first that story about ghosts and now this. She’s such an attention whore. Probably doesn’t even have CF.

It doesn’t stop. None of it stops.

Prove that your husband is dead.

Forgive the guy who killed him.

Don’t you want to contact your husband’s ghost? He’s right there, waiting for you, like he said.

I turn sharply and brush past Libby and Jin. “Let me comb my hair and we’ll go.”

Jin drives to our favorite pub on Queen West. It’s a little dive bar, the interior so dark you’d never know it’s only late afternoon. Also dark enough that you can barely see the decor, which is a blessing. At this time of day, it’s practically empty. We order at the bar, get our drinks, and take our usual table in the back.

“So…” Jin says. “Another séance.”

I sink into the booth, cracked vinyl squeaking under me. “I screwed up.”

“That depends,” Libby says, folding her hands on the scarred table. “Do you really want to quit? Then yes, you screwed up. But is it possible you don’t want to quit, and you’re only saying that to get Keith off your back?”

I sigh. “I wouldn’t do that to you guys. If I say I want help quitting, I really do. I don’t know why I keep sabotaging myself. It’s humiliating. I know they’re all con artists. I just can’t help…”

“Hoping,” Libby murmurs.

I slump into my seat. “God, I’m pathetic.”

“No.You’re grieving, and they’re taking advantage of that. I know you want to be stronger, Nic, but no one blames you. What happened was…” She sucks in breath. “The worst. Horrible and unfair. To both of you. You guys got married knowing you might not have much time left. Then you got on that new medicine, and suddenly, that timeline is shifting, giving you more of a future. But it’s always beenyourtimeline. That’s the shittiest part of it. You and Anton were onyourtimeline. That’s what counted.”

How much more time I had left.

How much more time I had to be healthy.

How much more time I had to be alive.

I knock back my shot, and then make a face. “That’d be way more impressive if it wasn’t a shooter.”

“We know you’re hard-core, Nic,” Jin says. “Even if you drink like you’re still in college.”

“What’s that one called again?” Libby says.

Jin grins. “Redheaded Slut. It’s her favorite.”

“Damn straight.” I slam back a second test tube of Jägermeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice. Then I hold out the shot glass. “Hit me again, bartender.”

Jin sets it aside and shakes his head. Then he leans forward. “Look, I know what Keith thinks about this spiritualist stuff. It freaks him out.”

For good reason. But Jin doesn’t know that part. Neither does Libby. It’s my secret. My family’s secret.

Jin continues, “Keith is the one making you feel ashamed of what you’re doing. I love the guy, but he can be judgy, and he’s judging all over the place here, even if we know he’s only worried about you.”

“He’s being overprotective,” Libby says. “But yes, it feels like judgment, and it’s driving you to hide what you’re doing. Driving you to get help from Shania, who’s a sweet kid but…”

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