Page 38 of Loud Unspoken Memories

“It’s going to be okay, son,” Dad says. “We’re going to get you through this.”

It’s not going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay. I’m twenty-six years old and I might as well have died with them, because nothing is ever going to be okay again. Not for a goddamn day in whatever remains of my miserable life.

“I have to see for myself.”

“Dallas, no,” Mom says. “You don’t want to do that.”

I break away from them. “I have to,” I demand. “Don’t you understand none of this seems real? I have to see them.”

“I’ll take you,” Dad says.

“Chris,” Mom sobs. “What good could possibly come of it?”

“I get it, Sarah. If it were you, I’d have to see for myself.” Dad takes my elbow as if he thinks I might fall over. “Come on, son. If you need to do this, I’ll be right there with you.”

I nod and blindly follow, my body numb.

The only thought I have during the ride is that I’m alone in this world. I have my parents. My siblings. But I might as well be a man on an island, because I’ll never again have the woman who made me whole. And DJ—my stomach rolls—he never had a chance to become the little boy I dreamed of. The man I hoped he’d one day be.

Not even sure how we got here, we enter the hospital. Each person we pass has the same look on their face. They all know me. It’s a small town. Word has probably spread quickly. I stop looking at people as I’m escorted down a flight of stairs. I stare at the plaque on the wall.

MORGUE.

What a horrible fucking word.

“Right this way, Mr. Montana,” someone says. I have no idea who. I stopped caring about anything anyone said as soon as my entire life went up in flames.

“Are you sure, son?” Dad says, still by my side.

“Can you… not call me that?”

He nods, probably thinking it’s because of DJ. It’s not. It went from being a token of achievement, to the endearment used to announce I’d lost everything.

I’m escorted into a room with two clinical steel tables. My throat almost swells shut at the small shape underneath one of the stark white sheets. Oh, Jesus, this can’t be happening.

My chin quivers uncontrollably as I approach the small bundle. I pray so hard that this is all a bad dream and when I peel back the cover, it won’t be him. I reach for the sheet but pull away. I can’t do it. I can’t stand here and look at my dead son. He’s only been here for six short months. I watched him comeinto the world. I held him before anyone else did. I looked into his eyes and instantly knew he was my purpose.

I can’t see him like this. I just fucking can’t.

But I have to seeher. The girl who moved to town when we were kids. The girl who, from the moment we met, I knew was going to be mine. The girl who shot me down when I started asking her out when we were thirteen, and who finally said yes four years later. The girl who made me a husband, a father, and the happiest motherfucker who ever lived.

Balls of tears stream down my cheeks when I pull back the sheet covering Phoebe’s face. I let out a gut-wrenching shriek that turns into messy, slobbery sobs as I slump over her ashen body and cling to her. If only I could crawl inside so that even in death, we can be together.

I’m not sure how long I stay like this. Time has ceased to exist. Everything ceased to exist the secondtheydid. Life no longer matters. I no longer matter. Because who am I if I’m not her husband. His father.

“Dallas.” Dad clears his throat. “It’s time to go.”

I can barely lift myself off her. Miraculously, I do. And I say one last goodbye to the first and last girl I’ll ever love. Leaning down, I place one final kiss on her forehead. Another on her blue lips. I straighten and go to pull the sheet up when she opens her eyes and looks directly at me. “How come you savedher?”she asks. “What about us?”

I scream.

Something wakes me. It’s Bex. He’s licking my neck. Probably because I’m lying here in a pool of sweat.

“You okay?” Marti asks.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep.”

She turns away, understandably upset by my earlier declaration.

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