Page 44 of Edge of Control

We closed up our tab and continued on our aimless way, deciding to take a stroll down the High Line. It was one of my favorite parts of the city, a walkway of trees and plants above a tangle of concrete sidewalks and roadways. It was also the perfect place to people-watch. I’d sit on a bench and watch the foot traffic flow by me for hours, completelyinvisible to everyone absorbed in their own little worlds.

“This is a weird thing to say, but I’m going to say it anyway: you kind of remind me of my first—and only—boyfriend.”

“Oh?” I asked.

I’d already drawn that conclusion. He didn’t know that, of course.

A few days ago, I went on a deep dive, searching through Jace’s digital footprint. It wasn’t the easiest task I’d ever completed. The guy seemed to avoid social media like the plague, but I was a persistent guy. I’d found a couple of dead profiles that hadn’t been active in years. One of them still had a few photos of Jace and this boyfriend of his.

He’d been tall, with buzzed dark brown hair, tattoos up and down his left arm, icy blue eyes, and a slightly crooked nose.

Yeah. The guy looked like a fucking replica of me. No wonder Jace had that thought.

“He looked like you, but he also kind of acted like you, too. He gave off this aura of dark and mysterious, but when you talked to him for more than five minutes, you’d realize he was a lot softer. Goofier than you’d expect.”

“You think I’m goofy, huh?”

“I think I’ve seen flashes of your humor. Of the way you joke and tease.”

“I can be goofy, yeah.”

“I like that about you.”

I gave him a side glance. “What else do you like about me?”

“That you aren’t him,” he answered quickly. “That’s a big one. That guy fucked me up. Bad.”

Anger flared in me again. Unreasonably hot, earth-shatteringly strong. “What did he do?” I immediately began to imagine the worst. The guy was abusive. He sexually assaulted Jace. He manipulated and used him.

“He was a douchebag. He left me when he found out I couldn’t cover rent and had overdrafted. It was a few months after my dad died, when I couldn’t work as a police officer anymore. I had racked up so much credit card debt, so much bullshit. He’d been talking to someone else—I had no idea about it, and he left me for him. A plastic surgeon living out in Salt Lake City.”

“Fucking asshole,” I said.

“Yeah. It was the darkest time of my life. I’ve got to admit, I hit rock bottom around then. I’ve always had a minor case of depression—clinical, not like, ‘Oh, it’s been raining all day, I’m so depressed’ kind of thing. But during that time of my life, it just kind of exploded. I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t shower, brush my teeth. I’d lay in bed for days on end. And…” He slowed his pace. My heart beat hard in my chest. “I tried to end things. I attempted suicide. It was my breaking point. I wanted the noise in my head to end. I downed a bunch of pills and chased it with vodka. Passed out. Woke up in the hospital. Apparently, my neighbors had a pipe break, and maintenance had to rush inside my place to get to it. If it weren’t for that, I may have been found days later. Or ended up brain-dead. Or—I don’t know.” He leaned against the railing, looking out at the city underneath us. I swallowed. Ice formed in my veins. My stomach twisted, clenched. I felt the urge to lean over and vomit on whatever poor souls were walking past. It came up my throat.

I forced it down, tasting the acid bile.

“I got help. Inpatient at first, then found a psychiatrist who gave me a great combination of medication with a therapist who helped me set things straight. It’s still a struggle sometimes, but I’m in a much better place.”

I wanted to reach out and hold him. Tell him he really was in a better place, but I couldn’t move. Frozen to the spot. Suicide. Too much. Hit a nerve. Couldn’t think.

Marielle.

No one found her until it was too late.

When I found her.

I found her.

What if no one had found Jace? His body would rot, bloat. His apartment would begin to reek. They’d notice the stench first. Find him on his bed, covered in vomit and piss and shit. No one deserved that. Even I made sure to have more respect for the lives I took. The ones who had taken my sister’s. Not by their own hands but by their actions. They had done it. They may as well have tied the rope around her neck themselves.

“Sorry, I rarely ever talk about this.” Jace still had his gaze turned to the horizon. He hadn’t noticed how pale and sickly my complexion had likely turned.

“It’s okay,” I managed to get out. I put my hand on his, my fingertips grazing the cold railing, my palm pressedagainst his warm hand. “You should talk about it. Takes the power away from those thoughts.”

“It is scary how everything can seem so dark that the only answer in the moment is to end it. But that’s never truly the answer. The sun always comes up. Life will get better. It could take hours, days, weeks, years. And it may circle back to being shit again, but it’s never enough to kill yourself over. Never.”

It felt like I’d swallowed a handful of razor blades. He was right. He was wrong. He was right. Marielle. She’d done it. My poor sister. My poor Jace.

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