Page 89 of Indigo

As I pull into the parking lot, flashbacks from that morning fill my mind, and I hesitate with my hand on the door handle for a full minute before stepping out.

I grab the two coffees I picked up on my way here and walk toward her bench. The bench I made her.

It wasn’t a part of the plan, but visiting Lana’s spot without coffee seemed like something that’d just piss her off.

I swear to God, I can fucking feel her next to me as I walk. I can almost hear her voice, but I have no idea what she’s saying. I’m going crazy. I know that. But damn, it’s comforting after the past two weeks without her here.

I run my hand along the wooden planks I nailed together to create the backrest as I reach the seat and take a deep breath. “Hey Lana,” I say, placing one cup next to me on the bench before taking a sip of my own. “This feels dumb. I'm not sure that I believe in the afterlife or Heaven, or Hell, but if there's anyone in this world that could dig her heels in and stick around for a while, it'd be you.” I choke out a laugh, tears already building in my eyes as I stare out at the beach. At the water that took her from us.

“I’m worried about Indie,” I whisper. “I don't know if I ever truly showed you, or her, how much I fucking love her, but I do. Watching her the way she is now makes me wish I could take your place, you know? I don't know if the hole you left behind can be filled or mended. I know you're probably hurting, watching her suffer the way she is from wherever you are, but I’m asking, pleading with you to give me some kind of sign. A message. Something. Tell me what to do, Lana. Tell me how to help, cos I just…” I inhale deeply and swipe at the tears now coating my cheeks, running into my facial hair. “I miss you. I wish I could have said–fuck, I wish I could have said so many things to you. I would have, if it knew it'd be the last time.” I let a sob break free and hang my head, finally letting myself grieve the woman who helped me when no one else would.

When no one else wanted to.

-30-

PAXTON

WEEKS PASS, AND NOTHINGCHANGES. If anything, Indie retreats further into herself.

She doesn’t speak unless asked a direct question, and even then she’ll only nod or shake her head. Occasionally she’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but that’s as far as our conversations get.

I open the door to Lana’s place, after spending my first full day at work today after nearly a month off, and close it quietly behind me, not that it makes much difference considering I could hear “How Do I Say Goodbye” by Dean Lewis blasting from outside when I pulled up.

“Indie?” I yell over the music.

She doesn't respond, so I walk further into the house, tossing my keys on the dining room table as I make my way to the kitchen, where it sounds like the music’s coming from.

Hope swells in my chest.

She left the room. She’s playing music. Maybe…

I call her name again. She doesn't respond, and as I round the corner, the sight of her sitting on the kitchen floor when I enter the room fucking guts me.

She sits, backed into a corner, resting against the cupboard doors with a glass in one hand and the blender in the other, halfway filled with what looks like margaritas, wearing my blue and white tie-dyed t-shirt, the one Lana made me, and a pair of knee-high socks. That’s it.

There’s glass everywhere, along with pieces of what I assume are plates, and I look around frantically, making sure there’s no sign of blood.

“It’s Monday,” Indie announces loudly, smiling up at me from her position on the floor.

Suddenly, her bottom lip trembles and her face falls. A tear slips down her cheek as she raises the glass to her lips and finishes off the contents.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, walking over to her, and leaning across the counter to shut off the speaker sitting above her.

I crouch down as the room goes silent, so that we’re face to face. The sad smile she flashes me hits me straight in the chest.

Her eyes aren't focusing on me properly, meaning she's probably had more than enough to drink.

“Should we get off the floor, hmm?”

“I’d offer you a glass,” she says with a watery smile. “But this is the last one.”

She waves the empty cup at me and shrugs before refilling it.

I reach for it, knowing she's had enough, but she glares at me, and rips it from my hand, causing a little to spill over the rim and onto her shirt.

“Why would you do that?” she yells, her glassy eyes searching mine.

Jesus.

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