Page 84 of Bold

Brazen

Things got better since I drunkenly passed out, covered in glass in my tub.

Then, they got worse.

And then I guess things improved.

Can things really be better in a situation like this?

I haven’t found the bottom of a bottle again and haven’t drunk myself to an oblivious mess.

I guess that’s better.

I don’t remember each and every word, but I’m still beating myself up for the way I treated Noah when she found me. I lashed out at the person who was here for me the most. I’d think losing someone would teach me to cherish the people in my life, but sometimes, selfishness and grief overpower what should be the lesson.

I’ve apologized over and over again.

Noah won’t hear it, and I hate that she’s giving me a pass. Maybe I just want her to get angry, so I can focus on that instead, but she’s been nothing but patient and caring.

Especially today.

Noah’s black dress holds my attention. The long material hits just above the floor, and my thoughts aren’t dirty when I look at her, so very far from it. I’ve seen her in dozens of dresses, but this one is the only one I can say I hate unequivocally. I might even throw it away when this whole mess of a day is over.

It’s been a week and a half since Sunday went missing, and today, we’re gathering to say good-bye. The church Sunday grew up in is littered with white flowers, and the pews are filled with people she knew. I can’t face any of them. I don’t want to spew idle words or make others feel better about my pain. I want to stew in the anger. I want Sunday to walk through those church doors, wearing anything but black, and tell us all there was a mistake. I want to ditch this service and go out and find Matt.

The police still haven’t found him.

Killing someone has never been something I’ve contemplated. It’s never been something I thought I’d crave, but if I could get my hands on that piece of shit, there wouldn’t be any hesitation or remorse. I’d make him suffer and smile while I did it.

Sunday is the last person who deserves this. She’s a good person who did nothing wrong, except marry the wrong man. She is the best friend I could have ever asked for. She’s the person who has always been there for me. She’s the person who would be there for anybody. She is . . .

Was. She was all of those things. Her life was ended selfishly.

A supercilious connotation has always crossed my mind when I’ve heard people say, “Why them?”

I know loved ones in mourning don’t wish harm on anyone else, but I can’t help the negative thoughts that filter through my mind when people rationalize the choices of the universe happening to their loved one. As if the tragedy would make more sense if it had happened to someone else.

I’d never lost someone before though.

But, now, I can’t get the thought out of my mind.

Why Sunday? Why someone so undeserving? Why my best friend?

“Are you ready?” Noah asks, approaching the back of the church where I’ve been hiding, watching all the people filter in.

There is a spot reserved for my mom, Noah, and me in the first pew. Pretty much the last place I want to be today—front and center. What’s worse is, I have no idea if Sunday’s parents are coming because they didn’t answer my calls when I contacted them. The story has been splashed across the news, so they must know. They lost the respect I had for them a long time ago. If they show, they show. If they don’t? Well, fuck them. They should have been showing up for Sunday all these years, and they never did. Why should that change now? It’s too late. It’s too late for them, and it’s too late for Sunday.

I take Noah’s hand and enter the church, walking down the aisle, toward the pulpit. An enlarged picture of Sunday faces me, and my throat closes up. I look to my right and see eyes on me, and then I swing my head to the left and get the same. My suit feels too tight, and there must be sweat lining my undershirt. I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my own skin. The only effort I can manage is the nod I give Benson as he holds Madison, who weeps into his shoulder in the pew behind ours.

Noah’s fingers dance across my wrist, and she provides me a small bit of distraction until we reach our seats. In the pew, I sit between my mother and my girlfriend. I can’t take my eyes off Sunday’s photo. The priest drones on, and periodically, members of the congregation cry out. I get lost in my head, wishing I were anywhere but here. My mother gives the eulogy, and I’m sure she has beautiful words to say about Sunday, but I don’t hear a word of them. Nothing beautiful can be said about this.

It’s ugly.

So fucking ugly.

When it’s over, I leave the church quickly, and Noah follows me out. In the back of my mind, it registers how often I’ve left my mom alone today, and that makes me a horrible son. I can’t do everything right for everyone and myself. Hell, look at how bad I failed Sunday. Look at how bad I’ve been failing ever since.

Once I’m outside, I heave in air as quickly as my lungs will allow. Mentally, I’ve thrown my clothes into the fire pit with Noah’s dress. I never want to smell that old-church smell again. I want to shower and rid myself of the scent.

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