Chapter Seven

Pain throbs in my head to a relentless drumbeat as I toss and turn in our bed. Our bed. The word twists in my gut as there's a gaping hole in my memory. It's a terrifying blank space that I can't bring myself to face. Less than twelve hours ago, Brogan and I were laughing, wrapped in each other's warmth. Now, I'm drowning in grief and my world feels like a cold, hollow shell. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up. To feel the tickle of Brogan's chest hair against my back, or to hear his soft snores. But it's no use. This nightmare is fucking real.

My eyes flicker open to the dim glow of my alarm clock. 3:47 AM. Fuck. The numbers blur, each digit a sharp dagger to my chest. Tears protrude from the apertures of my soul because sleep is a distant mirage. Or plainly put, one giant cruel joke. And try as I might, I couldn't focus on reading—any hint of happiness in the words on my Kindle would only drive the dagger even deeper into my heart.

As for my future, it's a dark abyss, a million miles away from any fairy tale ending. Since sleep is a lost cause, I sit on the edge of the bed, hunched over with my throbbing head pressed into both hands. Maybe I can find some way to distract myself downstairs until daybreak. Maybe Lily Bean will have gotten some rest by then, proving a small sliver of hope in this endless night.

Stumbling down the stairwell, I dig my fingers into my temple. The Tylenol is in the kitchen cabinet, always on the far left. As I reach the bottom step and round the corner into the foyer, I'm greeted by the crunch of broken glass underneath the soles of my feet.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I grumble, hobbling to the nearest wall.

The shattered water bottle. I've forgotten all about the relic from a few hours ago, after the night of fuckery, which has enraptured my tarnished soul. Maybe even a lifetime ago since the hospital and Rite Aid took for fucking ever. Then we took the elevator back upstairs, where I carried our sleeping princess back to her bed as the weight of the world continued crashing down on me.

In the kitchen, I yank a tiny shard of glass from my foot, hopping on the other foot to avoid spreading blood. And thank fuck, the first aid kit is in here too, for that matter. I swing the cupboard open, snatching the Tylenol bottle with one hand and the kit with the other. But as I slide the kit off the shelf, a bottle of Alka-Seltzer chews tumbles to the tile floor.

"God damn it, I'm hopeless without him," I mutter, fishing out gauze, a Band-Aid, and tiny scissors.

No, that's not true. Brogan taught me how to handle this. It's just—my head is a complete mess. I slap the bandage on my cut, then wrap my foot in gauze, trying to provide a nice cushion from the throbbing pain. My head matches the cadence beating in my foot, almost like the perfect miserable symphony of torture. The Tylenol is more than needed now, it's as essential as sleep is to a sloth. Lucky fuckers. I only wished I were a sloth at this moment.

Hobbling to the fridge, I retrieve a bottle of Lily's apple juice, swallowing it down with a handful of Tylenol. Fuck the dosage —I hurt everywhere. As I settle into a seat behind the kitchen island, I wonder if Mel's still awake. We're twins, so I'm sure she's having just as hard of a time sleeping as I am. Where'd I leave my fucking phone now? Oh, right, it's in my jeans.

Now I'm faced with the choice of going back upstairs and possibly disturbing Lily Bean's sleep. Or do I just forget it because Melanie may be sleeping after all? The decisions swim around my mind while I contend with a bigger mess to clean up down here. The broken glass, that is. Grabbing a broom and dustpan from the closet, I hobble back into the foyer. It's a moment like this that makes me seriously consider buying water brands that don't come in glass bottles. If tonight is any sign of how life is going to go, perhaps it's the safest option. This is getting ridiculous!

I remove the glass fragments and wipe away the blood with a damp paper towel, exhaling as I go. Brogan's iPad screen shimmers under the glow of kitchen light, peering in from the hallway, giving me another option to call Melanie via FaceTime. After discarding the glass and paper towel, I sink into the couch with the iPad in my lap. It's not locked, never was. Punching in Mel's number, I glance at the time to realize she may just be waking up for her workday if she hasn't already called in sick. Knowing her, she would definitely drop everything and book the next flight from Indianapolis to Denver, given the circumstances, of course. Her face pops up on the screen.

"So you are still up," I say, flashing her a sign of my grief.

Is this how it's going to be whenever I talk to somebody face-to-face? Unable to show a smile, no matter how disingenuous?

Melanie appears to let out a half smile, knowing full well that this isn't a merry occasion. In cases like this, she's always the strongest twin on an emotional level.

"Yeah, of course I am," she replies, shaking her head. "When you're hurt, so am I," she adds.

I nod because I figured that would be the case. "Well, I didn't figure with it being almost seven in the morning there, that you'd answer if you were trying to catch a couple winks," I respond, ashamed for even thinking that she'd have her priorities skewed.

Melanie breathes in deep. "I know this is a stupid question and all, but how are you holding up?" She asks, clearing her throat. "You never answered me when I asked about the drinking thing."

A grimace falls down on my forlorn visage. "I'm a fucking wreck, Mel," I admit, gesturing with my hand. "Brogan—Bro—" my words falter under the veil of sorrow. "He was my everything ," I conclude, tears streaming down my face.

Our conversation spans from topics such as how I told Lily that Brogan wouldn't be coming home, and that he went to a special place, into much more inconsequential banter just in the name of keeping things light. Keeping things light. Ha! Whatever the fuck that means.

I know I can count on her for anything, at any hour, on any day of the week. Snow or shine. And with that thought, so does the notion that I could buy her a plane ticket to come stay with me and Lily for a little while. As a personal assistant for a high-profile public relations firm, she can do virtually anything from anywhere so long as she has a steady internet connection. There's nothing my sister cannot handle, and that's putting it mildly. Fuck. If I asked her to make the arrangements for me, she'd have it all organized in a matter of a day—two tops.

"Mel," I blurt. "I'm buying a plane ticket for you to come here, because I need you bad," I croak. "And there's a fashion shoot for American VOGUE in New York that I absolutely cannot back out of."

The look on Mel's face is as stoic as Brogan's. "Oh Max, color me already there," she affirms. "But you don't need to buy my ticket."

Melanie knows about my combined wealth with Brogan. And the fact she has a good job is of no consequence. I'd much rather her spend any of her funds on spoiling Lily Bean. The ticket is my obligation.

My head wavers insistently. "Nope, I'll buy it this morning and send it to you electronically."

The sound of bare feet on the stairs makes me pause. It has to be Lily. Either she's having trouble sleeping too, or she's woken up way too early. Either way, she needs more rest.

"Sis, we gotta switch to text," I whisper into the iPad. "Munchkin's awake, and she should still sleep after last night."

Mel nods with a whisper. "Yeah, I'm getting tired anyway now," she says. "Maybe you both need to go back to bed."

I end the call just as Lily wanders into the living room, clutching her teddy bear and her blanket trailing behind her. Her eyes are heavy with sleep as she climbs onto the couch beside me.

"Sweetie, what's the matter?" I question, outstretching my arms to help her up.

She rubs her fatigued eyes. "I can't sleep good, Maxie," she affirms, stifling a yawn.

"Me either, munchkin," I admit, tucking her underneath the plush violet blankie at my chest. "Me either."

Patting her head gently, I encourage her to close her eyes while I do the same. Perhaps we're going to have to handle things one step at a time, one day at a time, one breath at a time. And it all begins with as much sleep as we can catch.

The plan to grab my phone goes out the window. It doesn't matter right now. Lily's comfort and safety are all that count. Since I have the iPad here, that will do for now.

"I love you, Maxie," Lily murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut as she clutches my arm. "I don't want you to go to that special place, too."

Another blow to my chest. "Oh honey bunny, I'm not going anywhere," I reassure her. "You're stuck with me for a very long time."

Her sleepy voice is barely a whisper. "Prommmisse?"

"I promise, munchkin," I vow, rhythmically patting her back. "A thousand times over."

As she drifts back to sleep, I turn to the iPad and start searching for flights for Mel. I access the Delta site and appreciate that my payment information is already saved because my wallet is upstairs too. After a minute of scrolling, I pick the shortest flight arriving Thursday evening. It's a first-class ticket with one stop in Minneapolis, $806 total. There don't seem to be any direct flights, but that's not a big deal. So long as she can settle in that night, I can rush to DIA the next morning.

I confirm the ticket, ensuring to type Melanie's email and personal details, so she gets confirmation as well. It takes a few minutes, then I carefully shift Lily to the side so I can rise from the couch without waking her. She doesn't even stir as the leather rubs up against the bottom of my thigh on the way up. Honestly, this is probably more comfortable than her bed right now. As I approach my reflection in the foyer mirror, I run my fingers through my greasy hair. Dark circles and beet-red eyes greet me as I glance at the ghost staring back at me.

A shower is imminent, but the thought of stepping into our walk-in shower—I just can't. Not without him. Sleeping in our bed alone? Impossible. Maybe that's why Lily couldn't sleep either. Any way I spin it, I know rest is crucial. And perhaps we need to escape this house, if only for a little while. Now that a plan forms in the dark recesses of my imagination, I waste no time sprinting up the stairwell.

Upstairs, I throw on my jeans from last night, gasping for air as I yank my suitcase off the top shelf of the closet. A hotel away from our Cherry Creek neighborhood sounds like the best option. I toss in a few clothes, grab my toothbrush and toiletries, and splash a good amount of cold water on my face. That'll stave any exhaustion for a little while. Then I collect my chargers and iPad, remembering to check if Melanie texted me back.

My phone's dead. Figures. It'll just have to charge in the car later. Carrying my suitcase, it trails behind me in the hallway, where I see a framed portrait of Brogan and Lily. Another pang of grief hits me, but I must push it aside. Lily is most important right now, and I still have to pack her a bag. When I head into her room, I'm graced with the uncomfortable sensation of doll toys crunching underneath my foot. Just because it's padded with gauze doesn't mean it hurts any fucking less.

Lily's room becomes a disaster zone with toys and clothes scattered everywhere, and it seems like it was pristine just last night. She likely had sleep problems and took her frustration out on a few toys. With a precious child on the autism spectrum, who really knows? Quickly, I gather a few outfits, her favorite stuffed unicorn, and her princess toiletry bag. As I turn to her bathroom, I spot the snow globe on her dresser. The one with our smiling faces from that trip back home to Westfield. With the nostalgia comes another solitary tear, and the notion of bringing it along on our trip to the hotel.

Back at the stairs, I descend each step with both suitcases in my hands. The weight is comforting, grounding me in the present. Quietly, I approach the base of the staircase, hoping Lily Bean is still asleep on the couch. Our luggage rests in the foyer while I totter into the kitchen to plug my phone in for a brief minute. Its screen is completely blank, serving as a stark reminder of the silence that has fallen over our house.

Glancing at the time on the microwave, I can see that it's already 6:15, whereas the sky is a pale gray, hinting that dawn is creeping over the horizon. Lily will be up soon, and I need to be ready for her. My stomach rumbles, ushering with it a wave of nausea as a reminder of the basic needs I've neglected. We'll definitely need breakfast, no matter what else the day holds. Out in the living room, Lily sits on the floor struggling with the TV remote.

"Babe," I mumble. "I think I have a better idea than television."

She looks up at me with widened eyes. Meanwhile, I take another seat on the couch.

"Come here, munchkin," I advise, patting my lap.

Her small arms wrap around my neck as I lift her up onto my lap.

I run my fingers through her thick locks, gently tucking her hair behind her ears. "Well," I begin, inhaling a deep breath as if trying to muster the courage to appear enthusiastic. "What would you say to spending a couple of nights away from home?" I ask, pulling her close. "It'd be like a cool little indoor camping trip with room service and all the hot chocolate you can drink."

Lily places a finger on her chin, as if with the decisiveness of an adult. "Will there be apple juice?" She asks. "And where would we go?"

My head tilts to the side. "Maybe a hotel downtown," I say. "Or we could drive to Colorado Springs and stay somewhere nice there."

She's much too young to grasp the prestige of The Broadmoor, but it's the first place that comes to mind.

"What kind of place, Maxie?"

A sigh escapes my lips. I try to explain it in a way she'll understand. "It's like that place you and Millie went to for her birthday last year—there's a big spa, and we could get facials and manicures and pedicures—and eat all the food we want."

Lily interrupts, her brow furled. "But why would we celebrate when we're so sad?"

Her question catches me off guard. It's a valid point, coming from a seven-year-old with autism. She wouldn't understand the concept of self-care, of nurturing our bodies and minds to heal our hearts.

My head wavers. "No, it's not a celebration, honey," I reply gently. "It's a way to take care of ourselves—especially when we're feeling sad," I continue, scratching her back. "If we don't do nice things for ourselves, we might stay sad for a very long time."

She stalls, tears welling in her eyes. "But we are sad, Uncle Maxie."

"Of course we are, munchkin," I agree. "We're going to miss Daddy so much," I add. "But this is called ‘self-care,' and it's an important part of how we heal."

Lily bows her head. "Okaayy," she says, hesitantly. "I'll try it, then."

A wave of relief washed over me. "That's my girl," I reply, surprised by the possessiveness in my voice. "You'll feel a little better, I promise."

Navigating Denver traffic is never fun, and morning rush hour is especially brutal. Lily and I are about to pull into a gas station, where I plan on picking up a quick grub to hold us over until we can eat a proper sit-down meal. But the exhaustion is hitting me hard. Perhaps I need a Red Bull. Pulling up to the gas pump, I shoot a quick glance at Lily through the rearview mirror. She's absorbed in a Strawberry Shortcake episode on her iPod.

"Babe," I catch her attention. "I need to run inside for a minute," I inform her, rubbing the sleep depravation nagging at my eyelids. "Want a cold apple juice for the drive?"

She glances up, and then I'm surprised by a burst of laughter. It's the first time I've laughed since—well—last night.

"Maxie," she replies astutely, far too mature for her age. "In the history of my life, have I ever not wanted an apple juice?" She grins.

It's a moment of clarity, for sure. Lily is seven, but sometimes she's wise beyond her years.

"Touche, munchkin," I retort, wondering how she learned to talk like that.

Lily returns to her show while I finish pumping gas. The thought occurs to me I may need to stock up on some Tylenol or Motrin to continue nursing this poor throbbing foot of mine since the hotel isn't likely going to have it readily available. Or if so, it's going to cost a hell of a lot more than the inflated gas station prices. Approaching the cold beverages inside, I retrieve a 16 oz. Red Bull and Lily's juice on the opposing wall.

I retrieve a travel-sized bottle of Tylenol, then approach the front line where I'm standing behind a burly biker, inadvertently blurting out an expletive.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

He turns around to give me a gristly stare, as I've stepped on his pit bull puppy or something. The Denver biker crowd has no sense of humor whatsoever!

It's at this precise moment that I realize I've left Lily alone out in the car. This is something that Brogan would never dream of doing—even for just a minute. If last night and this morning are any sign, I'm pretty confident in my ability of failing at this single parent schtick.

The cashier calls out in a boisterous tone. "Next!"

I quickly grab a small bottle of 5 Hour Energy for an immediate boost now, showing the cashier what I'm about to drink as I tear off the vibrant red and yellow label for a quick guzzle. Then I pay, practically sprinting back to the Porsche with a pep in my step, taking the aesthetic of an African cheetah hunting a gazelle.

Even at this hour, the heat is stifling on my last steps to Lily in the backseat as I hand her the bottle of apple juice. "Here you go, Princess Smarty Pants," I say, grinning. "Still don't know where you picked that one up, kiddo."

She grins. "Daddy says it all the time to people," she replies, her eyes glued to her iPod. "When I asked him what it meant, he said grownups say it to make them sound sofis-ti-traced."

My eyes twinkle at her trying to learn a big word. "You mean, so-fist-a-cated, munchkin," I giggle, turning the ignition. "But you're right, Daddy definitely knew how to sound sophisticated."

As we pull out from the gas station, the morning sun warming the bustling Denver streets, a bittersweet feeling washes over me. My daughter is growing up, learning from the best. But the fact of the matter is, ‘the best' isn't here anymore. And that reality hits me with a punch to the gut. Pushing the thought aside, I focus on the road ahead. We're leaving the city behind, leaving the grief and pain in our wake, if only for a little while.