“God, I’m so, so sick of being sad.” I dropped down on the foot of the bed. “And I feel guilty for saying that because these people deserve to be grieved.”
Rune lowered down next to me. “You’ll never stop grieving them. But that doesn’t mean it has to overtake your whole life. I doubt your mom or your best friend would want you to be unhappy forever.”
I mean, Vicky would have felt like she deserved a lot of grief. That was just the kind of woman she was. But, no, even she wouldn’t want me sobbing over things all the time, over a year later.
And if I were being objective, I knew that I was grieving so hard because our last conversation had been a fight. The worst one we’d ever had.
If I had known it would be the last time I’d speak to her, I would have handled it differently. I never would have taken offense to the things she said and retaliated by saying things myself that I could never take back.
She died—horribly—while thinking her best friend never wanted to see her again.
And, well, there was no one else to grieve her.
So I did.
For myself.
For everyone else.
Hard.
But Rune was right. It couldn’t be a bigger part of my life than my hope or joy.
“It was easier when I was plotting to kill you,” I admitted.
“Because anger is an easier emotion to deal with. It feels less vulnerable than what’s hiding underneath it.”
“I mean, there are layers to my anger. Not all of them are hiding grief.”
“No, I get that. Trust me, I’ve wanted revenge, too. But I’ve been processing the grief and guilt I’ve felt ever since that night.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger. You don’t have anything to feel guilty for.”
“Objectively, I know that. But that doesn’t really matter. Some part of me thinks if I’d just been a little smarter, a bit quicker, I might have been able to save her.”
“We’re quite a pair, huh?” I asked, nudging his shoulder. “Both riddled with guilt, grief, and anger about something neither of us did.”
“Guess it’s a good thing you didn’t pull that trigger, huh?” he asked, nudging me back. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to see that we aren’t as alone as we thought.”
“It’s good to talk about it. Messy and raw and ugly. I… haven’t done that with anyone else.”
“Neither have I. My brother knows some of the basics, but not the details.”
“He wasn’t there that night?”
“No. Thank God, he had some girl over and didn’t want to go. I barely made it out alive. I don’t want to think what could have happened to him. And we left right after. Hung low until I healed up, then headed right to Navesink Bank to prospect at the club.”
“Do you like it? The club?”
“I do. It’s familiar. It’s how I grew up. And what I used to fantasize about as a kid—the partying, the brotherhood, the occasional moments of action. But all with an underlying stability.”
“And you live there?”
“For the time being, yeah. Finally got out of the prospect room and into my own.”
“What’s a prospect room?”
“Basically like a dorm. Bunch of bunk beds and a shared bathroom.”