Living With Regret
me in. “I guess not.”
    When he pulls my seatbelt across my lap, I grip his forearm, stopping him. “I can do that.”
    “I know,” he says, pulling his arm back.
    Sam’s a protector, a doer. He takes what he wants because it’s the only way he’s going to get it. His father was always hard-nosed, not the nurturing type we all crave as kids. He didn’t come home to fresh cookies after school or wake up to pancakes in the morning. He started working in his father’s shop about the same time he entered elementary school, while other kids were busy watching cartoons and playing video games. I think that’s what makes him different. His father made him fly before he even knew he had wings. I think Sam’s tried to show me how to do the same a few times, but I’m not a quick study.
    After my door clicks shut, I rest my forehead against the window and take in the smell of the old Camaro. I’ve only been in it one other time, and besides the loud roar of the engine, the distinctive smell is all I remember. It reminds me of my grandpa, a mixture of brut and peppermint. It doesn’t sound all that great, but it’s the most soothing smell in the world. It makes me wish Grandpa was still here to make this all better.
    “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asks as he climbs into his seat and revs the engine.
    “Cory is out there, and I need to show him that he’s not alone. That I’m here,” I say quietly, feeling the seat vibrate beneath me as he puts the car in drive.
    He reaches over, his eyes finding mine as he brushes his finger against my jaw. “It’s not your fault. I’m going to keep telling you that until I feel like you really believe it.”
    I don’t believe him … not yet. Probably not ever. This summer could have been so different—time at the lake, barbeques, and long rides through the country with the windows down. Where I’m going now … this is my fault.
    By the way his eyes narrow on me, I know he’s seeing through me. “We’re going to talk about this again. I promise you that,” he says, turning the car onto the main road.
    The ride is quiet as I watch familiar houses go by, but I’m not really paying attention to the details. It’s a distraction, a way to look occupied. I need it to be this way so I can gather myself. This isn’t going to be easy , I think to myself as I look down at the shoebox that sits on my lap … it’s a box of memories I want to leave with Cory. It’s going to hurt so freaking much, but I owe him a proper goodbye.
    Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. Cory was supposed to be my middle and end. Now, I don’t know what part he plays. Maybe my life was meant to be a series of short stories. And every story gets its own conclusion. This one doesn’t have a happy ending … it ends in goodbye, and I want it to be perfect. I need him to know how much he meant to me. How much he still means to me.
    It doesn’t take long until we’re pulling up next to the cemetery. It’s tucked away in the trees on the outskirts of town, giving some solitude to mourners who need a quiet, tranquil place to say goodbye.
    Closing my eyes, I cradle the shoebox and say a silent prayer. It’s a call for strength, courage, and understanding, because this might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
    “Ready?” Sam asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.
    “Yeah. I, ah, I just need help getting to his grave.”
    I chose Sam to bring me here because I knew he’d understand my need for space. People tend to think we need a shoulder when we’re sad, but in my opinion, the only way to deal with sadness is to hit it head on.
    My mom wouldn’t have let me cry alone, but Sam gets it. He knows I need him here for support, but that I also need some space to mourn. I have things to say, things I don’t want to share with anyone but Cory.
    We make our way over to a large gray tombstone. This time, the weight builds in my chest, another heavy brick added with each step.

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