Page 82 of Dead Rockstar

The first hour of driving had just been me sitting in my truck, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, trying to swallow my tears. My undersized suitcase was sitting on the seat beside me, looking forlorn and small without Phillip's large black suitcase beside it.

Lucky for me, my cell phone was now working perfectly, and my GPS was telling me where to go, because I didn't have the first clue how to get from Massachusetts to Georgia. The furthest I'd even driven on my own was Fort Lauderdale, and I'd been nauseated with panic the entire time. I didn't do long distances. I make more brave souls, like Sloan, who have no logical fear of death, do all that shit for me. But this time I hadn't had a choice. Or had I? I supposed it didn't matter now.

Spotify was working now, too. Of course it was. The source of the disturbance was no longer there to interfere. I was listening to God is Dead by the Bloomer Demons, which was the absolute last thing I wanted or needed to hear right now, but it was my self-inflicted punishment.

I was doing the right thing, but the guilt in my heart demanded a punishment anyway.

He would never, ever forgive me.

My truck was making a horrible rattling sound and I prayed to a god I didn't believe in that I could at least make it back to Georgia before the thing finally died a slow and painful rusty death. If I could just make it home, if I could just get back – I could hopefully make everything right again.

Not right for me – no, I would never be right again, not without Phillip – but right for him, and even for Lee and Lydia, though they didn't deserve it. Right with the world, even and settled and no longer askew. Then I could crawl back to my shitty little trailer and live my lonely, divorced life with Blinken and my library books and try to forget that all this had ever happened.

As if I could forget.

I gripped the wheel even tighter, blinking my eyes against the oncoming dusk and fatigue that seemed to be making my vision blurry. It wasn't tears. I would not be shedding tears.

My phone rang. With a quick swipe of my finger, I muted the call without so much as looking at the number, and kept on driving, the music pounding in my ears like a lover's accusation.

Another hour passed, and I stopped at a gas station to fill up. It was one of those truck-stop gas stations with a greasy spoon built in, and I figured I needed to put something in my stomach to keep up my strength, so despite my better judgement I popped inside, wincing at the acrid smell of over-fried bacon and eggs cooked in butter. I slid into a booth and ordered a cup of coffee.

I rubbed at my bleary eyes as the waitress wrote on her pad. “Do you know if the apple pie is vegan?” I asked.

She blinked. “I'm not sure.”

“Is the crust made with margarine or butter?” I felt like a burden, an annoyance. It seemed to be a theme with me lately.

She blinked again. “Margarine.”

“I'll have a slice, then,” I said. “Thanks.”

She wandered off and I put my head in my hands, exhausted. I was tempted to just lay my head down on the Formica table and go to sleep, but I knew sleep wouldn't come. My nerves were frayed, and my stomach was doing somersaults. What was he feeling? Was he angry? Had he cried? Did he hate me or was he relieved? Despite by best efforts, my mind went back to the note I'd left in Phillip's old room, the note he no doubt found right after getting out of the shower. I'd left it on his suitcase, being sure he'd see it when he went to dig out his clothes.

Phillip,

I'm so sorry.

When you see this, I'll already be gone. That is, if I'm able to get out of here fast enough. I hope I can because I know you'll try to stop me, and I can't let you do that. Thank god you take the longest showers of anybody I know.

I love you. But you don't belong on Jekyll Island with me. When I did the spell, I never dreamed it would work. But it did. And now you're here with another chance at life. Bringing you back a second time was selfish. You were right to be angry. As long as you're with me, risk and danger will follow, and you deserve better. You really do. Seeing you in your boyhood home made me even more certain – it's where you belong, with your best friends and your memories and a chance for happiness.

I love you, Phillip. But this is for the best. Please don't follow me.

Stormy

The waitress sat the plate and cup down on the counter with a loud clack and I almost jumped out of my skin. I sat up, rubbed at my eyes, and thanked her, pressing my debit card into her hand to pay the bill before she had a chance to walk off.

She tapped her pad. “I warmed the pie for you and put on whipped cream. We use the fresh stuff, none of that tub junk. I'll be right back with your receipt.”

I stifled a groan, looking at the mound of fresh dairy cream on my now-ruined pie. I pushed the plate away with a sigh. The coffee was oily and bitter. It was no more than I deserved.

I wondered what Phillip was doing right now and bit the thought off with another sigh. I didn't deserve to know. Not after what I'd done.

I rolled back into town what felt like a hundred hours later, feeling like something the cat had dragged in. It was a miracle I hadn't fallen asleep on the road, but I'd managed, with the aid of five cups of coffee and a huge box of Swedish Fish that had tasted like plastic sadness. When I'd passed the “The Peach State Welcomes You” sign I had started to cry and had continued to sob for the next two hours. I was thoroughly dehydrated and half insane, but I was home.

As I turned onto the familiar road to my house, I was torn. What to do? Go home and sit in the silence of my little trailer? As though nothing had ever happened? The thought seemed impossible. I'd never be able to sleep, no matter how exhausted I was. My place might as well be filled with ghosts, for the last time I'd been there Phillip had been there, too, and I couldn't imagine walking back into that dark quiet, my old life, alone. Not after I'd left Phillip behind. I'd rather die.

I picked up my phone and dialed Sloan's number. It had been days since we'd spoken, and whether or not she was mad at me, I was pissy that she hadn’t even bothered to update me on my cat. She was supposed to be watching him, and she knew what that damned cat meant to me. I prayed she'd finally answer and wouldn't send my call to voicemail. My little quip about her love life had been nothing compared to the shit she’d given me in the past…if she was seriously that salty over it, well, I couldn’t help it. I’d been through hell; the least she could do was answer her damn phone.

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