Page 93 of Life After You

Maybe this is God’s will.

The thought slips in so easily, so naturally, like it belongs. Like it’s always been there.

I feel unsteady, like if I just lean forward a little more, the wind will take me the rest of the way. My arms lift slightly, fingers curling into the air, the sunrise painting my skin in firelight.

I close my eyes.

Mac. My angel.

She’s everywhere. In every breath. Every beat of my heart. Every flickering memory playing like an old film reel behind my eyes.

If she doesn’t make it…

My throat clenches.

If I step off, would the Lord take me in her place?

He guided me here, didn’t He? Brought me to this moment, to this edge?

I have memories of her. Of us. I’ve seen her smile, felt her love. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I was only ever meant to be temporary. Maybe—

The ground is there, below me. Maybe forty feet, maybe more. My vision distorts, and the call of the abyss hums through my veins.

Deal or no deal, Logan?

If there’s even a chance it helps Mac—if I could trade my breath for hers, my heartbeat for hers—wouldn’t that be worth it?

Wouldn’t she be worth it?

My fingers tighten at my sides. My chest cracks open with the weight of it all.

Then I hear her.

A whisper. A breath.

Logan.

My head snaps up. My heart stutters. The wind stills, the world holding its breath.

“Hey, mister! What the hell are you doing?” A voice, gruff, unfamiliar, cuts through the fog in my head. I turn just as a hand grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me backward with enough force to send me crashing to the pavement. The air punches out of my lungs.

My chest heaves.

My back throbs.

My head swims.

Suddenly I’m crying.

Hard.

Ugly.

My breath stutters between sobs, my scraped fingers trembling as I wipe my face.

“Jesus fucking H. Christ, son,” the man mutters. “You having a bad trip or somethin’?”

I blink up at him. He’s wearing a red-and-white trucker’s cap, a thick brown-and-blue sleeveless vest over a black T-shirt. Five o’clock shadow, bushy mustache, streaked with gray. His eyes—turquoise—lock onto mine, sharp, with something between concern and annoyance.

---