Page 65 of The Lies I've Told
“I would love that,” I answered honestly, trying to imagine what it would be like to be surrounded by my friends and family. To have Millie by my side as my life’s work culminated to this one great achievement.
But it would never be.
Life would fail me once again.
“Do you want to say it this year, or should I?” James asked as we stood on the rooftop under the New York sky.
It was just past midnight, a warm breeze blowing through the buildings, reminding me of summer days long since past.
My back stiffened as I looked down at the still-bustling city below. Clearing my throat, I said, “Not by birth, but by choice. Brothers for life. Brothers forever.”
“He really was a sentimental son of a bitch, wasn’t he?” James said as we held our double shots of whiskey in remembrance.
“Yeah, he was. But he was the best of us.”
James nodded. “He really was.”
Our glasses came together with a definitive clink before we each downed the amber liquid, commemorating our fallen brother on the day of his passing.
It was something we’d been doing since we moved here a decade and a half ago. Piss poor and drowning in grief, we’d found ourselves on the rooftop of our apartment building on the first anniversary of his death, unable to do much else but drink away our sorrows.
Ever since then, we’d made it a yearly event. Our place of residence might have changed over the years, but this remained the same.
Ben would always be remembered on this day.
At least by the two of us.
“Have you ever wondered where we’d be in life if Ben hadn’t died?” James asked, taking a seat in the rickety folding chair. He poured himself another shot of whiskey as he leaned back and looked up at the sky.
“He’d probably be making statues for local churches—pro bono, of course, while living on crisps and biscuits.”
“He did love biscuits.” He smiled.
“And we’d be working our asses off at God knows where to make sure he didn’t starve to death.”
He nodded. “I’d be working my ass off. You’d probably be chasing tail at the local pub.”
I shrugged. “I’d like to think I would have done something better with my life eventually.”
He gave me a meaningful stare. “You would have. Ben would have made sure of it. It’s why he taught you how to carve in the first place.”
I let out a deep breath, remembering the moment I’d found Ben sitting outside, under a tree, humming to himself while he carved a rock with an old knife.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my eyes wide with fright. Usually, in my experience, a knife meant bad news.
“Making a bird,” Ben said very plainly.
My head cocked to the side as I sat down next to him. “A bird? Out of stone? How do you do that?”
He smiled. “Very carefully.”
I made a disgruntled face. “I’m not daft.”
At least, I didn’t think I was. But this kid was younger than me, and if he knew how to turn a rock into a bird, surely, I did, too.
“You simply have to carve away at it. Bit by bit. It takes a lot of patience.”
I looked down at his progress. So far, it only looked like a misshapen rock, definitely nothing close to a bird.
