Page 21 of Honeymoon Phase
Some people might see it as maudlin or outright rude for me to exercise in a cemetery, but I love dead people. I like to read everyone’s names and imagine what their lives were like. The number of women I spot buried next to two or more husbands will never stop impressing me.
You go, girl.
Plus, it’s the only place I can go to find a true sense of solitude. So many hikers and joggers hit the mountain trails and it turns into a contrived circus. Cemeteries are perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be found. It’s this quiet suspension of reality where I can just exist in something bigger than me. I like feeling inconsequential, and nothing makes me more aware of that feeling than being surrounded by the dead.
I slow my pace and check my watch, noting that I’ve clocked two miles and am on the final stretch of my familiar path. There’s a hidden section over a small hill that has a giant weeping willow with a bench where I love to end my runs, so I make my way over there.
Sweaty and out of breath, I lower myself onto the bench under the tree. The cool concrete bites through my leggings as I sit back and admire the view, my chest heaving as my eyes drop to the nearby black headstone that reads:
Aaron Michel Monroe
Brother–Son–Best Friend
2002–2010
“Hey, little bro,” I croak as a gust of wind blows the long wispy branches all around me. I look up and smile, feeling like my little brother is saying hi right back.
“Boy has it been a hell of a week,” I add with a huff, stretching my arms out on the bench as I make myself comfortable.
I pause as I look up at the Flatirons in the distance, frowning as I realize my mind is noisier than usual after a run. Most of the time, I talk to my brother about a whole lot of nothing. Today though... there’s a heaviness in me that even a good sweat didn’t ease. But I guess if there’s any good place to unload theburdens of the brain... it’s with the dead. As it turns out, dead brothers are great listeners.
I’ve contemplated death enough to know that you can make it whatever you need it to be. And right now, I don’t imagine my brother eternally stuck at eight years old. I imagine him old enough to drink and relate to the unhinged shit in our family. He sees it all from his place in the sky, right?
“Actually, it’s been a hell of a year,” I correct, chewing my lip and flashing to images of dropping my dad off at the airport. “Dad has really thrown me for a loop with this marriage bullshit. Acting like having a husband will fix everything, like he’s shown such a great example marriage. Him and Mom were a fucking joke, right?” I exhale heavily and drag my forearm over the sweat on my brow. “The fact that Dad watched Mom walk out on us after you died and he can still look me in the eyes and tell me I have to be married to inherit the lumberyard is ludicrous. Totally ludicrous. That’s why I’m not taking any of this seriously. I’m going to find a random guy at the lumberjack competition and ask him to marry me. And Dad knows! He knows I’m out there looking for randoms. He doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is a marriage license I guess. So if I manage to pull the trigger with someone and show him proof that I’m married, then the yard is mine and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.”
I bark out a dry laugh at the ridiculousness of all of this but my mind is suddenly steamrolled into another subject. “And then Luke! You know Luke. I’ve told you about him. He’s being all weird and protective... telling me it’s not a good idea for me to marry a lumberjack. Like I haven’t been around enough mill guys to know exactly what they’re like.”
I sniff and wipe at the sweat collecting on my upper lip and then raise my voice to hear myself over the locusts. “He wantsto marry me instead... just temporarily of course. Can you believe that? Boy is out of his mind and now seemingly punishing me for saving us both a hell of a lot of torment.”
I drop my elbows to my knees and rest my face in my hands, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I like being alone, but sometimes it’s exhausting. Sometimes this sense of fight I have against everything, and everyone, feels draining. At least when Dad was still living here in Boulder, I could fight with him about it and get things off my chest. Now I just feel this clock ticking and if I don’t do something drastic, my whole life is going to change. Suddenly I won’t be my own boss. I’ll be working for someone else. Fuck that. I’ve given way too much of myself to the yard to let some outsider come in and try to manage me.
I stand up off the bench and kneel next to Aaron’s headstone, tracing the dates with my finger, wishing like hell my brother was here to talk back. I wonder what he would look like right now? I bet he’d be tall like Dad. Dark hair like mine. But his eyes were always so piercing blue where mine are more of a dull hazel.
“Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder what it would be like if you were still here, little bro. We’d be running the yard together, fighting over who’s going to take over the company. Wouldn’t that be great? I’d much rather fight with you than the old man. I miss fighting with you.”
I blink at tears welling in my eyes. “I used to get so annoyed at you trying to follow me around everywhere. I almost hit you with the Weed eater that one time because I didn’t know you were right behind me. My little shadow.” I expel a garbled laugh and lick my lips, trying to remember those hugs he gave me. Boney arms wrapped tightly around my waist. His little face smashed into my stomach. “Damn it I didn’t know how good I had it,” I cry out, my voice cracking as hot tears spill freelydown my skin. “I hate that I didn’t know, Aaron. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t see you.”
Snot dribbles down my nose and I jerk away from the headstone. I’m blubbering like a mother who just buried her child, not a sister who lost her brother fifteen years ago.
I come here so often, and never cry. Ever. I talk to Aaron almost every single week and rarely shed one tear. God, grief is such a motherfucker sometimes. It sneaks up when you least expect it.
I swallow the painful knot in my throat, anger replacing heartache. This whole marriage thing is putting so much pressure on me, I’m a mess. I hate this. I hate not having control of my own life. It’s bullshit. My father raised me to care about that damn business and just like that, he’s trying to rip it out from under me.
But I refuse to go down without a fight.
I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and stand, my joints sore from the run, but it’s a good pain. It reminds me that I’m still alive and I’m going to keep moving until I get exactly what I want. If not for me, then for my little brother.
“Because you don’t have the opportunity to fight. This is for you, little bro.”
Chapter 8
Fact or Fiction?
Lumberjacking is a family affair.
Luke
“You got this, Luke!” Dakota cheers from where she stands by the creek that runs down the backside of our property.
