Nothing Like the Movies
: Chapter 26

Liz

“I promise I’ll come back sooner this time.”

I sat beside the mums, wiping away my tears. The tears that wouldn’t stop.

I’d never meant to stay away for so long.

After I’d come home for Christmas my freshman year and everything terrible happened with Wes, I had jumped at the chance to go on spring break with my roommate a few months later. The thought of seeing Wes had been unbearable, and thankfully my parents had been cool with the trip.

Then I decided to take summer classes.

Then, last year, I found a Vrbo in Colorado where my parents and I spent Christmas break.

And then I begged them to let me go on spring break with Leo and Campbell.

Rinse and repeat with summer classes.

My goal had never been to stay gone forever, but the anxiety I’d felt at the thought of returning home led me to desperately grab on to any method of avoidance, every single time.

I’d been surprisingly okay with not being able to visit my mom’s grave. I’d grown up, it seemed, because I was now able to talk to my mom (pretty much every day) without being in close proximity to her headstone.

So it didn’t make sense that the moment I touched the letters of her name tonight, engraved in the cold marble, I fell apart.

I was a mess.

I’d been sitting on the ground, on top of a pile of leaves, sobbing my eyes out as I told my mother every tiny thing that’d happened to me since I’d left for college two years ago.

It was mostly good stuff, the happy accounting of the nice things in my life, but telling her about it was making me miss her so much that it was painful.

What is wrong with me?

On top of that, the thought of leaving her again felt just as awful as it had the first time.

Perhaps I was never going to get over it. Never be past it.

I climbed to my feet and dusted off my leggings. It was really dark now, and I needed to get home. I walked up the road, the road I’d sprinted so many times over the years, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. Who was that girl who’d jogged to the cemetery on a daily basis? I couldn’t remember.

Ironically, the last time I’d been here, I hadn’t even visited my mother’s grave.

It’d been for Mr. Bennett’s funeral.

What a terrible day.

It hadn’t been cold, for Nebraska, but it’d rained hard the entire day.

I’d been with Wes in the big funeral car, holding his hand, while his mother sobbed uncontrollably and his sister looked like a lost little bird, staring into space the entire day. He’d been stoic, very un-Wes-like, while he behaved as the head of the family, ushering his mom to her seat under the makeshift awning, answering the pastor’s questions, watching his father’s casket be lowered into the ground.

“No,” I muttered under my breath, walking faster as the autumn breeze picked up and blew my hair in front of my face. The last thing I needed to be doing was thinking about Wes or how awful that day had been, so it didn’t make any sense that I was walking toward Mr. Bennett’s grave.

But I just had to see it.

It was illogical, but I felt the need to visit him while I was there, to at the very least say hello. I knew I was nuts when it came to cemeteries, but I didn’t like the thought of no one visiting him, even if he had been a bit of a jerk 75 percent of the time.

I went straight to the cottonwood tree it was under, the biggest tree in the cemetery and my absolute favorite. Its leaves were probably bright yellow by now, but it was impossible to tell in the darkness. I ducked underneath its lowest branch and knelt at the grave marker I could barely see.

STUART HAROLD BENNETT

I burrowed my chin into the collar of the jacket as the name Wesley Harold Bennett whispered through my ears, and before I could process that, I saw the baseballs.

I got out my phone again and turned on the flashlight, because maybe I was seeing things.

Only… nope; they were baseballs.

At the base of the headstone, there were no fewer than fifteen baseballs, each one burrowed into the mud and dirt just enough so they stayed put. I set a finger on one of them, wondering if Wes had left them while knowing it had to have been him.

I leaned down to dust a few leaves off the top of the marble when I saw a key ring on the ground, the metal glinting in the light of the flashlight. I picked it up, and it was a Bruins Baseball key chain with a few keys on it.

They had to be Wes’s keys, right?

I picked them up and put them in my pocket; he was probably freaking out, trying to replace them, especially when the closing was tomorrow. As soon as I got back to the house, I’d figure out how to get them to him. I could text him, but maybe I’d give them to Clark to give to him instead.

I didn’t want to be thinking about Wes right now, even as I knelt at his father’s grave.

I looked down at the baseballs, blinking back more tears—what the hell is wrong with me tonight?—as I said, “Hey, Mr. Bennett. Sorry I’ve never come to see you.”

I pictured his face, handsome like Wes’s but not as kind, and I just started rambling.

About how well Wes pitched at the exhibition game.

It was what he’d want to hear if he was alive, so I assumed his preferences hadn’t changed. I told him how hard his son had thrown, and I told him how no one had been able to hit off him.

I even said he really “threw ’em the gas,” Mr. Bennett’s favorite expression.

By the time I was finished talking to ghosts at the cemetery, I was frozen.

I ran home, took a long, hot shower, and after hanging out with my dad and Helena for an hour, I finally went up to bed.

But before I could sleep, I needed to tell Wes about his keys.

I think I found your keys.

Nope. I backspaced, not wanting him to know I’d visited his dad’s grave.

I typed: Your keys were on the ground at the cemetery.

Gaaah—backspaced again. Why was I overthinking this? I just needed to tell him I found his keys—no big deal. I texted: I found some keys that I think might be yours. I’ll drop them in your mailbox.

Send.

Finally.

I’d been randomly looking out the window since I got back from my run—yep, the silver car I saw him get out of earlier is still there—but there weren’t any lights on inside his house. It looked vacant and asleep, so maybe he’d left the car there or something.

My phone started ringing in my hand, startling me.

God.

I looked down, and Wes was calling me.

Whyyyyyyyy?

I took a deep breath, then raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Keys?” Wes’s voice sounded weird, like it was too close to the phone or something. “What keys?”

“Um, there are a couple keys on a Bruins Baseball key chain,” I said, mildly confused by his tone. “I just assumed they were yours.”

“Did my dad give them to you?” he asked, sounding wildly confused. “How the hell did you get them?”

His dad? “What? No, I found them on the ground.”

“The ground,” he said, dragging out the words. “The ground where? The cemetery? Are you back?”

Only it sounded a little like “shemetery.” “Yes. Are you drunk?”

“Little bit,” he replied, his words slower than his usual fast-paced rate of snappy sarcasm. “But that doesn’t change the fact that, like, did you visit my dad’s grave? Or did one of those dickhead squirrels run off with the keys? They used to take the stuff I left all the goddamn time, little dickheads.”

Definitely drunk.

“I was walking by his grave,” I lied, dumbstruck by his intoxication. “And happened to see them lying there.”

“I left him the keys because it was his house, y’know?” he said, kind of mumbling. “He should have them.”

I didn’t know what to say because I was having trouble processing all this. “Is Michael there with you?”

“No one is with me,” he said, sounding distracted. “I couldn’t have anyone over for the last night at the Bennett house—are you kidding? He’d hate that.”

His dad?

“Maybe you shouldn’t be alone, Wes,” I said, looking out the window but only seeing darkness from his house. Why was he alone? Why was he alone and drunk? Was he sitting on the floor in the dark, all by himself, with a bottle of booze? I wasn’t sure why, but I felt like I should call someone. It seemed dangerous for him to be drunk and by himself in an empty house.

My throat was tight when I suggested, “Can you call someone?”

“No, ’cause I’m gonna sleep now, Lib,” he said, and his subconscious use of my old nickname made that throat tension even worse. “I’m so tired.”

I’m so tired. Something about that statement was worrisome, and I wondered if I should try to replace Sarah’s number.

“Okay,” I said, not knowing what to say. I knew he had to be hurting, but I wasn’t the person to be helping him anymore, right? I swallowed and said, “Well, good night, Wes.”

“I miss our ‘good nights,’ ” he mumbled—to himself, it seemed—and then the call ended.

I sat there with the phone in my hand, frozen in place, not sure what to do. My stomach hurt as I pictured him drunk and alone in an empty house, but he wasn’t mine to worry about anymore. He was just my old neighbor, a guy I’d dated for a few months, and our lives had moved on, right?

It wasn’t my business if he was sad.

But as I turned out my light and went to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I kept picturing his dark eyes full of tears at the funeral.

And his slurred voice when he said, Did my dad give them to you?

I tossed and turned, Wes on my mind when I was awake and when I was asleep. Then my worries switched to the alcohol and his aloneness. How much had he consumed? What if he’d been drinking straight from a bottle all night?

At two fifteen, I reached for my phone. Texted: Are you okay?

Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t responded.

“Dammit.”

I sat up and flipped on my lamp, realizing I had no choice.

Just knock on the door, make sure he’s alive, say goodbye.

I knocked on the front door of his house, nervous, because it was the middle of the night, and I was prowling around outside. This is stupid. There were still no lights on inside. Zero. Black space in every window. Not a single light to be seen, yet Wes’s car was still in the driveway. Part of me wanted to just run back home, but I had to make sure he was okay.

I looked behind me, toward the street, but it was quiet except for the chilly fall breeze and the sounds of the dry leaves blowing in the wind. Very creepy.

I knocked again.

And then I heard it.

Foo Fighters. Coming from inside his house.

The deeper the blues, the more I see black

Loud.

“Wes?” I knocked harder, a little irritated. I wasn’t sure if he was even inside, but I wanted to be finished with the standing-alone-in-the-dark-outside portion of the evening. Especially since my dad and Helena were sound asleep. If I disappeared, no one would even know I’d left the house until morning.

After another ten seconds, I said, “Screw it.” I stuck the key that was obviously a house key into the lock, turned the doorknob, and pushed in the door. “Wes? It’s Liz.”

I stepped inside, letting the screen door close behind me. I quietly shut the front door and wondered what the hell I was even doing.

The music sounded like it was coming from the living room, so I went up the five steps that led from the entryway to the main level. I walked slowly, because it was so incredibly dark in there. Suddenly this seemed like the worst idea I’d ever had. “Wes?”

I looked to my left, and it was a little easier to see. The front curtains were wide open, so the bright moon and streetlights illuminated the very empty living room. Not a picture, not a piece of furniture, not a single familiar item remained from the Bennetts’ former home.

I could see the glow of the tiny red light on the Bluetooth speaker that was playing the Foo Fighters, but no one was in that room.

Dammit. I hit the wall switch and the recessed light above the fireplace turned on, confirming the room’s emptiness.

I started down the hallway, walking in the direction of the bedrooms, my heart pounding in my chest.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but it seemed very stupid.

“Wes?” I said quietly, not wanting to scare him.

I walked past his room and Sarah’s room, which were both dark and quiet.

Then I heard a sound coming from his parents’ room at the end of the hall, like someone was talking.

Thank God. I’d pictured him unconscious in a puddle of his own vomit.

“Not,” I heard him mumble, but then he made a weird noise.

Like a whimper. Like a moan.

Oh my God, is he with someone?

I turned on the hall light, my heart pounding in my chest as I crept closer to the bedroom.

“Wes?” I whispered, and when I reached the bedroom doorway, I could see him lying shirtless on the floor of the empty room. There was a sweatshirt under his head, and he was facing the other direction, but he was agitated in his sleep.

He was thrashing, his head moving as he made a sound that sounded a lot like a sob.

Oh my God, is he crying?

In his sleep?

“Wes,” I said a little louder, wanting to wake him up but not scare him.

“Help me,” he muttered, his sleeping voice infused with panic. “Do something!”

“Wake up, Wes,” I said, feeling panicked as I dropped to my knees beside him and touched his arm. I didn’t want to scare him, but he needed to wake up. “Wes.”

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he mumbled, and my heart broke for him as his voice cracked.

“Wes!” I lightly slapped at his cheeks, my heart in my throat as desperation to wake him from the nightmare clawed at me. I didn’t know what was going on in his subconscious, but I knew he needed to escape it. “Wake up!”

Suddenly, he sucked in a huge gasp of air, sounding like someone who’d just come up from being held under water. His eyes flew open, and he looked completely disoriented.

“Help me,” he gasped, sitting up, turning his head to look down the hall. “We have to do CPR.”

“Wes,” I said, setting my hands on his shoulders, trying to calm him while he woke up, empathy burning in my chest for the raw anguish I could see on his face. “It’s okay. You were dreaming.”

“No, though,” he said, his voice panicked, his eyes glistening with tears in the darkness. “He’s by his chair and needs us—”

“It was a dream,” I interrupted, wanting so badly to get him back from whatever terrible place had him. “Wes. Shhhh, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay; it’s my fault.” His chest was rising and falling, like he was breathing too much and couldn’t catch his breath. He shrugged off my hands and climbed to his feet. “I have to go help my dad.”

Oh my God oh my God oh my God, I thought, having no idea how to help him. Should I shout the truth, that his dad is dead? That didn’t seem like a great idea, but he needed to snap out of this, right?

What am I supposed to do here?

“Your dad is gone,” I said in a voice so quiet, it was almost a whisper. I looked up at him, a little scared but not even sure of what, and hated having to say, “Wes. He’s gone.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head as the light from the hallway showed me the tears on his cheeks. He turned and stumbled toward the living room, saying, “I have to fix him.”

“Wes!” Dear God, how drunk was he?

And I desperately wanted this to be drunkenness, because if it wasn’t, what was this pain? I grieved my mother every day, but this was very different. I stood and went after him, and when I got to the living room, he was staring at the spot in the corner where his dad’s recliner used to sit.

Just staring into space as the Foo Fighters screamed against the walls.

Shaking like the thunder

I blinked back tears as he fell to his knees, like the reality of the moment was just too much for him to take while standing.

“Wes.” I knelt beside him and put my hand on his back, desperately needing to replace a way to help, to somehow lessen whatever this pain was. Even if this was a drunken stupor, I’d never seen him—or anyone—hurt quite this much.

He looked at me through lost, tear-filled eyes, and he shook his head. “I can’t fix it.”

“I know.” I pushed back the hair on his sweaty forehead and had trouble seeing him through my tears. “But it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he said, and I felt the anguish in his unsteady voice. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, but I suspected this had very little to do with that fact. “It’s my fault.”

“Just calm down,” I said quietly, because his chest was rising and falling too fast, like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“No, you don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head, and yeah—he was definitely breathing too hard.

As someone who’d dealt with her own panic attacks, I recognized the familiar.

“Wes Bennett, look at me. Now.”