But then I see it—in the way his hand grips the back of his neck. The way his shoulders droop and the way his head shakes back and forth. He begins pacing, worried, upset.
Whoever is on the other end of that line just told him my mother was dead.
I grip my steering wheel and lean forward, soaking in his every movement. Will he cry? Was she worth dropping to his knees over? Will I be able to hear him scream in agony from here?
He leans against his precious car and ends the call. He stares at the phone for seventeen seconds. Yes, I counted.
He slides the phone back into his pocket and then, in a glorious display of grief, he punches the air.
Don’t punch the air, Donovan. Punch your car, it’ll feel much better.
He grabs the rag he used to dry off his car and he tosses it at the ground.
No, Donovan. Not the rag. Punch your car. Show me you loved her more than you love your car and then maybe I won’t have to hate you as much.
He pulls his foot back and kicks at the gas can, sending it several feet across the grass.
Punch your fucking car, Donovan. She might be watching you right now. Show her that your heart is so broken, you don’t even care about your own life anymore.
Donovan lets us both down when he storms inside his house, never once laying a finger on his car. I feel bad for my mother that he didn’t throw more of a fit. I’m not even sure if he cried, I was too far away to see.
The fluorescent lights go out in the garage.
The garage doors begin to lower.
At least he’s too upset to pull the car inside.
I watch the house for a few more minutes, wondering if he’ll ever come back outside. When he doesn’t, I begin to grow restless. A huge part of me wants to drive away and never think about this man again, but there’s a small part of me that’s growing more and more curious with every second I sit here.
What is so fucking special about that damn car?
Anyone who just received news as devastating as he did would want to lash out at the thing closest to them. Any normal man in love would have bashed their fist onto the hood of the car. Or, depending on how much you loved the woman, maybe even bashed their fist through a windshield. But this asshole grabs a rag to throw on the ground. He chose to get his aggression out on an old, weightless rag.
He should be embarrassed.
I should help him grieve properly.
I should punch the hood of the car for him. And even though I know nothing good will come of this, I’m already out of my car and halfway across the road before I tell myself it’s not a good idea. But when it comes to a battle between your adrenaline and your conscience, adrenaline always wins.
I reach the car and don’t even bother looking around me to see if anyone is outside. I know they aren’t. It’s after eleven at night by now. No one is probably even awake on this street, and even if they were, I wouldn’t care.
I pick up the rag and inspect it, hoping there’s something special about it. There isn’t, but I decide to use it to open the car door. Don’t want to leave fingerprints behind if I accidentally scratch up his car.
The inside of the car is even nicer than the outside. Pristine condition. Cherry-red leather seats. Wood grain trim. There’s a pack of cigarettes and some matches on the console, and it disappoints me that my mother would love a smoker.
I look back at the house and then I look back down at the matches. Who uses matches anymore? I swear I keep finding more and more reasons to hate him.
Go back to your car, Ben. There’s been enough excitement for one day.
Adrenaline beats down my conscience yet again. I glance back at the gas can.
I wonder . . .
Would Donovan be more upset over his precious little classic car going up in flames than he was over my mother’s death?
I guess we’ll soon find out, because my adrenaline is picking up the gas can and pouring the liquid over the tire and up the side of the car. At least my conscience is still alert enough to know to set the can back right where he kicked it. I strike one and only one of the matches, and then I flick it out of my fingers—just like they do in the movies—as I walk back to my car.
The air makes a quick whoosh sound behind me. The night lights up like someone just turned on Christmas lights.
When I reach my car, I’m smiling. It’s the first time I’ve smiled today.
I crank my car and patiently drive away, feeling somewhat justified for what she did to herself. For what she did to me.
And finally, for the first time since finding her body this morning, a tear falls out of my eye.
And then another.
And another.
I begin to cry so hard that it’s too hard to see the road in front of me. I pull over on a hill. I lean across the steering wheel and my cries turn to sobs, because I miss her. It hasn’t even been a day and I miss her so fucking much and I have no idea why she would do this to me. It feels so personal, and I hate that I’m selfish enough to believe that it had anything to do with me, but didn’t it? I lived with her. I was the only one left still in that house. She knew I would be the one to find her. She knew what this would do to me and she still did it and I’ve never loved someone I hate so much, and I’ve never hated someone I love so much.
I cry for so long that the muscles in my stomach begin to ache. My jaw hurts from the tension. My ears hurt from the blare of the sirens as they pass.
I glance in my rearview mirror and watch as the fire truck makes its way down the hill.
I see the orange glow against the dark sky behind me and it’s much brighter than I expect it to be.
The flames are way higher than they should be.
My pulse is pounding way harder than I want it to be.