Chapter 2
"You've been gone for three years."
He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, twisted off the cap, and poured a little onto the ground.
"Your favorite—plum wine. Remember? Back when we were kids, we'd sneak some of your dad's homemade brew. You got tipsy and passed out under the grape arbor for the whole afternoon. I carried you home, and your mom totally tore into me, saying I was a terrible influence."
He tried to smile, but honestly, it looked worse than crying.
"You always made fun of me about it, saying I was the culprit."
He set the bottle down in front of the tombstone, then lowered his head, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.
"Alyssa," his voice started to shake, "I was wrong."
I didn't move.
"I shouldn't have kept it from you. I should've told you the truth. I should've let you know Lincoln was no good. He was lying to you from the start. He used you as revenge against me—did you ever realize that?"
I froze.
What?
David lifted his head, and now his forehead was smeared with dust and blood.
That last hit had split his skin open.
"He had a grudge against me, ever since college. I took his project, and he hated me for it. He wanted revenge.
"But what was the best way to get back at me? Not by hitting me or yelling at me—by stealing the person I cherished most in this world."
His voice was shaking even harder now.
"He dug into my life, found you—the one I cared about most. We grew up together, and I watched over you for twenty years. So he went after you, made you fall in love with him, and made you marry him. And he pulled it off."
He knelt there, his shoulders trembling.
"I found out. I wanted to tell you. But you had a heart condition, and you couldn't handle any kind of shock. The doctors said you couldn't get worked up, couldn't get scared, couldn't take any emotional blows. I was terrified to tell you the truth."
David lifted his head, staring at my photo, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"I always thought as long as you stayed with him and didn't get hurt, you'd be alright. I figured even if he didn't love you, he'd still be good to you. I really believed..."
His voice broke. He couldn't finish.
After a long while, he finally spoke, "Keeping you alive was all that mattered to me."
The wind rustled through the treetops, making a shushing sound.
I floated in the air, watching him, completely still.
"But I was wrong," David's voice dropped low. "You're gone. He drove you to your death. He won. I lost."
He lowered his head again, knocking his forehead against the tombstone.
Once, twice, three times.
He slammed his head against the stone, the dull thud echoing in the silence. Blood streamed down his forehead, slid along the tombstone, and dripped onto the ground.
"Alyssa," David croaked, his voice barely holding together. "Blame me. Hate me. Call me names. If you could come back, just yell at me, hit me—anything, I'd take it."
No one replied.
Just the wind, just the soft whisper of leaves.
He stayed kneeling, forehead pressed to the stone, shoulders shaking.
I floated right in front of him, just watching, unable to do anything.
I wanted to reach out and gently pat his head, as I used to when we were kids. Whenever he cried, I'd touch his hair and whisper, "It's okay, don't cry."
But my hand slipped right through him. I couldn't feel a thing.
I was dead.
I couldn't reach him anymore.
After what felt like forever, David finally managed to stand up, stumbling a bit and grabbing the tombstone to steady himself.
He reached into his pocket and placed something at the base of the tombstone.
It was a photo.
I drifted over to take a look.
It was a picture of us as kids. I was probably seven or eight, and he was around ten. I was riding on his shoulders, grinning so wide my eyes turned into crescents. He was looking up at me, smiling right back.
The photo had turned yellow, the edges worn through. Who knew how long he'd been keeping it on him.
"Alyssa," David whispered, "if there's a next life, just don't meet me again. I'm the one who messed up your life."
He turned around and started walking away, one slow step at a time.
His shadow stretched long in the setting sun, and he walked with a limp. Hard to tell whether his leg was injured or he was just drunk.
I stood there, watching him fade away at the end of the mountain road.
The sun set, and the cemetery grew dark.
The caretaker walked over, stopped for a moment when he saw the bottle and photo in front of my tombstone, a little surprised.
"What day is it? So many people showed up," he muttered, gathering up the items and tossing them in the trash.
I drifted back to my little patch of earth and lay down.
My mind was all jumbled up, David's words replaying again and again.
So Lincoln only pursued me as revenge against David.
David never told me because he was afraid it would hurt me.
Turns out, my whole life was nothing but a pawn in someone else's revenge.
And the person he cared about most was always himself.
But why didn't he ever tell me?
I rolled over, looking up at the tombstone overhead.
The stone was icy, the moonlight was icy, and the whole cemetery felt frozen.
Suddenly, I remembered the last time David came to see me while I was still alive.
Back then, I'd only been married for three months, living with Lincoln in our new place downtown.
One night, David came knocking at my door out of the blue.
He stood in the doorway, looking at me with mixed emotions—like he was torn, like he had so much to say but just couldn't get the words out.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He opened his mouth, but in the end, all he managed was, "Is Lincoln good to you?"
I said, "Yeah, he's good to me."
He just nodded and walked off.
I stood there, watching his back disappear into the elevator, feeling totally baffled.
That night, when Lincoln got home, he asked who'd come by. I told him it was David. His face changed for a second, then he smiled and said, "He came to see you? How sweet of him."
I didn't think much of it at the time.
Now I finally got it.
David had come to tell me. He stood there in the doorway, looking at me, wanting to say something.
But he didn't say a word.
He saw me smiling, saw how happy I looked when I said Lincoln was good to me.
He couldn't say it.
He was scared I'd break down if he told me.
So he just left.
He kept the truth buried inside and shouldered all the pain alone.
And then what?
And then I died because of Lincoln, died because of my heart, died in my own ignorance, never knowing the truth.
And David was still alive. He drank every single day. He knelt at my grave, smashing his forehead against the tombstone until it bled.
He said he was the one who messed up my life.
But what did he do wrong?
He just wanted to protect me.
He just didn't get that sometimes, trying to protect someone hurt more than actually hurting them.