I dug up the guns, then cleaned and oiled them, thanking God that I’d long ago equipped them with external trigger locks and always kept the keys with me, which made them impossible to fire unless the locks were removed. After Paige’s first suicide attempt and even before she’d left the hospital, I’d taken no chances. Still, to be doubly careful in the future, I purchased a gun safe, as well, and stored them there. I also repainted the walls and cabinets in the kitchen, along with the living room, before she was released from the hospital. Orange and burgundy, the colors she’d chosen not too long before.
Once she was home, getting back to work was a necessary distraction, and thankfully, her business hadn’t suffered. Still, it was a few months before she began to seem like her old self. Though she still cooked dinner for us a few times a week, she often averted her eyes while we ate, and there were times I found her crying quietly on the porch.
“I hate that I’m broken,” she said on one of those occasions. “I hate that I can’t even control what I think.”
“You’re not broken, Paige,” I soothed, taking a seat beside her and reaching over to stroke her arm. “It was only a few crappy days in the scheme of things. Everyone has them.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “The difference is that my bad days are really, really crappy compared to most.”
“I can’t argue with you there,” I agreed, and again she laughed, then grew serious.
“Thanks,” she said, turning toward me. “For saving my life. Again.”
“You saved me, too.”
I eventually told her about my trip to Florida and Morgan, leaving nothing out. It was around the time that Morgan had posted the first video of her performance at Bobby T’s on social media, and Paige—like everyone—was floored by her talent. When the video ended, she turned to me, eyebrows raised.
“And she thought you were good?”
I laughed at that—Paige actually loved when I sang. But she was also sensitive to how hard it was for me to watch Morgan drift further away over the next few months. I know Paige spotted the photograph plastered all over the gossip sites a couple of weeks before Christmas—a paparazzi shot of Morgan walking hand in hand with a famous young Hollywood actor. Paige loved to follow celebrity gossip, but she was careful not to mention the photo to me. Still, I would have had to be living under a rock to miss it.
I’m not going to say that seeing the photo didn’t hurt me, just as I’m not going to say that I was shocked. And though our lives had diverged just as I’d predicted, I never forgot the decision I’d made on the night that Morgan and I first made love, when I resolved to make changes in my own life so I didn’t end up like my uncle. While that had to wait until I knew my aunt and Paige were going to recover, I like to think I kept my promise. I’d been able to make it to the coast to go surfing four times since my trip to Florida, and I set aside times on Fridays and Sundays to do nothing but play or write music, no matter how much work remained unfinished. I reconnected with a few old friends and met up with them on the occasional weekend night, even if it still sometimes felt like Groundhog Day.
I’d also made an effort to relax my routines from time to time, which is why I decided to change the brake pads on my truck one Tuesday morning, despite the long list of other things I should have been doing. While basic vehicle repairs might not sound like fun to most people, I enjoyed it; unlike practically everything else at the farm, it was a task with a definite finishing point. In a world where nothing ever stops, actually completing something can be very gratifying.
Thankfully, the temperature was mild that afternoon, and I pushed up the sleeves of my work shirt as I thought through the steps of the repair. But fate is a strange thing: Just after I turned on the radio in the cab and readied myself to slide under the truck, Morgan’s voice soared out of the car speakers. It was “Dreamland,” which by then I’d probably heard a hundred times. Still, I had to admit that the song always made me stop in my tracks. Her voice was resonant and heartbreaking. She’d changed parts of the lyrics to add the wonderful hook I’d known she’d find, and I allowed myself the briefest of memories of her sitting on the porch that day.
It was about then that I heard a car approaching from the distance. I squinted, trying to make it out, and was surprised when it slowed, then pulled into the drive, coming to a stop behind my truck.
From the back seat, Morgan got out. For a moment I couldn’t move, and it was only when the Uber started backing out that I unfroze.