“But Drew just shook his head. And I knew he wasn’t coming. That there was nothing I could do.
“And then my voice was so shaky I almost thought I wouldn’t get the words out. But I said to him, ‘I am so sorry that I couldn’t protect you.’
“And then Drew nodded, like I know. It’s okay.
“And he turned and walked off toward the bridge. I watched him until I couldn’t see him anymore. And I think—at least it felt this way—like you stood beside me and watched him go, too. When I woke up, I was crying. But I felt better, in a way.”
For some reason, hearing about it gave me shivers.
“I know it wasn’t real,” Jack said. “But it felt real.”
“Maybe it was real enough,” I said.
“Thank you for being there,” Jack said.
I could have pointed out that he put me there. But I just said, “You’re welcome.”
“Anyway,” Jack said, “I think you were right about the dream.”
“I was?”
Jack nodded. “That it was a chance.”
“To say goodbye?” I asked.
But Jack shook his head. “To say I’m sorry.”
* * *
THAT DREAM WAS the last one Jack ever had about the icy bridge.
He still dreamed about his brother from time to time—almost always about looking up in a crowd to see Drew smiling at him, or winking, or giving him a nod, like You got this.
Jack didn’t believe those dreams, exactly. He didn’t think they were literal windows into the afterlife. He figured it was just his imagination telling stories.
But they were good stories. Comforting stories. And he was grateful for them.
They were stories he needed to hear.
Did they cure his fear of bridges?
That depends on how you define “cure.”
He’s still not a fan of them. But he can cross them now.
He gets a little concentration dimple in his cheek, and he tightens his hands on the wheel, but he makes it across every time. Without throwing up afterward.
And we go ahead and count that as a win.
Thirty-Three
AFTER THE NIGHT I got, um, shot in the head, Glenn made Taylor cover the first two weeks of my Korea assignment so my million-dollar injury could heal completely. He offered to have Taylor take the whole thing, but I declined. “No more giving Taylor my assignments,” I said.
“Good point,” Glenn said.
Jack waited a respectful length of time for my emotionally-alarming-but-not-all-that-lethal-or-even-painful injury to heal … and then he talked me into trying our date again.
He said, “Can we just have a do-over?”
“On what?”
“The date.”
“The date?” I asked. “The one that almost got me killed?”
Jack nodded, like Yup.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
“I just need a do-over,” Jack said. “And so do you.” Then he leaned in closer, marshaled all his handsomeness, and said, “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Did I want to walk up Jack’s driveway in ridiculous footwear and nervously ring his doorbell again, even knowing for certain that WilburHatesYou321 was in custody?
Not a chance.
“Let’s just do something else,” I said. “Mini golf. Bowling. Karaoke.”
But Jack shook his head. “I had some very specific intentions for what I was going to do to you in that moment, and I really need to see them through.”
“You mean the moment when I showed up at your door all nervous and you flat-out rejected me?”
“Let’s note for the record that I was saving your life.”
“But I got shot anyway.”
“Grazed,” Jack corrected.
I thought about it. Could I bear to try again? I studied him. “You’re trying to re-create the date?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Jack said. “I need a version of that story that does not have Wilbur in it.”
I could see the value of that. “Fine,” I said.
“Tonight,” Jack said.
“Fine.”
“And wear that red dress.”
I sighed. “The one I bled all over?”
“You washed it, right?”
“I mean … yes.”
“So it’s all good.”
“The shoes are in the trash, though,” I said.
“I don’t care about the shoes. Come barefoot if you want.”
I shook my head. Then I pointed at Jack and said, “I’ll wear my cowboy boots.” And as he nodded, like Cool, I said, “I’m never wearing stupid shoes again.”