Suicide Notes From Beautiful Girls (11 page)

But when she stopped crying, she was still there in the bathroom. Where were they? Why was she alone? And who knows, but she might have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Ryan was flipping on the lights and holding a glass of water and rubbing her back and saying, “Hey, Junie, are you okay?” And for a second June forgot what had happened that led up to all of this. Except, oh yes, there was Ryan, rubbing her back. And there was Delia, her best friend.
They’d been gone a long time, hadn’t they? And she’d been here alone, hadn’t she?

“Hey, Dee Dee,” June started to say. She had wanted to ask her something, needed to ask her something very important, but right then she couldn’t remember what. “Dee Dee?” June said again. June tried to look Delia in the eye, but Delia wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Chapter 23

I have no idea where
I’m going, but I know I need to get away from here. I drive fast, steering wheel gripped tight. What the hell is happening?

I go over everything, trying to wrap my brain around what I know: A little over a year ago Delia wrote me that letter but never mailed it. Ryan has a secret phone that he only ever used to talk to her. And he sent her a message from outside her house the day before she died, and it wasn’t the kind of message you send to a friend. He was there when Delia called me, yelling in the background. And the next day she was dead, a positive pregnancy test in her trash. My head connects the dots, forming a shape in my brain, and when I look at it, I feel like I might throw up.

My phone is in the cup holder, buzzing. Ryan’s name flashes on the screen.

I pull into the parking lot of a park. The sky is white and gray.
A father and little boy are walking a big dog. Powdered-sugar flakes of snow drift down from the sky. My body is on fire.

The phone rings only once before he picks up.

“Jeremiah,” I say. My voice comes out strained and tight.

“June? Are you okay?”

I imagine his big square face, pale bloodshot eyes. I can barely get the words out. “Was Delia pregnant?”

“What? No, God, definitely not. Why are you asking me that?”

“But how do you know she wasn’t? How can you be so sure?”

“Because we . . . I mean . . .” He lowers his voice. “We only slept together, like, twice ever, and we were totally safe both times.” He pauses. “I guess I’d always thought I’d wait until I got married or something, so I felt guilty about it because, I don’t know. So unless she was cheating on me . . .” His voice catches. “But I know she wouldn’t have done that . . .”

“I found a pregnancy test,” I say. “At her house.” I stop, heart pounding. “In the garbage outside, I mean. It was positive.”

He is silent then, for a long time. I hear his breath, heavy on the other end of the line.

So I go on, I tell him about Ryan’s secret phone with calls to Delia’s number.

“Wait, you mean Fisker?” Jeremiah says. “He used to . . .” He pauses then. “I don’t understand. Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

Out on the cold gray playground, the little boy has climbed up into a swing. His father is behind him, pushing.

“He was,” I tell Jeremiah. “I don’t think so anymore . . .”

And hearing myself say those words, I realize yes, this is done. After all this time, after so much thinking and worrying, clinging so tightly. Just like that, there is nothing to hold on to.

When Jeremiah finally speaks again, his voice is a whisper. “I have to go,” he says. And then he hangs up. I sit there, staring at the boy and his father. The boy is laughing now, flying through the air.

A moment later the phone rings again, but this time it’s a number I don’t recognize. I pick up.

“Hey there.” It’s a girl’s voice, low with a Southern twang.

Ashling.

“Listen, before you say anything else, I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s what I called to tell you. I’m sorry for being . . . how I was being before. I was just trying to protect Delia, or whatever, which is stupid. This isn’t easy for either of us. I wanted to call and say that.” She takes a breath. “So now I have.” She pauses then. “I also wanted to make sure you’re not still thinking any of that crazy stuff you were saying the other day about Delia . . . I mean about what happened to her.”

And I know she won’t want to hear this, but I also know I have no choice but to tell her. “Yes, and it’s more complicated than I thought. I know who she was cheating with . . .”

“Really . . . ,” says Ashling. There’s something in her tone, something I can’t place. “Who?”

“My boyfriend.”

“Damn.”

“And I think . . .” I can hardly bear to say it, but I have to now. “I think she might have been pregnant. And I think he might have . . . maybe it was his. And what if he found out? What if she threatened him and he got angry . . .”

“Okay, June, hold up. Seriously. It’s not what you think.”

I don’t say anything.

“Where are you?” she asks.

I tell her.

“Wait right there. I have something for you.”

The letter in front of me was written by Delia, that part is clear. It’s the words that I can’t wrap my head around. I read them again, again, again.

My dearest Ash,

So I guess by now you know what happened. I turned myself into your name. HA-HA! Please don’t be mad and please don’t feel sad.

I just don’t want to do this anymore. This being any of it. We all have to die sometime, right? I’ve decided my time is now.

I love you so much.

D

“I got it in the mail this morning,” Ashling says to me. “Dated the day she died.”

“A suicide note,” I say.

Ashling nods.

“She wouldn’t have . . . She was . . .” My voice cracks.
“She was scared of fire.”
But as I hear myself, I suddenly realize how absurd my logic is, has been all along—her fear of fire doesn’t prove she couldn’t have done it like this. If anything, it’s exactly why she would have.

“Look, if some part of you wants to believe she didn’t kill herself so that you don’t have to feel guilty thinking that you could have stopped her . . . don’t go down that path, okay? This has nothing to do with you. Don’t feel bad that you didn’t pick up the phone. If you’d known what she was planning, of course you would have. But it wouldn’t have mattered. She was going to do what she was going to do. Delia always did. . . .”

And I shake my head, I have no words left. I know things could have been different. Dear Lord, I wish they were.

Ashling gives me a hug. “Be well, June,” she says. And then she leaves. And I just sit there, crying now. The tears are falling down my face so fast. I imagine them filling up the entire car, drop by drop until I drown in them.

It’s only later when I’m finally driving home that I realize something: Ashling said if I’d known what was going to
happen, I would have picked up the phone. But I never told Ashling that Delia had called me and I hadn’t answered. And Ashling said she’d only had a three-second phone call with Delia and that’s it. So then . . . how did Ashling know?

Chapter 24

By the time I pull
into my driveway, the sun is down and the trees are black paper cutouts against a dark gray sky. But all I can see is Delia’s face. And all I can think about is what her last moments must have been like, pouring the gasoline, lighting the match.

I get out of the car and slam the door behind me.

There’s shouting, “JUNE! Please listen!” It’s Ryan. Waiting for me outside. I hear footsteps, fast, faster. My heart pounds. He is running toward me from the road. I run too. Something is very wrong.

I reach the door, keys clenched in my fist, frozen fingers fumbling. My hand is shaking. Ryan is twenty feet away. Ten. Five. Finally, the key slides in.

“JUNE!”

I slam the door behind me, twist the deadbolt.

Ryan’s cries are muffled through the door. I press my ear against the wood.

I hear what sounds like “crazy” and I hear what sounds like “Jeremiah.” And then five words, perfectly clear:
“I think he did it.”

My entire body is tingling. I flip on the outside light and look through the peephole. Ryan’s face is covered with something thick and dark. It takes me a beat to realize what this is—blood. It is streaked across his chin and cheeks. His nose is oozing it. His eyes are desperate and wild.

He takes out his phone. A second later mine rings. “Please!” he shouts through the door. I don’t pick up. Thumbs fly across the keyboard. A text comes through.

Please listen. i came here to warn you.

And a second later another . . .

Jeremiah came to see me

Ping. Ping. Ping.

he said I got Delia pregnant he was completely insane

he said it was because of me that her baby is dead

was she pregnant? if she was and her baby is dead

it’s because of him. he killed her

she wasn’t pregnant from me there is no chance

june I’m not lying. he is crazy

he was so jealous and yelling

something is not right with him

I can feel Ryan’s panic leaking through the door. How
quickly things can change. How quickly the unimaginable can become real.

Why would I believe you about anything?
I write back.

You’ve already lied.

You were with her. I already know this.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

For a moment, he just stares at the screen. His shoulders heave.

Okay okay yes I was at her house.

I already know this. But still the words feel like a punch.

when i was on vacation

she called me and said she wasn’t going to be around later

That is the phrase she used

but told me if I came back early we could . . .

i came back early to meet her over break but when i got to her house it wasnt like i thought it would be

she seemed high or was acting very weird at least

And suddenly, just like that, I understand something he doesn’t and never will:
She was screwing with him. And she was doing it for me.

That was the secret. She was going to tell me what he did, but only if I picked up the phone or called her back. Only if I deserved to know . . .

I’m crying now, and I’m not sure who I’m even crying for. For Delia? For myself? For both of us? I thought I knew her so
well, and that she’d never have killed herself. But what the hell do I even know about anything?

I chose Ryan, I chose wrong.

Ryan wipes his face, smearing blood across his cheek.

then we heard the announcement

I thought that she killed herself, that she was crazy

now I don’t know anymore

Only, for all my doubts, there is one thing I’m sure of: Ryan didn’t hurt her. He is a liar and an ass, and so weak. But he didn’t do this. And I do not want him here anymore.

Leave.

“Listen!” Ryan’s muffled voice is coming through the door. “Please! I don’t think Jeremiah is safe to be around. He’s hiding something, I know it!”

Leave

now

just go. There’s nothing you can say that I’ll listen to. Leave before I call the police.

He stares at the door for a long time, hesitates, rubs his face, takes a breath. Then, finally, he starts to walk away.

Now I am alone with my thoughts, and I realize something: All along I’ve been trying to solve a mystery, but it was the wrong mystery. The bigger one, the real one is this: How the hell am I going to go on without her?

A few minutes later Ryan sends me one more message.

what do you think happened to Jeremiah’s hand?

Chapter 25

1 year, 2 months, 6 days earlier

June was still in bed
when she saw Delia’s name flashing on her phone. It was 4:36 p.m. on Sunday. And if it were any other Sunday up until recently, June would be with Delia by now. They had a Sunday tradition, had for years: Cake Church is what they called it.

Every Sunday, while Delia’s mother and stepfather were out at regular church, June would go over to Delia’s house, and Delia would bake something ridiculous. Delia’s love of baking was totally unlike her, which of course made it extra totally like her. “I’m nothing if not completely inconsistent,” Delia would say. She would make the most decadent and beautiful things for June—a towering birthday cake on her 264/365 birthday, or fat chocolate cupcakes with thick layers of butter-cream frosting, which Delia insisted on calling “frosted muffins” to make them sound like a breakfast food, and once a cake with June’s
own face piped on in icing. June and Delia would cuddle up in Delia’s room, eating whatever treat she’d baked, or sometimes just eating the batter of whatever treat she’d decided not to bake after all, until they were both giddily buzzed from sugar. They’d watch stupid movies, or read or talk, it didn’t matter. The ritual made June feel almost like she was a part of one of those families who had a regular Sunday dinner. There was something so
wholesome
about it, and some weird part of June, who hadn’t even realized she
cared
about wholesomeness, really liked that.

But the past couple months had been different. And it wasn’t only because June had started seeing Ryan and Delia had started seeing Sloan. It was that Delia was getting messed up a lot more, and by Sunday she’d be too hungover or strung out to get out of bed, let alone bake some crazy rainbow confection made with seven different colors of impossibly bright sheet cake. June would still go over there sometimes, though. Delia would call June in the late afternoon. “Come over, come over, come over,” Delia would say. And when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often lately but still did sometimes happen, she’d add, “You’re the only one who loves me enough to saaaave meeee.” And June would bring sacks of greasy french fries and trashy magazines and try to pretend that everything was normal.

Except they weren’t normal, was the thing—a space had been opening up between them where previously there was no
space at all. And it made June both sad and strangely relieved, though she couldn’t quite say why.

But that particular Sunday in October, while the phone flashed with Delia’s name, June was the hungover one. June was the one who was still in bed. And June was the one who needed saving. Only, she wasn’t sure who there even was to save her. She just knew that it couldn’t be Delia anymore. Not after last night.

June had woken up in Ryan’s bed. He was next to her on the floor. “Listen . . . ,” he started, the moment she opened her eyes. Had he been watching her? Waiting for her to wake up? His words tumbled together. “I hope you know that nothing . . . I mean, we were really drunk and I wouldn’t normally have . . .” He could barely get a sentence out, and her head was pounding too hard to make sense of anything anyway. “Last night was . . .”

June so, so wanted him to stop talking. She couldn’t begin to think about what had happened and what hadn’t. Her memory was hazy, coming back in flashes.

“Last night was crazy,” June had finished for him. And she didn’t want to say anything else right then. The panic was already rising up into her throat. Ryan invited her to stay, offered to cook them both breakfast. But June had told him she needed to go home. “My mother will be wondering where I am,” she said. They both knew that wasn’t true.

So June left. And as she drove, very slowly so she wouldn’t
puke right there in the car, the thoughts tried to worm their way into her brain, very unpleasant thoughts about her best friend and her boyfriend.
What the actual fuck?

June had never felt jealous of Delia before—not once, not even for a second. She knew that some best friends were competitive with each other, but she had always assumed that those friendships were less pure than her and Delia’s, less
real
somehow. Because the thing was, when Delia was being extra hilarious and charming and sparkly and people noticed, June just felt
proud.
And when someone wanted Delia—and so many people did, and Delia ate that shit
up
—June thought, if anything, it was a testament to their good taste. The only way she’d ever have been able to imagine being jealous in relation to Delia was if
Delia
seemed to love someone else more,
and that was impossible.

At least that’s what she’d always thought, no,
known
, deep down in the center of herself.

But in the car she felt something hot and sick in her, completely brand-new—she was jealous. And not only that, but
angry
at the way Delia had acted, sparkling like that in front of Ryan on
purpose
. Of course it was on purpose. Delia was way too smart for
anything
to be an accident.

Ryan was supposed to be entirely off limits. He was hers, wasn’t he? She’d never thought of him like that before, but she couldn’t help it now. She hated herself for it, but, no, screw it,
it was . . . was it wrong to feel that way? Didn’t
most
girls feel that way about their boyfriends? Maybe it was normal. And even if it wasn’t, she didn’t know how to make herself feel something else.

June stopped on the way home and got a toasted everything bagel with cheese, because that’s what Delia sometimes wanted when she
was hungover, but June could barely eat a quarter of it before she was dry heaving into the toilet. And then she’d gotten back into bed, adrenaline pumping. She felt like she was dying, or wanted to die.
This is a hangover
, she told herself. But she couldn’t convince herself that it wasn’t something far worse.

Finally, curled under the covers, she let herself go over the events of the night again, what she could piece together. She remembered being nervous, she remembered deciding,
fuck it—
even though she was usually so careful, so
not
fuck it about
anything.
She remembered taking her first shot. And then her second and third and more. Almost everything else was fuzzy after that, and mostly what she could recall were flashes of things—a very stupid game, Delia and Ryan, lip to lip, the view from Ryan’s bathroom floor, cheese puffs, water, Delia’s face, Delia not looking her in the eye.

But there was one moment that stuck out more than the kiss even. Delia had been teaching her a drinking trick. “Just open up the back of your throat,” Delia had said, “anything will
slide right down. No gagging, once you really learn how to do it.” And then, June remembered this part with strange clarity: Delia had smiled slyly at Ryan. “Think I mastered that one,” she’d said. And had she winked? She had.

How had Ryan reacted? Did he laugh? Smile back? June tried to picture it, but she could not remember. The only clear thing was Delia’s face, luminous, eyes glowing the way they did when she was all lit up and looking at something she wanted for her very own.

This moment played over and over in her head. June couldn’t stop it.

She lay in bed. She picked up a book, but reading would be impossible, and she tried to put on music, but the sound gave her a headache, so instead she just lay there, trying to think of nothing at all.

That’s what she was doing when the phone started ringing. And that’s when, for the first time in their entire friendship, June saw Delia’s name flashing on her phone and she didn’t reach for it.

June told herself she’d call Delia back later, she didn’t feel well, that was all. But she knew then that something significant was changing, had changed, and that—and maybe more importantly—Delia would know it too. Because it was like Delia was inside her head sometimes. And June couldn’t imagine anything happening in her own head without Delia immediately
figuring it out. But maybe that was the other thing. Maybe she no longer owed Delia access to every part of herself . . . With that thought, June felt a weight lifting, a great weight that had been tied to her for so long. The phone rang and rang, and June watched it until it stopped and the screen went dark. And all of a sudden, just like that, she was free.