The End of All Things Beautiful (6 page)

Then
I do the only thing I think will make me feel better. I drink myself to sleep.

I
wake the next morning feeling worse than ever. My head is throbbing, my body
aches, and when I look in the mirror it’s apparent that I’ve spent the last night
drunk and sobbing. Red-rimmed bloodshot eyes, my nose is stuffy and the tip is a
light shade of pink. I look like hell. And I feel like it too.

I
can’t possibly go on like this and still function normally, especially since I
have to be at work in less than an hour. I think I passed out sometime around
two in the morning, but I can’t be sure. All I remember is reading the letter,
finding it left me feeling worse than before; all my questions about Tommy’s
death left unanswered and then I woke up in my bed feeling like I’d been hit in
the head with a blunt object.

I
shake my head and look at myself in the mirror one more time before getting
into the shower hoping to wash away all this horribleness that won’t seem to
stop. But when I emerge thirty minutes later, nothing has changed.

I
dress quickly, despite knowing I’m already going to be late for work. I’ve
missed my usual train and the bus is long gone too. I hate to drive, but at this
point I have no other options.

Shockingly,
I’ve gotten myself together in just under ten minutes, makeup, hair and all,
and I surprisingly look presentable. I might actually make it to work at a
reasonable time, that is, until I see my kitchen.

“Fuck,”
I mutter, running my hand through my hair as I take in the shattered wine glass,
the red speckled cabinets along with the tile and the torn up letter. Guess
this little fit of rage slipped my mind. How could I forget; it’s the reason I
feel like shit this morning.

I
take the broom from the hall closet and begin sweeping up the mess of glass
knowing if I don’t I’ll come home to it and the remembrance of it all will
return. Just as I’m about to sweep the torn pieces of the letter into the
dustpan, I have second thoughts. I pick it up, setting it on the counter; choking
back the tears that threaten. Swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat,
I will not cry over this anymore. It’s over.

After
vacuuming up what I couldn’t sweep up, I begin wiping down the cabinets and
washing the floor. So much for only being mildly late for work, but I only have
myself to blame for this mess. As much as I’d love to blame someone else…
Carson, Jack, Tommy, anyone but myself, I can’t. I like to think I hate Tommy
for leaving me like this, but it’s far from it. We all harbored these issues
and they are slowly destroying our lives. This is my burden, my life and my
secret that I have to carry. And after reading Tommy’s letter, it’s clear that
I’ll continue to go this alone. The only connection left to all of this is
Benji, and even though Tommy wants me to find him, I’m not sure I can do it. I’m
not sure I can let him see that I’ve failed, that I’ve struggled all these
years without him—without all of them.

As
I’m packing up my things to leave for the office, I catch a glimpse of the torn
up letter and although I’m still angry and hurting, I can’t bring myself to
throw it away. I gather up the pieces, putting them into a Ziploc bag, and I
take it with me when I leave.

As
I step out of the elevator, I plaster a fake smile on my face, determined to return
to what these people think is normal. I’m tired of having to explain myself or claim
to be fine every time they ask.

“Good
morning, Claire,” I say, a cheerful disposition to my voice.

“Good
morning, Campbell,” she says back just as cheerful and I almost tell her to
fuck off. She isn’t a bad person quite honestly. She’s really a great
assistant, a sweet young girl, who hopefully never becomes jaded and hurt by
the cruelty that exists. I hope one day she doesn’t make a decision she regrets
and carries a secret with her that eventually kills her friends and disrupts
her life. It’s disgusting that I even think this way.

Before
I can think anymore about it, I close my office door and when I remove my
laptop from my bag, the ripped up letter comes with it. I look at it for a long
second and decide right away that I can’t leave it like this. I grab the tape
from my desk drawer and begin piecing the letter back together, smoothing the
pieces and making sure each piece fits together as best as possible. I read each
line again as I put it back together and I can finally read it without totally
breaking down. To say, I didn’t shed a tear would be a lie, but at least now
each word doesn’t make me sob like a baby.

As
I read it again, with all my questions about Tommy’s death unanswered, I make a
decision that’s probably going to come back to bite me in the ass. But I’m
certain it’s the only chance I have to find out what might have led him to
write this letter, and what I can only assume, led him to kill himself.

I
find myself in Jack’s office, my posture already defensive. I’ve never been
intimidated by him, unlike everyone else in the office and with what I’m going
to ask him for, I know he’s not going to happy, especially since I can’t give
him an explanation.

I
blew past his assistant, who at this point in my career, knows better than to
stop me. I think she’s even more terrified of me than she is of Jack.

“What
do you need, Campbell?” he asks without looking up from his computer. I
actually let out a sigh of relief. This is the Jack I know and it makes this
all so much easier. The formality to his tone, all business-like and ready to
handle things as my boss and not my brother.

“I
need to leave today,” I say and he still hasn’t looked up. “Like now,” I add
and he finally stops what he’s doing to hit me with a stern look.

“No,”
he shoots back and returns to his computer.

“What
the fuck, Jack?”

“Campbell,
you’re the one who wanted a professional working relationship with me. And my
answer is no. It would be no if anyone who works for the company came in here
without an explanation as to why. So, no.”

“Ugh…”
I breathe out not wanting to do this, but it’s probably my only chance to get
out of here without telling him what the hell I’m doing.

“Jack,
I need you to be my brother and not my boss for just a second and not question
me on this. Hopefully someday I’ll be able to fill you in on what the fuck is
going on, but until I can sort that out myself, it’s better that I don’t say
anything.”

He
stands up, and if I were anyone else it probably would’ve had me holding my
hands up in defeat and running away. Jack’s tall, around six-three, muscular
and in a suit with a harsh look on his face, can be seriously unapproachable,
scary even. He’s known for being a hard ass, which is probably where I get it
from too. Our mother is pretty much the same. But in this instance, and after
growing up with him, it doesn’t work on me.

And
even when he raises his voice, it booming through the expanse of his office, I’m
not shaken.

“What
kind of fucking explanation is that?” he demands.

“It’s
not. It’s all I can give.” I shrug my shoulders as if we’re just having a
casual conversation.

“Campbell,”
he starts to say and then stops. He runs his hand through his hair and lets out
a long sigh. “You took two days off without an explanation and I let it go. You
showed up to work yesterday, detached and looking like shit, and I brushed it
off. And now you storm in here and inform me that you’re leaving for the day
when your work day began less than an hour ago.”

I
interrupt him before he can say any more, blurting out, “Tommy killed himself,”
but my voice lacks the sympathy it should have when discussing the death of a
friend. This is what I’ve created with Jack, a formal, emotionless relationship
that is built around our mutual drive to make his company better. It has never
had anything to do with our personal lives, our family or our sibling
connection. Except right now, with what I’ve just told him, I’m certain I’ve
crossed that line.

He’s
speechless and a whole series of thoughts are running through my head. I wonder
if he’s questioning my callous delivery of the news or if he’s wondering why I
care since I haven’t spoken to Tommy in nine years. Or worse than all of these,
is he thinking about everything that occurred with my group of friends that he’s
always been in the dark about?

Obviously,
my parents and Jack know that Sam died in a car accident and that Kelly killed
herself, but they have no idea my involvement in any of it. My mother, never
being one to pry and my father just following her lead, never asked why I left
school or what happened to my relationship with Benji and Tommy. I think my
family just assumed Benji and I broke up, and since I shut down after the
accident, no one bothered to ask. The same with my friendship with Tommy. After
leaving Ann Arbor, it wouldn’t be all that strange to lose touch with someone
considering we were several hours away from each other. I just let them believe
all of this. The truth was far too vile to share. Just the thought of telling
Jack now makes me sick to my stomach.

“Holy
shit, Campbell,” he eventually says, his eyes wide, as he steps toward me. In a
moment of panic, I step back. I don’t want him to touch me, not that he’s tried
to hug me in at least ten years. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I
just did,” I respond, coldly. “Please don’t ask me any questions and for the
love of fuck, don’t try to hug me.”

I
watch him swallow hard and nod his head.

“So
can I go?” I ask, my arms now folded across my chest, my eyes focused on his.

“Yeah,
of course. Take as much time as you need,” he tells me, his voice taking on
that quiet quality you find when people talk about death. Yet in my case, a
person dying seems to be a regular occurrence.

“Thanks,”
I say, forcing myself to be appreciative. Not that I’m not, it’s just I’ve been
emotionally detached for so long, it’s hard to make it realistic.

As
I’m walking out of his office, Jack calls my name and I turn around to face
him. “Campbell, I know I told you before, but you can talk to me.”

“And
I told you before, I can’t.” The way it comes out is harsh and I immediately
regret it. He’s trying to help, yet I know there’s nothing he can do or say to
make this any easier. “Sorry, Jack,” I apologize. “Maybe one day I’ll be able
to, but right now, I just can’t.”

An
hour later, I’m parked a few houses away from Tommy’s house wondering just what
the fuck I think I’m doing. I know exactly how this is going to play out, but
letting this whole thing go without a possible reason isn’t something I’m
comfortable with.

I
exit my car; the walk to the front door of the house is long and my heart
begins to race before I have even pressed the doorbell. I wipe my hands down
the front of my pants and prepare myself for what’s to come. Shit’s about to
get real.

As
soon as Samantha opens the door her demeanor shifts and she looks like she’s
about ready to punch me in the face or call the police.

“You’re
not welcome here,” she growls as she attempts to close the door. Against my
better judgment, I shove my hand against the door and force it open.

“No!”
Samantha shouts and while it should affect me, it doesn’t. I’m used to people
yelling at me in my line of work. It’s rare for me to startle anymore. “You can’t
come here! You don’t get to come to my home and upset me and my family.” She’s
crying now and I feel so horrible for what I’m doing. She doesn’t understand
why I’m here or have any idea who I am. She knows what she’s created in her
mind, and it’s not even close to the truth.

“Whatever
you know, it’s not the truth,” I tell her, my voice almost pleading.

“I
know nothing,” she spits out as she wipes at the tears on her cheeks. “He told
me nothing. You were a secret I found out about by accident and the more I
asked the more distraught he became.”

It’s
becoming difficult for me to hold back the tears as I watch Samantha sob in the
doorway to her house, confused and grieving, and all the while believing that
it’s somehow my fault. And maybe it is.

I’m
starting to believe it myself. Three people dead, all with a connection to me.

“He
wasn’t in love with me. He told you that, I’m certain he would have,” I
respond.

“He
did. Many times, but why else would he dream about you, call your name in his
sleep, write you a letter and insist I deliver it?” Her tone is filled with
hatred and hurt. I want to be able to explain it all to her, but it’s not my
story to tell alone.

“Then
please believe him, because it’s all I can give you too. I can only tell you he
wasn’t in love with me. There’s so much more to it than that, but it’s
complicated.”

“I’m
not going to do this with you anymore. You’re vague and you’re upsetting me. My
son is inside and the last thing I need is him seeing his father’s mistress or
girlfriend or whatever the fuck you are arguing with his mother.”

“I’m
none of those things!” I shout and I instantly cover my mouth with my hand. I
didn’t intend for it to come out that loudly. My voice drops to a near whisper,
“I’m a childhood friend. We grew up together.”