“Are you going to blame me for what happened to Pete?” Quinn asked quietly.
Cassidy gave him a sharp look. “No, why would I?”
Quinn picked at a hangnail. “It was my bike.”
Cassidy’s mind traveled down this path of blame, and a new set of tears bloomed. She inhaled a shaky breath.
“There was nothing wrong with it, I’m sure of that,” Quinn continued. “You know how I babied that thing,” he added. “And I told him to come into the bar, but I don’t know, he seemed like he was looking forward to being alone. When I left, his eyeballs were glued to his screen and he was typing away.”
“This isn’t your fault,” she said. “Or the bike’s.”
“Okay,” he said, relaxing. “Because if you need to be mad at me, I’ll understand. But only if it’s temporary. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.” She could sense the smile on his lips but couldn’t bring herself to return it.
She curled up in his arms instead. “Thank you,” she said as fresh tears burned her eyes.
An idea bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. “Remember how they wouldn’t let us into Dad’s study?” Cassidy said, wiping her cheeks. “Because they thought we shouldn’t see it?”
“Yeah. They were right, though,” Quinn said with a shiver. “I didn’t want to go in there.”
“Well, I did.” Cassidy remembered how, when they finally did let them enter, everything looked normal. It had always bothered her—had they tidied up? Or had he died without a struggle? “Will you take me to the place where Pete . . . ?” she asked, unable to finish.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Quinn said.
“It feels important,” Cassidy said. “I’m not sure why, but If I don’t do it now, I’m afraid I never will.”
Quinn smoothed down the legs of his jeans slowly. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll see if I can get the location.”
Cassidy heard Quinn return from his morning run the next day and blinked at the ceiling. The previous afternoon was a blur. She could recall nothing except the colorful images of the movie Quinn had played as a distraction. There was food, but Cassidy didn’t remember eating it. When at 1:33 a.m. sleep still eluded her, and the spreading ache felt like an anchor, a sense of desperation overcame her. She discovered some Benadryl in Quinn’s medicine cabinet and swallowed two.
After Quinn showered and made coffee, they drove south along the ocean from Quinn’s apartment in the Sunset district. Surfers in black wetsuits bobbed in clusters outside the breaker zone. The waves looked big and frothy, with a steady onshore wind brushing the ocean’s surface into a white scruff. Clusters of cars and pickup trucks lined the parking strip along the beach side of the road, and Cassidy imagined the thermoses of coffee, bags of donuts, and stacks of towels inside them awaiting the surfers’ return.
Another wave of sadness pulled her under, and her sore eyes sprouted more tears. She remembered their trip to Tofino and how broken she had felt then. If only she had jumped back into life the way he had after the avalanche, enjoyed every moment instead of pulling away. The thought of surfing without Pete—skiing without Pete—brought on another surge of pain and she sobbed into the wind, her heart splitting into a thousand pieces. Quinn gripped the steering wheel, his jaw flexing.
They passed shopping centers, golf courses, more views of the ocean. Cassidy watched them all pass as if detached. People were going about their business, driving in their cars, riding bikes, going shopping. It seemed surreal that the world could keep spinning.
The road curved up and into forest, then narrowed to two lanes.
“It should be just ahead,” Quinn said as they passed a mile marker.
Cassidy clung to her seat as they rounded a bend. Suddenly she didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to be here. But then a stripe of black on the pavement cut across traffic and disappeared down the embankment. Quinn drove past it, and Cassidy shut her eyes as the image of Pete going over the edge burst into her mind.
“What do you want me to do?” Quinn asked, his voice tight. “Should we turn around and I can try and pull off the road?”
Cassidy didn’t answer. She was too lost in the thought of Pete accelerating on this road—this very road—and how it all went wrong.
“This is stupid,” Quinn said, his voice frustrated. “I don’t think this is going to help you,” he added. The road descended into a beach town. Quinn exited off the highway and drove several blocks to the entrance of a beachfront parking lot.
He turned off the ignition and grabbed two coats from behind his seat. “Come on,” he said, stepping out of the car. “We’re getting out of here.”
“I don’t want to!” she cried.
Quinn came around the car and yanked her door open. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice stern but somehow still kind. He extended his hand. Reluctantly, she took it.
He helped her into a puffy coat. A blast of wind blew her long hair into her mouth and eyes. Pete pulled a wool hat over her head and tucked in the stray hairs. Then he took hold of her shoulders, and their eyes met.
“Better?” he said. “A little fresh air?”
Cassidy’s eyes teared up again.
Quinn pulled her into a hug. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”
Twenty
Eugene, Oregon
November 3, 2016
When the phone rang, Cassidy checked the number then put it down. She didn’t want to talk to Mark or to anyone besides Quinn.
But it was the third call in two days. With her stomach hardening, she picked up. “Hello,” she said, her voice sounding thin.
“Hey,” Mark’s voice murmured. “How are you?”
There was an awkward pause. “Um,” Cassidy said.
“Sorry, stupid question,” Mark said. “I’m sure you feel like shit, same as I do,” he sighed.
Cassidy gripped the phone.
“I got the invite for the funeral,” Mark said.
A feeling of
