Lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, the worst thing happens. The doorbell rings. It's late, but I still answer the bell before I think better of it and slam the door shut. There's a man on the other side, his face hidden behind sunglasses and the hood of his coat pulled over his head. I recognize him as the young punk I saw at the bar last night. He's wearing different clothes now, and he looks nervous in spite of himself.
"Hey, um... I'm sorry to bother you, but..."
He's holding a plastic bag with all kinds of stuff in it. A CD case, a guitar strap, a couple cans of spray paint, a pack of cigarettes. Everything that belonged to my best friend and one-time boyfriend. I stare at it dumbly for several seconds.
"...Are you Lucy?"
I nod.
"Lucy? I thought you'd have changed your name. Anyway, you were a pretty hot little singer, really underrated. I love your music."
"Thank you?" I manage to say. I don't even care that my voice sounds hoarse and broken. I feel like I could sleep forever.
"Yeah. You're a good guy. I heard you guys played together once, right? At a bar called the Music Box? I just moved here from New York, maybe you could get them back together again and do one more. Just something acoustic."
"They broke up a long time ago," I mumble. "We don't play anymore."
"Ah." He nods knowingly. "Well, I brought these from CJ's place. I'm a friend of his, I can give them to you."
His hand holds out the plastic bag of my ex's belongings and I stare at it as if it's toxic waste. Slowly I reach out to take it. His eyes are fixed on mine, and when I look back down to the floor my mind is blanking out and my words fall through my lips. "What happened to CJ?" I ask quietly. My fingers touch the bag and I pull it closer, like I can cling to it with my fingernails. Like I need to hold onto anything to keep me standing upright.
"Jesus, Lucy," he mutters.
"What happened to him?" I repeat.
The silence between us seems to stretch on and on. The only sound in my apartment is me breathing and the faint ringing of Cassie's phone. My hands shake as I slowly unfold the plastic, and as I lift it to examine the items inside I remember what I found at the police station that night. What I wanted to protect so badly.
CJ's cell phone. He must've left it at the scene of the crime when they took him away. I picture him sitting there on that stool, saying goodbye to me while the cops put handcuffs around his wrists. I feel sick, and I'm so angry that I think I might throw up.
A green T-shirt with the word 'Dirt' written across it. His collection of favorite CDs. His leftover spray paints... The contents of the plastic bag spill over themselves when I pick them up. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. Tears well up behind my eyelids, but I force them back.
"Where did they find him?"
"At the bus stop. Someone noticed there was blood on the sidewalk and saw what looked like a body lying next to it. Some guy who lives nearby said that they'd seen some other people running away from the scene, but he wasn't sure if it was two or three of them. So we're looking for this car, you know? We don't really have much else for now. But... uh..."
He trails off. He isn't sure how to explain all this without sounding suspicious. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which he thrusts at me.
"We found this in his room, didn't read the whole thing but it seems like something meant for you years ago that must've just... never been delivered."
I feel my knees go weak, and I think I have to sit down. I press the note against my forehead and try not to cry too hard. I feel like I'm going to choke. I don't want anyone to see. I don't even care that I look like a mess.
"I don't—I don't—"
"Look, I don't really know what's going on, either. All I know is that you're a good guy and I figured you could maybe use a friend right now."
"Thank you," I whisper.
He stands awkwardly by the door, staring at me. "You need to come to the station sometime to talk about it," he says after a long pause. "If you don't mind, that is."
"Yes," I say numbly. "Sure."
"Are you okay? You don't look good."
"No," I lie. "It's nothing."
"Uh-huh," he says skeptically. "Is anyone else here with you? Maybe you should call somebody to stay with you tonight."
"No. It's fine. Really."
"Okay, then. Look, if you change your mind, here's my number. If you can get yourself to the station tomorrow, let me know. And... I'm sorry." He turns to leave and hesitates at the doorway. "Lucy?"
My name is so soft and distant it sounds like it came from another world.
"Yeah?" I ask, hoarse and unsteady.
"Take care. Okay?"
"I will," I promise.
The front door shuts, leaving me alone in my apartment with the empty bottle of vodka, a bunch of my ex's leftover things, and my broken heart.
I stand up and pull the plastic baggie close. I see the old note still sitting on top of everything, so I decide I might as well read it now and get it over with. I wonder what years-ago CJ had to say to me. I unfold it gingerly, like I'll destroy it if I open it otherwise.
Dear Lucy:
First of all, I don't blame you at all for our breakup. I wasn't always the best boyfriend. There were times when I was selfish and cruel. I'm not proud of it.
But despite it all, I loved you and I love you still. I hope that one day when we both grow up a little more and are wiser, you might find it in your heart to forgive me. I'm scared and confused and sad and lonely but please believe me when I tell you that I never stopped loving you. I think about you every day and sometimes, when it's been real quiet lately and I miss hearing your voice, I imagine what it would be like if I was there to hold you. That makes me feel better.
Goodbye, baby. Take care. I love you.
CJ.
P.S. Don't worry. The painting is safe.
I fold it back up and place it on top of his other stuff. Then, without really thinking about why, I take off my T-shirt and pull on one of his from the plastic bag.
I have trouble sleeping that night. I keep seeing his face in the darkness.
I dream that he is lying in his bed in the hospital, looking just like he did in life. But he isn't breathing, and there's something wrong with his chest. I run to him, screaming.
"I was dreaming that you'd died," I whisper, cradling his head in my lap. "I woke up and you weren't here."
He opens his eyes slowly. They look glassy and faraway.
"Don't leave me again, Luce," he whispers, his lips trembling. His breath is warm on my hand.
I hold him nearer and kiss him gently. He tastes like pain and blood.
"Don't go anywhere, Charlie," I promise. "Not ever again. Ever."
"You don't have to ask me twice," he says. "And don't call me that."
He reaches out and cups the side of my face between his large hands. It's not the touch of an angry man or a cruel lover—it is gentle, tender, full of longing. I lean into it, pressing myself against him. My heart flutters and tugs.
"Oh, god," I moan, barely able to speak. "It's good to hear your voice."
"Stop talking," he says hoarsely. "Just shut up."
"Okay," I answer softly, letting my mouth touch his, tasting everything about this boy who was once my boyfriend.
But I have to wake up.
I push away from him and open my eyes to see the dark ceiling above me.
For a moment I wonder if it is some kind of hallucination.
In the morning, when I reach for the note, it's gone.