Fall to Pieces - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,19

glasses of whiskey. That’s a lot for a small woman. I’d sure as hell be feeling like shit tomorrow if I drank that right now.

She still has a pinched squint to her eyes as she drinks the whiskey down as fast as her throat will allow.

“You’re sick, August,” May tells her. “I’m taking you home. Let’s go.”

“Not yet, I’m not,” she replies.

Chapter Ten

August

I’ve been dreading this moment. I doubt anyone looks forward to a funeral, but sometimes people find closure or comfort in companionship and sympathy.

I don’t want any of that. But I must be strong in front of Keegan’s family, which I don’t want to do either.

Selfish or not, I just want it to be over.

Every Time I’ve attended a funeral the weather has been windy and cold or rainy. Today, though, the sun is shining without so much as a breeze. It seems like an anomaly. I always thought the world was sad when losing a soul, bidding a farewell with a gust of air and teardrops falling from the sky. Now, I must wonder if the world or whatever higher power controls the weather feels any sadness for Keegan. Maybe the world doesn’t respond when someone decides on their demise.

Lenny, Keegan’s father, offered to have their limo pick me up this morning, but I opted out. I don’t want to show up an hour early to greet people. I don’t want to stand in a receiving line, hugging the necks of strangers, or worse, shaking the hands of silent accusers. I’m not a part of the family; I was Keegan’s lifelong girlfriend, that’s it.

I take my oversized black tweed clutch from the tufted cushion-top of the entryway storage bench. The checklist of what I need to bring with me is flashing through my head, and I have everything I need except for one item.

My heels click against the hollow-sounding Pergo wood floor, echoing loudly between the walls as I make my way into the kitchen. I slide open the silverware drawer and reach behind the compartmentalized containment of utensils, retrieving the silver flask Keegan received for being a groomsman at Lenny’s wedding a few years ago. Lenny had his initials engraved onto the side: K A L. I run my fingertips over the coarse etching, feeling numb. It was the worst gift he could have received, but his dad didn’t know Keegan had a problem. I hid Keegan’s issues from his Dad, stepmom, and brother, but I suspect they might have known. After all, he inherited his problem with alcohol from his mother. It was in her genes, and she graciously handed down to him preceding her untimely death. Losing his precious wife to alcoholism should have been enough of a reason to think of a different gift than a flask for Keegan, but Lenny doesn’t feel too deeply about that kind of stuff.

Since I didn’t share Keegan’s secrets with everyone, his suicide looks like it was due to unhappiness. There’s an invisible finger pointing at me, one I can sense through every phone call I’ve endured this past week. It wasn’t me who made Keegan unhappy. It was Keegan who made himself sad.

I just lit the match.

I told him we, as a couple, would be over when he was all better.

I didn’t give him a choice.

The paper bag I set down on the counter last night is still sitting in front of the microwave, waiting for consumption. To notice the liquor bottles that stare at me from every direction is part of the process—a way to numb the pain. This lie is what I force myself to believe while staring at the blinking green numbers on the microwave, remembering I never reset the clock after the power flickered last week. Keegan would have usually taken care of that despite his lack of participating in upkeep around here.

I remove the Old Crow Reserve from the brown bag and twist the top, waiting to hear the snap of the seal. The scent of spiced pear drifts out of the bottle, tickling the inside of my nose. I twist the cap off the flask and fill it with the amber liquid from the bottle.

I seal the flask and slip it into my clutch, leaving little room for my phone and keys.

For a moment, my mind fixates on the whiskey and masks my thoughts of the funeral.

I lock up the apartment and head down the back stairwell toward the residential parking spaces.

“This is how you would have handled this situation,