The exhaustion of the flight consumes me, my overtired brain barely able to sleep amidst the noise that the other passengers make. There’s a kid crying a couple of rows down, and feeling sorry for the little guy, I assume his ears are popping from the altitude. Turns out Mommy dearest thought little Johnny needed to sleep, removing his iPad. The kid’s lost it, and so I have lost my will to live.
The couple beside me are nice enough—married and middle-aged. They kept to themselves, not forcing me into any awkward plane talk. Somewhere during the night, the wife leans over and whispers to her husband, who then returns a big smile. He stretches his arms, unbuckles his seatbelt, then heads toward the restroom.
A minute later, she follows.
The frequent mile-high clubbers.
I’m grossed out wanting to ask the flight attendant if I can switch seats. Whe
n they return, their faces are flushed, and I swear on my grandmother’s grave—something I rarely do—they smell of sex.
When the captain announces our descent into the airport, I can’t be any happier. I think I’ve just aged ten years.
I check into the hotel closest to the airport to have a quick shower and change into my black dress. I know I’ve missed the ceremony, but if the cabbie speeds up a little, I will just make the burial.
The cemetery’s in sight, small with luscious green lawns and well-kept tombstones.
I point out to the cab driver where people are gathered near the plot. Drew doesn’t have much family, so it’s mainly his dad’s friends paying their respects.
I pay the cabbie a twenty and step out. Taking a deep breath, I walk over to the crowd as my heels dig into the grass. Ballet flats would have been optimal, the ground a little damp from some overnight rain.
The closer I get, the tighter the knot forms in my stomach.
And then, I see him.
His back is facing me, and his posture is fallen over with his head down. I try my hardest to hold back the tears, dabbing the bottom of my lids so as to not smudge my eye makeup. Around me stand guests—women crying softly into their handkerchiefs and men holding on to them, trying their darnedest to be strong. It’s a sad day, one that I wish Drew wouldn’t have to go through alone.
You’re here.
Be here for your friend.
No matter what happened between us, my friend needs me, and I’m not going to let him down. With every ounce of strength I have in me, I walk toward him excusing myself as quietly as possible through the crowd until I am by his side.
In a bold move, I drop my hand and entwine my fingers into his. He doesn’t look up to face me, his eyes slowly moving to my hand. I don’t allow him to let go, trying to warm up his ice-cold skin.
And just before the priest says a prayer, he gently squeezes my hand.
He’s alive.
He has acknowledged my presence, and that’s the first step. A small part of me is terrified that this will kill him, which I’m sure it is, but in a way that he can move on from and continue his life.
Not in the way of losing all will to live.
Simon & Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water plays as the coffin is lowered into the ground. It was his dad’s favorite song. I remember him telling me he would sing it to Drew back home in Australia when he was just a baby.
While the song plays, I can’t hold back any longer, a single tear falling down my cheek as I keep my sniffs as silent as possible. It’s futile. Drew’s grip tightens, and his body begins to shudder. I wrap my arms around him wanting to shield him from the pain of watching his dad being buried. I don’t let go, not even when the music stops and only silence surrounds us. People begin to move forward, patting Drew on the back, and some others throw roses into the plot.
I wait patiently, without a word, and give Drew the time he needs. His persistent, dark stare at the tombstone begins to frighten me. With everyone almost gone besides a woman hovering, I open my mouth before quickly shutting back up as the woman walks over and calls his name. It seems to catch his attention, and judging by the way she looks at me and then him, I’m guessing it’s his latest squeeze.
“Drew,” she says calmly. “Are you ready to go now?”
My hand begins to slide away, not wanting to cause an argument between them, but Drew latches on even harder. Squeezing it so tight it begins to hurt.
“No,” is all he responds.
She appears persistent, resting her hand on his shoulder, still watching me with a curious eye. “I think it would be best to go. Everyone will be waiting.”
“Then go,” he yells back. “They can fucking wait for me.”