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Dennis dies on a Tuesday.
He knew it was coming. They both did. Doctrine of double effect. He was on so much pain medication, it’s no wonder that he stopped breathing. Dennis knew it was going to happen. Robby knew too. Had been the one to give him that final dose himself. He may be retired, but he always kept up with his license. Why he has no idea. Is glad, now, that he did. Because he was able to give Dennis the relief he needed. Was able to help him in those final moments, was there for him when he needed him most.
Meant that they didn’t have to have hospice coming in and out to help administer anything. Dennis’ doctor’s gave the orders, and he carried them out. Made sure he had everything he needed. Made sure he took his pills on time. Kept him as comfortable as he could. Held him when the pain got to be too much, dried his tears when he couldn’t hold them back anymore. Shushed him when he cried I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you have to do all this. Repeated, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be until Dennis believed it. Because it was the truth.
Dennis dies on a Tuesday.
Robby’s holding him when he does. Gives him that final dose of morphine, knows what it’ll mean. Tells himself it’s okay. Doctrine of double effect. Has always been okay with it before, always accepted it. But it’s different now. Because this time it’s Dennis. It’s the love of his life, looking at him with all the affection in the world. And he’s killing him. No, he isn’t, he knows he isn’t, knows that isn’t what this is. He’s not killing him, he’s helping his pain. Knows if there was any other way for him to do it, he would, in a heartbeat, but there isn't. Not anymore, not this advanced in the disease. Remembers, all those years ago, telling McKay in some cases, that could be the best outcome. Knows, somewhere deep down, that this is one such instance.
It’s been three years. Dennis is fifty-one. He made it to fifty, something Robby wasn’t sure was going to happen. But it did. And they’d had the biggest blowout party when he did because it was a minor miracle. But those years haven’t been kind to him. Have made it hard for him to breathe. Wheezes, most of the time now. Even has to use oxygen, sometimes. Just to be able to keep his SATs at a level that doesn’t give Robby heart palpitations. Is in pain, crippling pain, at all times. Which is why Robby does it, gives him the extra morphine approved by his doctor, should he need it, on top of his already high doses of pain meds, even knowing the likely outcome. Because he never could stand to see Dennis in any kind of pain, and twenty-three years together hasn’t changed that.
Dennis dies on a Tuesday.
Robby can almost convince himself he just falls asleep. It’s gradual, as the meds kick in. He gets sleepy, so sleepy. Snuggles into Robby’s chest, because he insisted he lie down with him. Want it to be in your arms, if it happens. Because Dennis is a doctor too, knew the risk, knew how it was likely to end, just as much as Robby did. And Robby has never been able to deny him anything in the twenty-three years they’ve been together, so he’d done as he wanted. Had crawled in with him, held him to his chest. Felt it, where their chests were pressed together, when his heart stopped. When his breath, labored as it was, stopped huffing against his neck. Laid there with him for he has no idea how long, curled around him, and sobbed.
Because Robby was always supposed to die first.
He didn’t, but he was supposed to.
“Robby? You ready to go?”
Jack’s voice brings him back to the present. Snaps him out of his memories. Jack. Right. The memorial service. Because Dennis died on a Tuesday and now it’s Saturday and the memorial is today. He doesn’t want to go. Knows how awful that sounds, that he doesn’t want to go to his own husband’s memorial. But he doesn’t. Because going means admitting that this isn’t all some horrible nightmare. Means admitting that it’s real and Dennis is gone and he isn’t coming back. Doesn’t want to do that. Wants it to be a nightmare. Wants it to be one so he can just fucking wake up already. Wants to wake up in bed with Dennis like the last three years never happened.
He’d be alive, healthy. Would smile at him, would kiss his knuckles like he did first thing every morning after they got married. And Robby, he’d press a kiss to his forehead, like he used to every morning. Their standard morning greeting. They’d kiss, slow and lazy, because Dennis has the day off. Would plan to go to the farmer’s market, maybe. Dennis loves the farmer’s market. Loved. And the past tense makes tears spring to his eyes. Because the last three years did happen, and Dennis is gone. There’ll be no farmer’s market today, only a memorial service he doesn’t want to go to.
Let's himself be led to the car. Gets in because Jack tells him to. Just like he got dressed because Jack told him to. Is wearing his hunter green suit, the one Dennis always loved him in. Looks down, sees that he’s wearing the cuff links Dennis got him as an anniversary present. The stethoscope ones. They make him let out a wet laugh. Traces a finger over them, remembers Dennis’ big, goofy grin when he gave them to him. He’d been so proud that he found something to get him that he didn’t already have. Robby made sure to wear them every chance he got. Remembers wearing them to a conference once, remembers someone complimenting them. Remembers the pride in his voice when he’d answered thank you, my husband got them for me.
The funeral home looks like it did last time he was here. Remembers coming with Dennis. Remembers him joking the benefit of knowing you’re dying is that you get to plan your own funeral. Doesn’t remember what all he planned. Just remembers staring at one of the open caskets. Remembers trying so fucking hard not to picture Dennis in it. Knows he won’t be. He’d opted for cremation. Only remembers that because the cremation had already happened. They’d asked if he’d wanted to be there. Doesn’t recall what he’d said, but he doesn’t think it was particularly nice. Can’t bring himself to care enough to feel bad.
Is grateful that Dennis already had everything planned. Means he doesn’t have to do anything but sit in a chair and stare. His urn is at the front of the room, nestled among some flowers. Daffodils, because Dennis loves, loved, daffodils. There’s some blue flowers too. Has no idea what they are. Does remember picking them out, though, because they match your eyes, sweetheart. Dennis had blushed a pretty shade of red at that. Ignores the way his chest aches. Looks to the photo they used, next to the urn. Dennis, on their wedding day. The most beautiful thing he’d ever set eyes on in his tux. Still thinks he is, even in a photo, all these years later.
Robby greets everyone as they come in. Barely pays them any mind. Is far too focused on the slideshow being projected behind where Dennis’ ashes sit. It’s a reel of all the best moments from the last twenty-some years of their life. The selfie they took on their first date. The candid Trinity took the day Dennis moved in with him, both of them eating pizza on unpacked boxes and staring at each other with all the fondness in the world. Every wedding photo, formal and informal. A selfie of them at the farmer’s market, coffees in hand. Dennis leaning against Robby in front of a banner that reads WE’LL MISS YOU the day he retired. Seems like every photo they ever took is currently being shuffled right in front of his face.
And not just of him and Dennis. There’s others too. Dennis and Trinity, both with mud masks on, beaming at the camera. A picture of a drunk Dennis in the backseat of Langdon’s minivan with the other Pittlings. A photo of McKay and Dennis in their street team jackets. Dennis and Javadi in Halloween costumes from five years ago. Doesn’t even remember anymore who they were meant to be, just remembers the way Dennis couldn’t stop cackling the whole night. Dennis on the couch with Jack and Mohan, all with Uno cards in their hands. Dennis, as a little kid, grinning into the camera with chocolate ice cream all over his face. Dennis and his brothers. A million memories, all playing out right in front of him.
There’s no single person set to speak. Anyone who wants to say something can. And Robby somehow forgot how many other people love his husband. Because it seems like everyone has a story to share. Is glad that they’re all happy ones. Ones designed to make everyone laugh. Because it’s what he wanted. What he asked for. I don’t want it to be a sad thing, ya know, I want it to be a party. So they make it one, as much as they can. Focus only on the happy memories, at least for now.
Trinity shares embarrassing roommate stories from when they lived together, including the one where she got Dennis drunk enough to admit to dating Robby. I’m pretty sure the phrase climb him like a tree was used, which makes everyone laugh, even though they’ve all heard it before. McKay tells the story about the time he ripped his pants while out with the street team. Dana starts hers with I called him bloodhound, do all of you know why, no, well let me tell you, and it makes Robby smile despite the situation. Finds himself smiling quite a bit, despite where they are and why they’re here.
It’s almost easy to pretend that they aren’t here because Dennis is gone. Almost. Because every so often, Robby finds himself turning to the seat next to him, looking for Dennis, only to find it empty. Dana says something he knows would have had him bright red, so he looks to see it, only to be met with the reminder that Dennis is gone. Is never going to blush again. Jack makes a joke, and Robby expects to hear Dennis’ laugh. Doesn’t. Is reminded that he won’t ever hear it again. Doesn’t, can’t, keep the tears down then. Doesn’t even try. Dana hands him a tissue, even as she laughs at the story Javadi is telling.
Before he knows it, the service is over. There’s no burial to follow. Because Dennis and him both decided they didn’t want that. I don’t want to be away from you. Everyone filters out. He stands by the door, accepts hugs and pats on the shoulder because he’s the widow and that’s what he’s supposed to do. Knows everyone is going out for a drink at the bar near the hospital. Knows he should join them. Dennis would want him to join them. Doesn’t. Waves off Jack when he offers to give him a ride. It isn’t a far walk. Thinks he could do with some fresh air anyway.
“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asks, as he approaches where Dennis’ urn rests, like he has after every social function for the last twenty-three years.
And for the first time in twenty-three years, there is no answer.
Scoops up the urn anyway. Tucks it under his arm. Exits the funeral home into the sun. Walks home with Dennis, like it’s any other Saturday. Holds his urn the way he used to hold his hand. Ignores the tears he can feel streaming down his face. Pretends not to see the sympathetic looks from people who recognize what it is he has in his hand. Walks home with the love of his life because it’s a beautiful day and he can. Only wishes the market was still open so he could swing by. Dennis loves the market.
Gets home, heads to the sofa. Knows he should eat something. Doesn’t. Isn’t hungry. He’ll eat later. Settles onto the couch. Lays on his side, tucks Dennis up against his front. Like he always has before. Out of habit, throws a blanket over them, because Dennis always seems to be cold. Curls himself around the urn, closes his eyes. Pretends, just for a second, that he’s still here. Even thinks he can hear him breathing, if he tries hard enough. Clutches the urn closer to him, turns his head into the pillow it rests on, and lets the first real sob of the day free.
Because Dennis died on a Tuesday and now it’s Saturday and Robby just wants his husband back.
***
Hears the door open, sometime later. Hears footsteps, slow and cautious. Doesn’t react. Knows he locked it when he got home. Which means whoever came in had a key. And only so many people do. Dana, Jack, Trinity. Knows it must be one of them. Doesn’t really care who. Hears a slight hitch in the person’s gait. Jack. It’s Jack.
“Thank fuck, you’re okay.”
Looks up at his words. Sees the concern, the worry plain on his face. Wonders why. Robby’s fine. Completely fine. Sits up, shifts the urn from next to him to his lap. Reaches for the remote to click off the TV. Has MythBusters on, because Dennis loves, loved, MythBusters. Turns it off as Jack enters the room. Still looks worried. Robby has no idea what to make of that. He’s fine. Totally fine. Pulls the blanket out of the way so Jack can plop next to him. Runs his fingers up and down the side of the urn, pretends for a second he can feel Dennis’ skin under his fingertips instead of the grain of the wood.
“No one’s heard from you since the funeral.”
“The funeral was yesterday.”
“The funeral was Saturday. It’s Wednesday.”
That, can’t be right. It’s only been a day. He’s pretty sure it’s only been a day. He’d know if it’d been four days. Hasn’t really eaten since the funeral, hasn’t been hungry. But if it’d been four days, he would be, right? Hasn’t slept more than a few hours here and there, but that’s cause it’s only been a day. It’s only been a day. Looks at Jack, sees the worry on his face. Realizes that he’s wrong. It has been four days. Realizes that Jack came in here expecting to find a body. Was expecting to find Robby, gone to be with Dennis.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t, I thought it was only…” trials off.
Jack nods, like he understands. Realizes that’s because he does. Lost Sarah, all those years ago. Remembers being the one in Jack’s place, back then. Remembers going to Jack’s because no one had heard from him. Remembers thinking he was going to find his best friend with a hole in his head. Didn’t, thank whoever you want to. Remembers the haunted look in his eyes, wonders if he has the same one now. Thinks he probably does. Wishes, for a second, that he was being haunted. At least then he could see him again.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I had a protein bar.”
“When?”
Robby makes a vague gesture with his hand because he doesn’t remember. Knows he ate one only because the wrapper is on the coffee table. Strawberry cheesecake, Dennis’ favorite. Is the only reason he ate it, because it was his favorite. Jack makes a noise, sends him a look he would call pity if it was anyone else. Knows it isn’t pity, not from Jack. Because Jack gets it. He’s been here, he understands. Knows Jack’s looking at him and seeing himself all those years ago.
“When did you last sleep?”
“Took a nap not too long ago.”
“A full eight?”
“No. Not since…” doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t have to.
“Robby.”
“I, I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
Hasn’t slept alone in twenty-three years. Doesn’t think he can do it. Doesn’t think he can crawl into bed, into their bed, and sleep. Hasn’t slept in that bed without someone else, without Dennis, in twenty-three years. Honestly thinks he’s forgotten how. At least out here, he can have the TV on. Can put on MythBusters and pretend that Dennis is just in the kitchen. Is still here, somewhere, even if he isn’t lying with him. Can’t do that in the bedroom. Will have to be alone with the silence, with the proof that Dennis isn’t there with him. And he can’t, he can’t do it. He just can’t.
“Come on, up.”
“Jack.”
“We’re gonna go get some sleep.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You did it for me, remember?”
He does. Remembers Jack, tears in his eyes, saying I don’t know how to do it by myself anymore, man. Remembers telling him he didn’t have to. Slept in the same bed as him that night, and every night after that for three months. Because Jack needed to sleep, and Robby needed his best friend alive.
“Now come on, a nap actually sounds pretty good right now.”
“Old man.”
“You're one to talk.”
The teasing, the banter, is nice. Feels, normal, for a second. It’s only until Robby pauses, waits for a laugh that won’t be there, that it feels less nice. Stands from the couch. Picks up the urn. Because he doesn’t think he’s capable of leaving it behind. Not now. Not yet. If Jack thinks it odd, he doesn’t say. Just leads the way to the bedroom. Is already in sweatpants and a t-shirt, as is Robby, so they don’t even bother changing before they crawl under the covers. Robby takes Dennis’ side, because letting someone else sleep there feels wrong in a way he can’t put into words. Besides, it still smells like him. Like his body wash and the cologne he used to use.
Jack settles into Robby’s side of the bed. Rolls to face away from the center. So does Robby. Tucks the urn into his front again. Turns his head into the pillow. Inhales, hard. Tears swell at Dennis’ scent, and he lets them fall. Knows Jack isn’t one to judge. Relaxes into the bed, clings to the urn. Closes his eyes. Hears Jack breathing. Is grateful for it. Makes it easier to pretend Dennis is there, when he can hear breaths that aren’t his own. Thinks he might even be able to sleep. Is about to drift off when he hears it.
“Robby?”
“Yeah?”
“He wouldn’t want you to do this, you know that, right?”
A pause, “Yeah, I know.”
“Promise me you’ll try?”
“I promise.”
***
Robby chooses to die on a Tuesday.
He does try. Honest, he does. Spends the next month doing nothing but trying. He spends a lot of time in the garden. Because Dennis loves, loved, the garden, and the thought of it wilting away now that he’s… Robby can’t handle it. So he goes out twice a day to water. Weeds, when it needs it. Makes sure to keep the plants alive, as if that changes the fact that Dennis…
Goes to the farmer’s market too, every Saturday. Gets a coffee from the same stand they have for years. Pretends not to see the pity on the woman’s face, the first time he shows up alone. Because they’d been going, even when Dennis was sick. And now he’s alone, and she knows what that means. Is thankful she doesn’t mention it. Because he’s already two seconds away from bursting into sobs, or screaming, just being there. Thinks if she’d said something like I’m so sorry he would have lost it. Takes his coffee, some sugary abomination that he can’t stand, but Dennis would have loved, and leaves. Walks around while he sips it, fists a hand in his jacket, pretends it’s Dennis' hand he’s holding instead.
Eats, three meals a day. Because Dennis always hated it when he skipped meals. Remembers back when they were working together. How he used to fuss and hover whenever he didn’t eat for too long. How he got Dana to keep an eye on him, too, would rat on him to Dennis whenever he skipped eating in order to run around helping. Thinks of Tupperware containers in the break room fridge with for my love, and you better eat it >:( written on top in Dennis’ chicken scratch. No one ever questioned who they were for, they just knew.
Digs out Dennis’ cookbooks, the ones he collected over the years. Spends time cooking all the meals he used to make for them. Makes funeral potatoes first, a little for the irony, but mostly because Dennis made them at least once a week. We lost people this week, so it’s okay to eat them, like he had to justify it. Makes pot roast from Dennis’ grandma’s recipe, invites Jack and Samira over to share it with him. Uses his Bubbe’s recipe for brisket, the one Dennis made every Friday night. Invites Dana over to share it. Knows she understands being alone, Benji having passed a year before Dennis. Cooks because Dennis showed love with food, so Robby sees him in every meal. Feels a little like he’s still there, when he eats a meal they shared a million times.
He tries. Honest, he does.
Except, Dennis isn’t still there. No amount of tater tot casserole and pierogi will change that. Still finds himself looking for him, even a month later. Wakes up after falling asleep on the couch, already reaching for a body that isn’t there with him. Turns while he’s cooking, can you hand me the- on his lips, only to stop when he remembers he’s the only one in the kitchen. Almost forgets to fertilize the plants that month, because Dennis isn’t there to remind him. Everywhere he looks, everything he does is just another reminder that he’s alone. That Dennis is gone, and he’s not coming back.
It’ll get easier. Or at least that’s what Jack tells him, when he stops by a few times a week to make sure he’s alright. Naps with him, when he’s here. Because Robby still can’t sleep alone. Isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to. Uses Dennis’ body wash, his cologne too, just so the sheets still smell like him. Knows he’d get even less sleep, if his scent disappeared. Barely gets any now, when Jack’s not there. When he can’t hear someone else breathing. Two hours, if he’s lucky, before he’s jolting awake to the memory of Dennis’ last breath. Or because he thinks he hears him calling for him, needing him.
He tries. Honest, he does.
But, but he can’t do this. He’s only seventy-eight. Knows he could live another twenty years. Doesn’t want to. Can’t. Can’t do this for another twenty years, ten years, five years. Doesn’t want to do this for another day. Because Dennis is gone and he’s not coming back. And Robby, Robby only planned to be here until Dennis was gone, and now he is. Doesn’t see the point in staying around after. Not when the only thing worth living for isn’t here. Knows that isn’t what Dennis would want, but that’s okay. He’s not here to know, which is kind of the whole problem, isn’t it? Because Robby is staring down the rest of his life without him and he, he can’t do it.
Because Robby was always supposed to die first.
He didn’t, but he was supposed to.
Gets his affairs in order. Is more organized, more meticulous than he was all those years ago. Back when he thought his sabbatical was going to end with his brains on the pavement. Back when he thought a free fall from a cliff sounded like a good way to go. A nice ending to a life he never felt he deserved. Chuckles, because it was Dennis, way back when, that saved him. Kept texting him, every day, asking how he was, updating him about the ED, about his day. Showed him that people missed him, were thinking of him. Showed him that, even though they could do it without him, they still wanted him there. That they needed him, that Dennis needed him. Gave him a reason to come home.
Sees the irony in it, he does. That the same man who saved him twenty-something years ago is the reason he’s doing what he is now. It isn’t lost on him. But the way he sees it, he’s been living on borrowed time anyway. He was supposed to die, alone on the road. Didn’t because an angel came and saved him. Guided him home. Gave him twenty-three of the best years of his life. But that angel is gone now, the protection he offered disappearing with him. This is just Robby righting a wrong. Because he should have died years ago, and it was only by the grace of one Dennis Whitaker that he didn’t.
Robby chooses to die on a Tuesday.
Chooses a Tuesday because it feels right. Dennis asked him out for the first time on a Tuesday. They got engaged on a Tuesday. He died on a Tuesday. Seems only right for Robby to do the same. Not to mention, Jack usually stops by on Tuesday nights. Tuesday is “girls’ night,” so Samira is busy. Which means Jack comes over for a beer and to let Robby catch up on sleep. Means he won’t be gone long, before someone finds him. Hates that it’ll be Jack that does, but it can’t be helped. Besides, he knows he’ll understand. Knows he won’t hate him for it.
Leaves a folder of paperwork on the kitchen island for him. Leaves almost all of it to Jack. Trusts him to manage it all well. Inside is everything he should need. Usernames and passwords for every important thing he could think of. The title to the house, the one for his car. The Bonnie’s too. Puts his will in there. A list of realtors he’s already scoped out, in case he wants to sell the house. Suggests giving it to Jake, if he wants it, knows he might not, after Robby, well, after. Proof that he has no outstanding debts, just in case. His funeral plans, includes those too.
Bank information for all the accounts. The savings, the one he intended to leave for Dennis, because Robby was supposed to fucking die first. Has no plans for it now, tells Jack in the note he leaves to use it however he sees fit. Maya, Samira and Jack’s daughter is only fifteen, but college is coming up fast. Knows she wants to go to med school like her Mom and Pop, knows how expensive that is. Let her start off with no debt, if she can. Jake’s account information is in there, too, the one Jake doesn’t even know about. Wanted him taken care of, when Robby was gone. Set it up when he was still a teenager. Has been putting money in it, letting the interest grow. Hopes it helps him.
Leaves a note on the door. Jack, don’t come in, just call 911 – Robby. Knows Jack’ll know what it means. Can only hope he listens to it. That he doesn’t come in. Doesn’t have to see him, after. Doesn’t have to carry that image in his head. Knows from late-night chats and rooftop conversations that he already carries the memory of too many dead friends. Doesn’t want to add another. Better to have someone else do it instead. Hopes he heeds the warning. Knows, somehow, deep down, that he won’t. Puts the note up anyway.
Goes to the bedroom. The urn is already there, on the bed. Ready. So are the pills, on the nightstand, next to a bottle of whiskey. Huffs a laugh again, because irony. They’re Dennis’ pills. He had trouble sleeping, towards the end. Couldn’t get to sleep because of the pain, because breathing was so hard. His doctor prescribed him some sleeping pills to help. Dennis hated taking them, though, said they made him feel wrong. Only used them when he really had to. Means there’s plenty left over. Makes this easier for Robby. Ignores how it feels like a betrayal, using what was meant to help Dennis to hurt himself.
Crawls into bed. Gets comfortable, like it matters. Dumps the pills into his hand. Doesn’t bother counting how many there are. Knows it’s enough. Throws them in his mouth, chases them with the whiskey. Takes a few extra swallows, because he can. Puts the bottle back on the table. Lies down, on his side. Curls around the urn. Closes his eyes. Thinks about how he won’t have to pretend much longer. Soon, he’ll be with Dennis again. Has no idea what the afterlife looks like. Has no idea what he believes happens when you die, just knows Dennis’ll be there, waiting for him. Knows Dennis is too stubborn not to be.
Hopes he gets to see his Bubbe again. His Zayde, too. Hopes they aren’t mad at him, for doing this. Thinks, though, his Bubbe will understand, after she meets Dennis. Will understand why he couldn’t live without him. Hopes she does. Remembers, when he was thirteen, one of the members of Rodef Shalom did what he’s doing. Remembers saying, voice small, I thought it was wrong to do that. Remembers his Bubbe’s hand on his shoulder, her voice calm when she answered, there’s all kinds of illnesses in the world, Michael, we don’t blame someone with cancer when they lose the fight, and we shouldn’t blame someone whose brain is sick when they do the same. Thinks she'll forgive him now, like she forgave that man then.
Blinks, eyes heavy. The pills are starting to work now. He can feel it. Good. That’s good. Thought he’d be more scared. Realizes he’s not. Just wants it to be over. Just wants to see Dennis again. Misses him, more than he thought it was possible to miss someone. Hugs the urn tighter, closes his eyes. Feels his heart rate slowing down, his breathing doing the same. Knows it won’t be much longer. Soon, soon sweetheart. Tries to open his eyes, to look at the alarm clock, to see how much time has passed. Finds he can’t. Just keeps them closed. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. Knows it won’t be much longer now. His pulse decreases further, respiration too.
Hears, for the first time in five weeks, Dennis laugh.
***
Jack saw this coming.
He pretended he didn’t, but he did.
Knew this was going to end this way from the second Dennis died. No, he knew before that, too. From the second they got the diagnosis, he knew there was only one way this story was going to end. Tried his best to prevent it. To be there for Robby, the way he was for him when he lost Sarah. Tried to keep his head above water long enough for him to realize he could still swim, even if he was doing it alone. Knew, even as he was doing it, it wasn’t going to work.
Sees the note on the door. Jack, don’t come in, just call 911 – Robby. Ignores it, enters the house anyway. Because he already carries so many dead friends with him, what’s one more. The house is silent, completely silent when he enters. There’s no TV on, no music, nothing. Nothing playing to distract Robby from the fact that he’s the only one here. Knows what that means, doesn’t let himself believe it. Because maybe he’s just sleeping. Knows he isn’t. Because Jack wasn’t there, and he always sleeps on the couch with MythBusters reruns playing when he tries to sleep alone. Tries to trick himself into thinking Dennis is just in the other room.
Goes down the hall. Cracks the door to the bedroom open. Spots a lump on the bed, knows it’s Robby. He’s curled on his side, and Jack doesn’t have to look to know what it is he’s curled around. Approaches the bed, checks for a pulse he knows he won’t find. Does it anyway. Holds out hope that he’s wrong. He isn’t. Spots the open whiskey on the nightstand, the empty pill bottle. Wonders how late he is. If he could have stopped him. Talked him down. Knows he couldn’t have. Knows Robby would have timed it that way on purpose.
“Say hi to Whitaker for me, brother, tell him we miss him.”
Pats Robby’s shoulder, once. Leaves the bedroom. Walks to the kitchen. Knows he needs to call the authorities. Needs to report it. Tries to count how many times he’s done this now. Answered 911, what’s your emergency with I need to report a suicide, my friend, he’s gone. Too many. Too many times. Curses Robby, for making him be the one to find him. Also knows he wouldn’t want it to be any other way. Stumbles into the kitchen, pulls his phone from his pocket to call. Stops, when he spots it. An envelope with his name written on it in Robby’s serial killer handwriting. Next to it is a manila envelope. Curiosity piqued, he puts his phone on the counter. Opens the letter. Reads.
Jack,
I’m sorry. I know you’re probably pissed at me right now. It’s okay, you can be, I deserve it. Know I really did try. I just, I need him.
Don’t get more mad, but I’m leaving most of it to you. There’s an account for Jake, make sure he gets what’s in it. The other one, do what you want with it. Maya has college coming up, use it for that, if you want. Tell her Uncle Robby thinks she’ll make an amazing doctor. Tell her I’m sorry I won’t be there to see her graduate. Tell her I love her.
The envelope has everything you need. Sell the house, if Jake doesn’t want it. I’d prefer to keep it in the family, but I know he might not want it after. If you sell it, give the money to PTMC. The ED can always use the funding.
I had no siblings growing up, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a brother.
Remember, I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.
- Robby
And before Jack calls 911, he lets himself cry. Tells Robby wherever he is now I love you, you’re welcome, I forgive you, please forgive me too.