It Ends With Us //Copy & Paste//

Chapter 1

As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking downfrom twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can't help but thinkabout suicide.Not my own. I like my life enough to want to see it through.I'm more focused on other people, and how they ultimately cometo the decision to just end their own lives. Do they ever regret it? In themoment after letting go and the second before they make impact,there has to be a little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do theylook at the ground as it rushes toward them and think, "Well, crap.This was a bad idea."Somehow, I think not.I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I just—twelve hours earlier—gave one of the most epic eulogies the peopleof Plethora, Maine, have ever witnessed.

 Okay, maybe it wasn't themost epic. It very well could be considered the most disastrous. I guessthat would depend on whether you were asking my mother or me. Mymother, who probably won't speak to me for a solid year after today.Don't get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasn't profoundenough to make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered atMichael Jackson's funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs's sister.Or Pat Tillman's brother. But it was epic in its own way.I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious AndrewBloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine.Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits.Husband of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most reveredteaching assistant in all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloom—thatstrange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with ahomeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family.That would be me.

 I'm Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father.As soon as I finished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a flightstraight back to Boston and hijacked the first roof I could find. Again,not because I'm suicidal. I have no plans to scale off this roof. I justreally needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I can't get thatfrom my third floor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access anda roommate who likes to hear herself sing.I didn't account for how cold it would be up here, though. It's notunbearable, but it's not comfortable, either. At least I can see thestars. Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionableeulogies don't feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough toliterally feel the grandeur of the universe.I love it when the sky makes me feel insignificant.I like tonight.Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately reflectsmy feelings in past tense.I liked tonight.But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, Iexpect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. 

The doorslams shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I don'teven bother looking up. Whoever it is more than likely won't evennotice me back here straddling the ledge to the left of the door. Theycame out here in such a hurry, it isn't my fault if they assume they'realone.I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stuccowall behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful,introspective moment out from under me. The least the universecould do for me today is ensure that it's a woman and not a man. IfI'm going to have company, I'd rather it be a female. I'm tough formy size and can probably hold my own in most cases, but I'm toocomfortable right now to be on a rooftop alone with a strange man inthe middle of the night. I might fear for my safety and feel the needto leave, and I really don't want to leave. As I said before . . . I'mcomfortable.I finally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaningover the ledge.

road shoulders create astrong contrast to the fragile way he's holding his head in his hands. Ican barely make out the heavy rise and fall of his back as he drags indeep breaths and forces them back out when he's done with them.He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplatespeaking up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat,but between thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around andkicks one of the patio chairs behind him.I flinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isn'teven aware he has an audience, the guy doesn't stop with just onekick. He kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than giveway beneath the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scootfarther and farther away from him.That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer.I once watched my father back over an outdoor patio table made ofmarine-grade polymer, and it practically laughed at him.