Rekindle

30

The ends tied up in the coming weeks. Tom had fled to Canada with a "friend" who would definitely "help him out" (aka, running back to his mother). Alex and that girl he'd been seeing finally started dating instead of just having sex. Dexter settled down, details to come.

Perhaps most importantly, Asher forgot he'd never shown me "the haul." He dragged me to the laundry room, making me face the safe that kept their money. Sort of. Crates of green covered the entire wall, stacked to the ceiling. I'd never seen so much money in one place before, not even on TV. We could make goddamn furniture out of the stuff.

"We couldn't even take all of it," Asher said, chuckling. "Anderson was such an idiot."

I stared mesmerized, still not sure if it was all real. "Why?"

He walked out. "Passcode was his birthday."

Left alone, I remained fixated on the money. I still had the counterfeit marker, so I could check the validity if I really wanted to. But, for a moment, I just wanted to believe it was all real. That the entire thing was all real and I wasn't comatose in a hospital, or flat-out, flatline dead. I wrapped my finger around a single hair and plucked to make sure, feeling the sting. Yep. Real.

It was hard to think about Bridget in the days following the wind down. Knowing I had killed her was tough, impossibly tough still. I did break apart and panic often, but Asher did his best to calm me down. I commended the effort, although he didn't quite know how to be empathetic yet. He tried to tell me it was okay that I had killed her, because she abused me mentally and physically and almost killed me twice anyway. I cried a little harder. Alex called, "Goddammit Ash, let me help her."

I just couldn't bring myself to vindicate it that way, though it was reasonable. Self defense? Was that my motive? Maybe, but there was something I could've done to save her instead of take her life. There was some glimmer of good left in her, one gossamer strand of virtue buried deep: the part of her I had loved. Once.

Yet I wouldn't remember her for the bad moments. I owed it to myself to remember Bridget for making my childhood bearable, for those moments back at the mansion when things were alright. Getting drunk those few times wasn't bad. Dandelion picking and playing in the woods was pleasant, day after day in sundresses and braids. She had it in her; everything else had just corrupted her mind past the edge of reserve.

Dexter dropped in every now and then. We had a nice talk a week after it all, sitting in kitchen late one evening. Alex and his girlfriend—Asher refused to use the term—were out and about.

"What's happened to the enterprise?" I'd asked, taking a sip of hot tea. It tasted good, even without the alcohol that I was used to.

"I don't know. Chaos'll probably erupt soon enough," Dexter replied, mixing his own tea up. "Someone's going to take over."

My stomach sank in disappointment, but I knew that was the answer. The drug industry would never die. The life of dealing with those people, of dealing with any more drug business at all was completely done for me, for all of us, but the fuel wouldn't ever run out. Humanity will forever and always be looking for a temporary thrill, a crutch, or anything else to take away pain, because it's a godawful world we live in. I found it sad the more I thought about it, though. They believed the only way to be happy was to alter their state of mind. And that sucked, because the world has just as much beauty as it does misery, and to not be awake to see it all was a waste of the short time we have here.

A click of a lighter sounded, flame ignited in front of Asher's mouth. Cigarette, of course. Smoke curled up into the air, and I watched the moving art show with glum fascination.

"Hey, give it," Asher said, reaching across the table. Dexter had plucked the cigarette from his hand, holding it out of reach. Ash pursed his lips in frustration. "C'mon."