Autumn Passing

Chapter One

Why bother tyring to save this world gone wrong

Tip your hat, raise your glass, and say 'so long.' 

 

 When I get bored at parties, I stand in the corner of the room and think of ways I could kill myself with only the objects in the room.

I’m at one of these parties right now – a boring run of the mill office party that I was going to skip out on but Eric, my best friend and co-worker practically dragged me out of my apartment to get me here. I don’t want to be here, I would much rather be at home watching the game on television than watching the fake smiles and happiness that everyone doesn’t have for each other.

Nobody cares that the boss’s wife is pregnant, but they all stand around her and coo and talk to her stomach as if the kid gives a damn that some random underling is saying how he’s going to be as wonderful as his daddy.

What a bunch of brownnosers.

One immaculately dressed woman steps into the room, all four inches of stilettos’, miles and miles of fake tan and a sparkly red dress that looks like it came straight from Satan’s Christmas tree. She’s carrying a black clutch that has sharp edges and I find myself imagining running the pointy border across my wrists. I’m sure if I bled all over her, it would make a difference. My blood would blend in with her dress and no one would be the wiser.

I’m usually not this dark, but when it comes to generic holiday music, standard niceties, and the run of the mill bullshit that occurs, I just want to run into a butter knife over and over again.

The immaculately dressed woman laughs loudly and throws her head back. Her French twist doesn’t move an inch and I wonder how long it took her to make it stay like that. A nuclear bomb could go off and I don’t think her hair would fall out of place.

A nuclear bomb…I wonder if there’s one in this room.

The mail clerk looks fat enough to conceal a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe we can nip the War on Terror in the butt right now.

“Justin, you having a good time?” Eric questions as he sidles up next to me with a beer in each hand. I grab the one he offers me and take a huge swig of the stuff. Anything to numb me so I don’t have to deal with the fake, smiling faces. I try to hide rolling my eyes as he waves hello to Sally, one of our co-workers on our floor who is currently flailing her left hand around violently so the diamond ring on her finger will catch in the light. I silently wonder if I could kill myself by poking my eyes out with the emerald cut engagement ring that’s been sparkling like the fucking New Year’s Eve Ball in Times Square.

 

“Wonderful,” I state calmly.

 

A woman’s chain necklace glows across the dance floor. I could easily hang myself with it by tying it to the disco ball in the center of the room. How’s that for some holiday entertainment.

I’m about to give Eric some lame ass excuse to get the hell away from all the people when our boss – the elusive and yet always looming Mr. Nigel Burns glides over to stand beside us.

“Eric! Justin! I haven’t spoken to you all night! I hope things are going well?” Eric and I both know to take this as a rhetorical question since Burns isn’t going to shut the hell up for another twenty minutes. “I wanted to talk to you about the Van Hossmere contract. We really need to get them to renew with us when their contract ends…”

I immediately tune him out and look out across the room. We have one of these lame ass Christmas parties every year. Burns manages to get some nice conference room booked in a nice hotel in the nice part of Los Angeles. Nice, nice, nice.  He hires a catering service, if we’re lucky enough a good DJ, and a killer sound system so he can make drunken toasts close to the end of the party.

My eyes land on Lisa Compton, one of the new assistant agents. She’s leaning against the table where some of the appetizers and drinks are set up. This is her first Christmas party and she’ll learn not to wear those kind of low cut tops around for these parties. Even now I want to stride across the room and push my face in between her enormous cleavage. Maybe, just maybe, I can smother myself to death before anyone registers that I’m committing sexual harassment in the workplace.

“…so you need to make sure that Paramount won’t give Van Hossmere shit when it comes to landing a good deal on the picture…” Burns’s voice is getting louder and he’s drawing more people into our little three-person triangle.

It’s quickly becoming a small mob and I really don’t want to have people ask me my opinion on some of the newer clients or what I have in store for our more veteran actors and writers.

Working for Burns Agency for the past six years has been a trying task, but I’m one of the senior agents and some consider me to be Nigel’s right hand man. If I was seated at the right hand of the boss then Eric was most definitely on the left. Our grunt work helped Nigel put his fledgling agency on the map – especially after Angelina and Brad moved over after their old agencies advised against them adopting another kid from another country. We managed to tell them that we didn’t give a fuck if they adopted the whole world; their personal life was their business and we wouldn’t shove ourselves into it unless it screwed up their projects or the kids were getting abused or neglected.

If you’ve ever met Brangelina (which you probably haven’t) you know the abuse and neglect would never, ever happen.

“And I’d just like to congratulate you Justin, now that we have more ears listening, for helping Robert Downey Junior to make a stunning comeback in his career…” I closed my eyes and looked down at my feet as everyone began to applaud. Congratulatory slaps on the back knocked the wind out of me for a moment and I gave Eric a pleading look. If there’s one thing I hate more than anything else in the world it’s a shit ton of attention.

As long as I get my cut of the money when I land a client a deal, I won’t complain. The attention is something I don’t really care for. Being one of the most powerful agent’s in Hollywood – sure that’d be something to put on the resume, but I don’t want to be made partner in Nigel’s firm – that would be Eric’s gig.

I continue to throw Eric pathetic looks and he finally draws attention away from me by announcing to the whole group that he has a fantastic story about the day when one of his star clients – a teen heartthrob – called him up from jail because he had been arrested for doing something inappropriate with a Satsuma. Using this opportunity, I duck away and walk towards the far corner of the room.

The amount of people shoved into this medium sized convention room is really starting to get to me. The musky smell of perfume and cologne trying to mask body odor is permeating and making me nauseous and I suddenly wish I had turned down Eric’s offer of beer. Everything is suffocating and I can either allow myself to be smothered to death, or I can go get some fresh air.

Opting for the later, I make a beeline for the giant double doors and out into the hallway. I walk straight past the elevators and open the door for the stairs. I know if I go to the bottom floor I’ll just end up leaving the hotel and I don’t want to do that just yet. Besides, my coat is still in the coatroom and I don’t want to leave it behind – it’s very expensive.

Instead, I opt to head on up to the roof of the building. I start to climb up the two stories that will take me to the eighth and top floor of this rather ritzy hotel. I’m not going to stay up there long, I just want some fresh air and some time to clear my head.

I reach the top of the stairs and easily find the door that will take me out onto the roof. Taking a breath I let my hand fold around the handle and push it open before stepping outside.

 The night is chilly but not overly cold for a December Christmas party. At once I can see the lights from faraway buildings twinkling just at the horizon of the building’s ledge. One spot is blacked out, however, by a small figure sitting on the ledge, staring out at the landscape.

She turns around slightly to see who is behind her and I guess she doesn’t see me as a threat because she turns back to gaze out over the city. Without saying a word, I stand next to her and let my hands spread out across the ledge. Out of the corner of my eye I see her take in a breath and turn to face me. “You didn’t like the party either?”

I’ve never seen this woman in my life, and judging by her dress – black pants, white tuxedo shirt, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail – she’s a member of the catering staff. I try to ignore the goose bumps rising on her arms and I wish I had a coat or jacket to offer her; she’s on the borderline of shaking and chattering her teeth.

“It’s okay,” I start tentatively, “I don’t really like it when people over crowd me…”

“Oh you don’t have to tell me twice. I don’t care much for crowds. I keep asking myself why I keep this job.”

“I’m Justin Timberlake,” I interject and hold out a hand. She looks at my face, her brown eyes dull and calculating taking me in. Biting her lip, she looks down at my outstretched hand and shifts her weight a bit to take my hand in hers.

“Autumn Weaver,” she responds, “so are you one of those big wig agents responsible for making millions of dreams come true for the talented and overly exposed?”

I lean the upper half of my body against the ledge, my hands dangling over the side of the building. She’s making me nervous sitting on the ledge, her feet swinging back and forth in the dead space in front of us. I feel like she’s going to catapult her self off at any moment.

“I guess you could say that. I mean I’ve been with the agency a long time and I like what I do. It gets the bills paid,” I add with a shrug. I find it kind of strange that I’ve known this Autumn Weaver for all of three minutes and we’re already talking like we’ve known each other for years. But the way she’s biting her lip and looking out towards the horizon with her dark eyes scanning for something makes me want to know her better – to understand why the hell she’s up here.

“So you enjoy it then?” she questions and I look over at her to see that she’s inspecting her fingernails. I notice they’re painted black.

“Sure. I like making people happy,” I stress hoping she’ll realize that if she really wants to I can help put a smile on her face that doesn’t look tortured or forced, “I guess I like doing positive things in my life.”

“To tell you the truth I don’t know what to do with my life anymore.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask a bit shocked. I didn’t expect the conversation to turn so quickly down a somewhat dark path. A path that seems really ominous.

“I’m at a dead end there’s no way out.”

The alarm bells are going off in my head and I want to turn around and go grab someone to help me talk this girl off of the ledge. Because it’s starting to dawn on me that she could really jump and I am having a hard time knowing that right now I’m the only person who is responsible for her safety.

“You could always go into reverse,” I try hoping to lighten the mood. Maybe if she laughs she’ll come to her senses, the darkness that’s haunting her face will disperse and we can go maybe get some coffee and she can tell me about her troubles.

There’s a long pause before Autumn opens her mouth to speak, “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is. If it’ll help I can make the beeping sounds as you back up so people can hear you coming,” I add with a small chuckle. 

“Nobody cares if I come or go.” God her voice sounds so empty – void of any emotion. Even though I don’t really know her, it’s breaking my heart.

“Do you have anyone you could call? Family?”

“I don’t know if they’d care I’m up here. They’ve got their own problems to worry about. I don’t want to be another one.” She stops dangling her legs and pulls them up against her chest. Maybe if I move fast I can grab her by the shoulders and pull her off the side of the building. Then again if I’m caught off balance she could get free and leap.

This is why I would never really work out well in hostage situations.

“But you’re family; you’re supposed to stick together,” I exclaim. If I were ever in Autumn’s situation you can bet that if someone called my Mama she’d be over here in a heartbeat holding me and telling me everything will be okay.

“You sounded like my sister just then.” I can’t tell what the emotion in her voice but it seems that her sister bears some importance to Autumn and it’s a lead I can possibly use to coerce her from the ledge.

“Why don’t you call her?”

“No,” she says forcefully.

“Why not?” I ask right back.

“Because she’s fucking annoying and perfect and everything that I’m not. She’d look at me up here and judge me. No way in hell am I calling April.”

Okay so that was a dead end. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone so vehemently push away a family member before. Then again most of my friends have really good relationships with their siblings and would probably turn to them in a pinch instead of a parent. I want to ask if her sister is the source of all these problems but I can tell that she’s closed the subject and I don’t want to push my luck.

“Well why don’t we go somewhere and get coffee? It’s cold up here and you don’t want to get sick,” I coax.

“I’m already sick. If you’re cold, you go ahead inside Mr. Agent Man. I’ll stick it out up here.” She’s closing me off and I don’t like that she’s dismissing me like this. I’ve dealt with the toughest movie studios in the world and I’m able to get my clients multi-million dollar deals. If there’s one thing I can do it’s persuade, persuade, persuade.

I don’t leave. I stay with her and hope she realizes that a curt dismissal isn’t going to get rid of me so easily.

“So I take it you’re staying?” I can feel a hint of disappointment but also a speck of gratitude in her voice, which allows me to think that I’m making some headway in this whole thing.

“Until you come back in with me.”

Autumn turns to look at me with a sad smile on her face before she lets her face rest on her knees. We don’t say anything for a really long time. I’m starting to think she’s ignoring me until I go away but suddenly she draws in a big sigh and lets her legs drop away from her and over the side of the building

“It’s funny, really. It’s almost like you’re sitting on the edge of the world up here. You can’t really fathom that just below you the world moves on and there are people breathing and walking and talking and crying, laughing, dying beneath you. All those cars have people in it going home, going to work, going somewhere. And yet we’re up here watching it all – kind of like God. I always wonder where He is, you know? I don’t mean to get all philosophical on you, Justin, but here I am…on this ledge and I’m waiting to feel something. All I feel is numb.”

“That could just be the cold…” her monologuing is making me nervous and I don’t like how serious this conversation is getting. I’m getting really uncomfortable, but I refuse to back down and there’s no way in hell I’m going to leave this woman alone.

Why the hell did I leave my cell phone in my jacket pocket? I could have called someone up here to help me and assess this situation. Right now I’m feeling just as small as Autumn is.

“No that isn’t it. I can’t even feel that right now. I don’t know…how do you explain nothing?”

“I don’t mean to sound like a smart ass, but I’ve got nothing for you.” I watch as she cracks a smile and looks down at the quivering hands in her lap.

“I have a feeling that I’d like you a lot,” she says her smile furtive and yet alluring all at the same time.

 “You could get the chance,” I implore and I want nothing more than to reach out and touch her, to let her know that she isn’t the only one feeling small. Just fifteen minutes ago I was trying to figure out how to kill myself with someone’s engagement ring. Then, I meant it as a joke – now I realize it isn’t so funny.

“I’ve taken a lot of chances, Justin. And I don’t want to take anymore.”

It seems as if the night has gone on mute as we gaze at the tiny and yet vast world of Los Angeles. I look down at the ground eight stories below trying to think of what to say to this woman to make her realize that there are things to live for and that nothing is completely hopeless.

Looking up, I move to meet her gaze but all I’m greeted with is the empty space of where Autumn had been sitting. A whisper of a breeze catches my cheek and guides my face to look back down the front façade of the hotel.

My horrified eyes never leave Autumn’s peaceful ones as she falls like a sack of golden leaves to the crisp grassy lawn below. 

Chapter Two

 

It was a black winter night as she stumbled on

and with every step grew closer to the ground.

She knew her one chance of living on was to strip away

all the colors that were casting her astray.

 

The twisting lights of the police cars and ambulances bounced off the terra-cotted awalls of the hotel as uniformed men and women went about their business. I was standing next to a good looking police officer who in turn was interviewing the head of the catering staff, trying to get a handle on why Miss Autumn Weaver had decided to jump off the roof of the Sunset Shadows Resort. I tried to pick up what they were saying, but the only thing I could focus on was her face as she hurtled towards the ground.

I still remember the sound of the small explosion as she landed on the roof of a car below – even as she was falling, Autumn was silent. The only noise had been the car’s groans of displeasure as it folded itself to encase her tiny body in glass and metal.

I didn’t realize until I reached the bottom floor that the car she had landed on was mine.

Someone else had phoned the police for me as I raced downstairs to alert anyone I could find that a woman had taken a swan dive off the building. When I reached the room where my office party was, everyone had crowded along the windows facing the front of the hotel to take in the eerie scene below them.

I stayed in the room long enough to catch Eric’s attention before I turned around and grabbed my jacket from the coat room. And now here I am – standing in grim silence while clutching the folds of my jacket to my chest. I know that the shivering coursing through my body isn’t from the chill nipping at my hands and bare skin.

A dismal cry rings up about the scene and I see a woman sitting on the edge of a bumper of one of the ambulances. She had been walking by my car when Autumn had landed on it and a few shards of glass had flown around the scene and attacked anyone within their range. An EMT presses a piece of gauze over a small cut on the woman’s forehead and she whimpers in pain as she tries to flinch away from her caretaker.

Thank God the police don’t think I went crazy and pushed her off the roof. I didn’t think anything like that until one of the officers actually told me that I shouldn’t have to worry about them coming after me with charges that I had a hand in Autumn’s fall. Her boss had found a note in her purse that had been stowed away in a locker at the very beginning of the night and no one had gone in until the owner himself unlocked the door after hearing about Autumn.

I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All I want to do is to go home and try to forget that this ever happened. Not possible, however, because the image of Autumn lying in a half assed spread eagle on the roof of my car is going to haunt my dreams probably for the rest of my life.

If my car weren’t a twisted array of metal any passerby would think that some random woman had decided to sleep on top of a parked vehicle. Autumn’s legs were demurely crossed at the ankles, her pale skin a stark contrast to the shining black metal of my BMW. Her dark hair had come out of her ponytail and wisps of hair were framing her face and snaking their way around the frame of the car. Her head tilted slightly to the right, her arm bending at an awkward angle so her fingers were just slightly brushing her temple. Her left arm dangled lifelessly above her head. Her eyelids shielded her lifeless brown eyes and the only trace of blood on Autumn was from a small cut just above her left eyelid. 

But she’s dead. There isn’t any doubt about it as a pair of EMTs hoist her off of the car and gingerly place her in a body bag.

Oh shit.

My legs suddenly knock together and I don’t know how I’m standing any more. Slowly, I sink to my knees and allow myself to huddle closer into my jacket before I sit down on the side of the curb. Autumn’s boss gives me a pathetic glance before he rubs his face with his hands out of frustration or stress or something along those lines, and heads off back inside the hotel.

“Mr. Timberlake, are you going to be alright?” the officer asks me and I look up into his eyes. He appears to be around my age and I can tell that he isn’t used to dealing with cases of this nature. I almost feel bad for the guy, but that would probably be more prominent if I weren’t in the middle of this nightmare.

“Uh, yeah,” I mutter before I stagger to my feet. “I should be okay.”

“Do you have someone to take you home?”

I start to open my mouth but an arm wraps around my shoulders and I turn to see Eric supporting me. Thank God for having friends in the workplace.

“I’ll be sure he gets home safe,” Eric assures the officer. The policeman makes sure he has all of my contact information should they need to further their police report and then sends me on my way.

I walk with Eric towards his car, which is on the other side of the parking lot. Lucky. I was able to leave my information with the towing company who is taking my poor, totaled car to the junkyard and once I’m able to get over the initial shock of this horrible accident I can take out a claim from my insurance company on the vehicle.

Eric and I are silent for the ride back to my small house in Westwood. I feel bad for the guy since he lives in the opposite direction of my home and he’s the type of dude who doesn’t really take charity or ask for favors so telling him he can crash in the guest room is kind of a lost cause.

But it really couldn’t hurt to ask…

“Are you sure…”

“Would you mind…” we both speak at the same time and for some odd reason it’s almost like sitting at lunch with a girlfriend you’ve been fighting with and you both say something at once. Thankfully we don’t do the awkward laughter and turn away from each other blushing like teenagers.

I gesture for Eric to go first and he nods in gratitude, still keeping his eyes on the road, “Would you mind if I crashed at your place? It’s late and I’m still a little jarred about tonight and don’t feel like driving all the way back home. If not, I totally understand.”

I guess I should remind myself that Eric and I aren’t great buddies. I mean we go to lunch together at work and I know he’s close to proposing to his girlfriend (who I’ve met) and only when we realize that our social circles are completely occupied with other people do we call each other up and go to a bar for beers or whatever. So I shouldn’t be offended if he thinks it’s too forward to suggest staying at my place. I almost want to tell him that later we can play Truth or Dare and braid each other’s nonexistent hair.

“I was about to suggest that. It isn’t a problem at all, and my roommate won’t mind I’m sure.”

He nods again in thanks just as we pull onto my street. It’s a quiet road and the houses are eclectic and mostly wooden with shutters and small grassy lawns. I live one house away from the crossroads in the middle of the street so it’s relatively peaceful. It’s a white split level with a black roof and we’ve even managed to keep a few of the flower beds alive to meet the level of curb appeal the other homes have.

Eric parks in front of our mailbox and turns his Mercedes off. He’s been to my house before so I feel like I don’t have to really present anything to him. I dig the keys out of my pocket as we head up the front walk.

The outside of the house is modest but it’s pretty plush on the inside. Opening the door, we both step inside and I quickly lock up. I can hear the television coming from the living room in the depths of the house and it looks like Trace is staying up late tonight. He’s probably watching late night something or other and trying to get ideas for whatever clothes he’s trying to design.

My roommate/best friend/brother for life, Trace Ayala looks up as the two of us walk in on his territory. He’s got swatches of fabric all over the coffee table and there’s a pair of empty beer bottles buried among them. He immediately sets his sketchbook down and hurries over to me, clapping me on the shoulders and then bringing it in for the real thing.

“Dude, man, I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

“How did you hear?” I ask a bit surprised as he pulls away and nods courteously to Eric before he realizes that the living room is a bit of a mess and starts to clean up.

“Breaking news story. They interrupted Lettermen. I recognized the hotel and your car and could see you in the background. Tough shit on your car, man. Didn’t you just have it detailed?”

I love Trace, but he can sometimes be insensitive. But in his defense he didn’t know that I was with the girl who decided to throw herself over the side of the building. I tell him I’m okay before thinking that a glass of water could definitely help the dryness in my throat. Plus it gives Eric the opportunity to fill Trace in on what he’s missing from the story.

As I pull the water pitcher out of the fridge and start to pour the liquid into a glass I hear Trace’s, “Shit!” loudly from the other room. I return to the living room and see Trace’s look of utter astonishment and I merely shrug my shoulders as I take a big gulp from my glass.

“I don’t really want to talk about it right now. I’m exhausted, I need to go to sleep. You know where the spare room is?” I ask Eric. I feel bad for leaving him hanging, but I suddenly can’t really deal with other people right now. I don’t want to be left to my own thoughts, but being in the company of living people just doesn’t feel right at the moment.

I mean how can I be okay with living when I watched someone die right in front of me? Watch their body hit the roof of my car and reduce it into a twisted, empty sardine can destined for the trash? My throat is dry again so I take another sip.

My coworker nods in understanding before I turn on my heels and head towards the master bedroom. Trace and I decided I’d get the bigger room since I’d be paying more rent. While I have an established career, Trace is an up and coming fashion designer. He’s able to get some recognition because the actors and other artists who get noticed every day will wear his clothes if I manage to get them a really sweet deal on a picture. But Trace is all over the place on the earning scale so it was only fitting that the person with the steady paycheck would take the larger room.

It takes all of my energy to get out of my party clothes and into something that resembles pajamas. Thankfully the pants that I had been wearing the night before were still lying shapeless by the side of my bed. I pull them up around me and sink into my bed before turning off the lights.

Closing my eyes, they open straight away. The only thing I can see is the image of that girl, Autumn, falling through the black void of my closed eyelids. All I want to do is forget all about this and not have it affect my sleep.

But two hours later I’m still tossing and turning, the horrible yet delicate image of Autumn falling filling my thoughts, my line of vision, even my ears. Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s almost four in the morning and I have shit to accomplish in a few hours.

Getting out of bed, I stumble into the main area of the house and see that Trace is still awake. The man is a slave to his work and that means him getting no sleep and basically becoming an insomniac. Thankfully, I know his doctor has prescribed him sleeping pills and I’m anxious to get my hands on one or even two.

“Can’t sleep?” Trace asks me not looking up from his design book.

“No. All I can see is the girl, Autumn,” I add, “Can I steal two of your Ambien?”

“Shit, yeah,” Trace explains before he jumps from the couch and heads to his bedroom, which is on the other side off the house. He returns to the living room and I hold out my hand as he drops two of the precious pills into my palm.

“Thanks,” I mutter before I throw them in my mouth and swallow without the water. He claps me on the shoulder and I reach up to grab his forearm before I turn around and head back to my room.

I pass out before I even have time to register that the last thing I see is Autumn’s peaceful fall from life.

 

 

 

The blinding light of the sun creeps through my curtains and lands on my face. Scrunching up my face, I smack a hand to my face and try to rub the discomfort away. Groggily, I try to sit up in my bed and squint my eyes to protect myself against the battling sun.

Ugh. I feel like shit.

Glancing at my clock, I realize I wasn’t able to sleep the full eight hours like the pills promise and see that it’s almost noon. I’ve slept later, but I still feel like a slug as I pull my tired and tense body out of bed.

The shower wakes me up and as I walk into the main area of the house in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt I realize that the rest of the house is finally waking up.

I don’t know if Trace slept at all last night, but he’s in the kitchen making breakfast, or I guess lunch. Eric, to my surprise, is still here and is sitting on the couch scratching the ears of Trace’s Labrador, Noggin. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and shirt that Trace has designed and looks fairly well rested. I’m surprised he’s still here.

“Sleep okay?” Trace questions and I’m hit with the lovely smell of eggs as I come closer to the kitchen.

“Yeah. I didn’t dream at all. I don’t know how you aren’t obsessed with those sleeping pills. They’re pretty awesome.”

“Don’t want to pull shit like that,” Trace points out, “You get addicted to those, you get stupid with them. I am not Marilyn Monroe.”

“Definitely,” I tell him with a wry grin, “you’re too skinny and you suck as a platinum blond.”

“Please don’t remind me of my high school days. Very painful.”

“Glad to see you’re doing better,” Trace retorts as he turns to pay attention to the hash browns.

And then it all comes rushing back at me.

Hotel. Roof. Autumn. Falling. Car. Totaled. Dead. Fuck.

“As better as can be expected, I guess,” I explain with a noncommittal shrug. I head for the L-shaped couch and sit on the opposite side of Eric.

“That’s good,” Trace calls from the kitchen. It’s times like this I’m grateful the kitchen opens up into the little breakfast nook and the living room. He’s about to continue but the phone rings and he curses loudly. “Do you mind watching the hash browns for me? I think this is Marissa with Ed Hardy. They might want one of my designs for their spring show.”

I get to my feet and head for the kitchen, Eric following me, no doubt looking for something to do. Trace disappears into the dining room with the cordless phone and I can hear his jovial hello into the receiver as I start to shift the hash browns around in the pan.

“Did you sleep alright?” I ask Eric, “I’m sorry for bailing on you last night…”

“It was fine, don’t worry about it. And don’t worry, it was a rough night last night.”

“Oh…I see….” Trace’s voice wafts into the kitchen.

“Tell me about it. I got a call from work saying for you to not worry about making your appointments for the rest of the week. Nigel even says he’ll pay for counseling if you need it or whatever,”

“Really? Well I’m real sorry about that, I heard about it, yes,” Trace really needs to keep his voice down. God, his phone voice can get grating sometimes.

“Oh,” I start in response to Eric’s comment; “I don’t think I’ll need counseling, but maybe I can use those days off…go to the beach…”

“…Except it’s December,” Eric interjects helpfully.

“Yeah,” I say with a nod, “Forgot. Mind is on other things, sorry.”

“Well I’ll let him know….”

“I’m sure,” Eric, adds as he pulls the eggs off the frying pan and onto three different plates.

“…a bit of a shock for everybody.”

“Are you heading into work today?” I ask Eric as I turn the stove off and put the hash browns onto a serving plate.

“Nah. Too late and all my clients are booked and are all busy so that’s good for me, I guess.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know. It shouldn’t be a problem…” Trace says curtly, still on the phone.

“That’s good,” I mention to Eric as we bring all the food to the kitchen table. Glad to know we can finish off Trace’s work without destroying it.

We don’t hear Trace say goodbye to Marissa or Ed Hardy or whoever, but he comes over to the table with a weird look on his face.

“What?” Eric and I ask him at the same time.

“Is it a go for Ed Hardy?”

“That wasn’t Ed Hardy,” Trace says solemnly as he sits down in his usual chair. Eric and I follow suit and I just give him a look. Something’s up

“Then who was it?” I question, thoroughly intrigued.

“That was Mr. and Mrs. Weaver. They’re Autumn’s parents.”

My heart stops beating in my chest and I swear it’s in my throat. Apparently it wants to be swallowed into my stomach and be my breakfast. “Why are they calling here?”

“They want to meet the man who was with their daughter before she died.”

Yup. Heart has entered stomach.

“I told them it wouldn’t be a problem. They’re expecting you within the hour.”

Stomach begin to digest heart for exiting of the body. 

Chapter Three

I watched you disappear into the clouds

Swept away into another town.

 

To say I was upset with Trace was a huge understatement. The fact that he told these people, Autumn’s parents, that I was okay with meeting them mere hours after their daughter had killed herself, was ridiculous and tactless.

 “But you need this. It’ll be good to get this closure!” he yelled at me through my bathroom door as I tried to make myself look presentable.

I looked like shit - sallow skin, puffy eyes, dark circles, and my blue eyes were bloodshot. I was going to meet these people for the first time, in the midst of their grief, looking like a zombie. For the first time in my life, I wished I was a woman so I could depend on concealer and foundation to cover up the travesty of the night before.

If this look persists, I might need to make a trip to the cosmetic department at the mall.

But closure? I don’t even know what the hell I need right now. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that not even twenty-four hours ago I watched a woman fall to her death. I’m still trying to come to terms that my car has been destroyed because a woman fell a few hundred feet and landed on top of it.

And now I’m here, sitting in Eric’s Mercedes as we drive through Pacific Palisades towards the Weaver’s home. Eric is making a quick call into the office and I’m trying to swallow the fear bubbling in my stomach. I want to throw up, I want to open the car door, do a tuck and roll, and run for the hills. I have no idea why I agreed to this, I should have had Trace call them back and say he was mistaken.

But as we pull up to a two story home with a grassy front yard that reads 2340 Piza Street, I realize that there really is no way to turn back. I’ve made it this far, and I’m sure I’d have to meet these people sooner or later. Don’t ask me why, but it’s just this feeling I have.

“Nice place,” Eric remarks; I didn’t notice he had gotten off the phone with the office. I was too preoccupied noticing that this place probably has a backyard view of the ocean and cost the owner’s a pretty penny.

The house is everything I would want my next house to be – the house I would buy when I manage to settle down with a wife and start a family. The white walls and blue shutters are screaming for a white picket fence, and there’s a path laid in stone leading up to the front door. I turn to look at Eric, hoping that he will suggest we screw this meeting and go for coffee, or better yet, drinks at a bar. But he merely gives me an encouraging look.

“Thanks for driving me over here,” I mutter, hoping he can pick up the anxiousness rising in my throat, “I don’t know how long I’ll be. There was a coffee place at the end of the street, I can call you when I finish up and walk down there…”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Eric states as I take off my seatbelt and open the door.

Eric drives off without another word and I find myself standing where the sidewalk ends and the path up to the Weaver’s front door begins. It takes me a while to realize that I’m holding my breath.

I don’t know why, but as I walk up the path towards the front door, I can’t help but feel this ominous feeling rising in the pit of my stomach. And it’s not because I’m about to meet the parents of the girl who spent her last moments with me – it’s something different. Even though the house is white and bathed in innocence, there’s something lingering beneath the surface. A shadow…

God. Maybe I should take Nigel up on that counseling. I have a feeling I’m going to be acting this way for a while. Maybe talking to a professional will help me sort this shit out before it gets even worse.

I walk up the three steps to get to the front door and immediately ring the doorbell. There’s no time for hesitation, I’ve done that enough. Hell, my hesitation probably got Autumn killed. If I hadn’t have thought she wasn’t capable of doing that to herself maybe I wouldn’t be standing at her parents’ front door getting ready to possibly talk about their daughter’s suicide.

I’m standing at the door for maybe thirty seconds before I see a shadow behind the distorted window approaching. The door opens and there’s a woman in maybe her mid fifties standing in front of me. It looks like she’s been to hell and back. Her auburn hair is disheveled and her eyes are puffy and bloodshot – worse than mine this morning. She’s made an effort to get dressed in some kind of tunic and legging ensemble, but she is void of makeup and any poise.

“Mrs. Weaver? I’m Justin, I was with Aut…” I’m unable to get anything else out because Mrs. Weaver merely steps over the threshold and hugs me tightly. I hope to God she doesn’t start crying because I don’t know how I’d be able to conduct myself. I’ve just met this woman; I don’t even know her first name. And yet she’s clinging to me as if I’m the last connection to her daughter. I don’t know that for certain, but that’s what it feels like. I feel like she’s trying to pull the life out of me with her embrace.

Fuck, this is so awkward.

Mrs. Weaver pulls herself away and I see her try to hide the tears that are already falling down her face. She attempts to give me a half hearted smile.

“Thank you for coming, Justin. I’m Gail, please come in,” her voice is small, meek. There really isn’t anything else for me to say. Hell, I don’t know what to say. So I nod and follow Mrs. Weaver inside, hoping that she’ll offer me a place to sit down. My legs are shaking.

Mrs. Weaver takes me past a staircase and over to the left. We enter a large living room, the focal point being two large, plush white couches and two equally plush armchairs. There’s a man with salt and pepper brown hair sitting at one of the couches, running gnarled hands through his thinning hair. I don’t even have to look at his face to know that he’s been through hell.

“Mitchell,” Mrs. Weaver says cautiously. I get the feeling that Mr. Weaver might be a bull in a china shop and I hope I won’t be witness to a complete and total breakdown from this man, “Mitchell, this is Justin. He was with Autumn when she…” but Mrs. Weaver can’t find the words and I don’t blame her. Speaking it out loud is worse than thinking it. Saying what happened out loud only makes it all the more true.

And I’m not ready for it to be true. I know it’s selfish of me, but just thinking it makes it feel like a bad dream, like it didn’t really happen to me, like I didn’t get thrown into the middle of this family’s drama.

I don’t even want to know what they must be going through. To lose a child…

My thoughts are broken with the shrill ringing of the telephone. Mrs. Weaver throws me a sympathetic look before she disappears into the belly of the house. All I can do is stand there and watch Mr. Weaver collect himself before he straightens his posture and smiles at me.

“Thank you for coming, Justin,” he grimaces. His voice, I’m sure, would be quite pleasant if it wasn’t on the cusp of breaking. I’m about to tell him it isn’t a problem when his wife enters, holding onto the receiver of the phone.

“Mitchell, it’s your brother. We need to speak with him,” Mr. Weaver nods and gets to his feet with a grunt, “Justin, please have a seat. We’ll be with you shortly.”

The couple leaves and I’m left in the living room with ample seating options, but my body won’t comply. Instead, I’m drawn to the pictures on the mantle of the fireplace and the pictures on the side tables.

There are baby pictures; first day of school pictures, graduation, and family vacation pictures all depicting a happy, normal family. I immediately pick Autumn out of a family vacation to Disneyland. She can’t be more than five or six and there’s another girl there, maybe five years older with her arm thrown carelessly around Autumn’s shoulder. They’re standing next to Goofy and I swear Autumn’s toothless grin could light up Times Square.

Another picture of Autumn, this time older, maybe seventeen or eighteen, on the beach a inquisitive smirk on her face as she looks out over the ocean. The lighting from the sunset hits her face just right and she looks so serene. Did they know back then? Did they know she was on her way to throwing herself off a building?

“That’s my favorite picture of her,” Mrs. Weaver says behind me and I jump at the sound of her voice. Great. They’ve caught me prying into their world. I should have forced myself to sit down when I was told to.

 She walks into the living room, her husband following her and they sit on the couch opposite of where I’m standing. Taking their lead, I sit down across from them, hoping that they won’t start crying, or worse, blaming me.

“We just wanted to thank you,” Mr. Weaver begins as he reaches out for his wife’s hand, “We wanted to thank you for being there for our daughter in the last moments of her life. We know she really appreciated having someone there…”

“It’s okay,” I say immediately, “I’d like to think that Autumn would have done the same for me if I…well, if the roles had been reversed.” Her parents smile sadly and I’m hoping I’m saying the right things. I really don’t want to bring any more sorrow into their lives.

“Well again, thank you for being there for her,” Mrs. Weaver adds before she looks cautiously at her husband, “we actually wanted to ask you something in person.”

“Yes?”

“We were wondering,” she pauses and I can see Mr. Weaver squeezing her hand for encouragement, “we were wondering if you’d come to the memorial service and the funeral. I know you didn’t know Autumn for very long, but we would really appreciate your presence. I know it’s going to sound really insane and new-agey of us, but you’re the last bit of Autumn, as weird as that sounds.”

Oh God. They want me at the funeral? Do they want me to speak? I’m such a shit writer and public speaker, I couldn’t even imagine getting up in front of perfect strangers and talking to them about a girl who I only knew for about twenty minutes. What would they say to relatives when I was introduced? Oh, this is Justin, he was with Autumn just before she died and the bastard didn’t do anything to stop her.

I can just imagine cousins and friends that Autumn was close with coming up to me and giving me shit for allowing her to do this to herself. Because even though police or even her parents haven’t accused me, I still feel responsible for her death. I could have fucking done something.

“We’re not asking you to say anything,” Mitchell Weaver explains over the deafening silence, “Gail and I figured that you being there would allow you some kind of closure, and it would help us begin to recover, as silly as it sounds.”

I look up at them and notice that Mrs. Weaver is crying silently into a tissue and Mr. Weaver is looking like he could use a week’s vacation on some tropical island to escape the nightmare he’s been thrown into. But maybe they are right. Maybe I do need some closure. Maybe I do need to learn more about Autumn and understand that even if I wasn’t on the rooftop with her, she would have still gone through with it anyway. And what better way to get that kind of closure than to go to a memorial service and funeral where her entire life and character will be summarized by eulogies and people reminiscing?

“That wouldn’t be a problem.” I can feel the emptiness in my stomach starting to disappear when I see the warm smiles on Gail and Mitchell’s faces. They tell me where the services will be held and when, and I quickly jot it down into the calendar on my phone.

Mrs. Weaver is about to say something else when I hear a car door slam outside their house. It takes a great deal of self control to not jump immediately to my feet upon hearing the noise.

“I think that’s my friend coming to get me,” I explain as I get to my feet as slowly as possible, “My car was totaled…” my voice stops immediately when I realize that the reason why my car was destroyed was because this couple’s daughter decided to fall on it after falling a couple hundred feet to her death.

Way to make them feel like shit, Timberlake.

“We understand,” Mr. Weaver responds as he and his wife stand up, “And we’d like to replace your car…”

“That really isn’t necessary,” I respond hastily as I make my way towards the hallway, the front door, and ultimately Eric’s car and my salvation, “Really, I know the insurance should take care of it.”

“It’s the least we could do after all you did for Autumn,” Gail offers as she and her husband follow me through their house. God, this is a nightmare. I feel as if this couple is going to follow me like the Ghost of Autumn Past.

You know how there are those people who save someone’s life and then they feel as if they have a debt they need to pay off? I am definitely getting that vibe from Gail and Mitchell Weaver. And while that isn’t such a bad thing, I know that once this funeral is over, I do not want them barging in and out of my life like they owe me for talking to their daughter before she offed herself.

I have finally reached the blessed front door and turn to look at Autumn’s parents. They look so small standing in the foyer of their house and I wish I knew them better so I could hug them without feeling like a loon and tell them that everything will be okay. And that Autumn’s death wasn’t their fault. But what do I know? For all I know these people beat their daughter senseless and that’s why she decided to throw herself off the hotel roof.

“Aside from the circumstances, it was really nice meeting you,” I explain and then immediately feel like an idiot. Seriously, Justin? Now you’re just babbling and trying to make conversation with these people so your leaving so abruptly doesn’t seem like an asshole move.

I open the front door and turn to go but I find my way blocked by Autumn’s twin.

“Oh,” I breathe in surprise and it takes a few seconds of furious blinking to realize that this girl is taller than Autumn and older. After another few seconds of trying to wrap my brain around the situation, I realize I must be staring blankly at her sister, April.

She has a look of shock registered on her face and it takes me a moment to grasp that she is also blinking furiously in my direction, no doubt trying to make sense of why there is a perfect stranger in her parents’ home.

“Uh?” is all I can muster. Her hair is the same color as Autumn’s but wavy and disheveled. There’s mascara tattooed under her eyes and her face is rather puffy. All in all, I’d have to say that Autumn was better looking, but then again, when I met Autumn it didn’t look like she had been crying for fifteen hours straight.

“Oh my God,” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth and I can see her lower lip begin to tremble. “It’s you. You were the one that was with her before she…”

April’s voice trails away and I’m about to confirm her suspicions until she swallows an enormous sob and I feel a stinging sensation across my cheek. It takes me a moment to register that she has just slapped my quite hard across the face.

I start to bring a hand up to my throbbing face, but I find that I can’t, because April has completely broken down and is sinking onto the front stoop of her parents’ house.

 I reach out to grab hold of her without a thought and find that I too, am sinking to the ground, but I’ve got an inconsolable young woman grasping onto me so tightly that I feel like if I let go she’ll continue to fall.

I allowed Autumn to fall, I won’t let it happen to her.

Her parents look down at us with unreadable expressions as I rock Autumn’s sobbing sister back and forth, trying to soothe her cries.

So much for not getting even more involved.  

Chapter Four

Drown out, the voice that breaks the silence

And talks the joy out of everything

You were found out and had to walk

In darkness without the only thing you care about.

 

I was supposed to have been out of this house half an hour ago.

 Instead I’m sitting at the Weavers’ kitchen table holding an ice pack to my cheek and staring up at Autumn’s father who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

 I cannot believe I’m still here. I tried calling Eric, but he won’t answer his phone and it’s really starting to irritate me. He knows how awkward this is for me, he knew before I even left his car how much I didn’t want to fucking come meet this girl’s parents. So the fact that he’s either ignoring my calls, or somewhere where he can’t reach his phone is not making this situation any better.

 But I don’t know what could make this situation improve. I know Mrs. Weaver is upstairs with April trying to calm her down and the less I see of that girl, the better. I know she’s probably had a bit of a shock what with her younger sister dying and all, but that doesn’t mean you can just slap a complete stranger on the stoop of your childhood home.

 I did nothing.

 And maybe that’s why she slapped me. Because I did nothing to stop Autumn from throwing herself over the side of the hotel. I can feel the guilt bubbling in my stomach and I want nothing more than to go back in time to a place where I’ve never heard of Autumn Weaver and she wasn’t apart of my life.

 But she is and there really isn’t anything I can do about it.

 Mr. Weaver clears his throat and I look up in his direction. He looks like he wants to say something, but there aren’t any words forming. I open my mouth to speak, just so the awkward tension in the room can subside, but thankfully the ringing of my cell phone manages to interrupt us.

 “Sorry,” I mumble and I pull my phone out of my front pocket and look at the caller ID.

 Eric.

Thank God.

 “Sorry, Justin,” Eric says by way of greeting, “One of my clients called to bitch about a deal. Are you ready to go?”

 “Yeah.” More than you know, Eric.

 “Great. I’ll be there in like ten.” It’s going to take him ten minutes to drive up the street? But then I realize that he probably went inside for coffee and has to get to his car and all that.

 Guess I have ten more minutes of sitting here with an ice pack while Mr. Weaver shoots me looks and tries to form words that he will never say.

 “Sorry about that,” I tell him, “that’s my ride. I can go wait out front.”

 I don’t mean to be rude, but I just feel so inadequate sitting here and thinking that Autumn lived here and might have sat in this chair as a little girl to get breakfast before school. My eyes land on the fridge and I wonder how many pieces of artwork were stuck to the front, how many good grade report cards were brought home over the course of a lifetime of school.

 How many family dinners had this kitchen seen? How many arguments and jokes and laughter? How many tears? Did Autumn know that the last time she was in this house was the last moment she would ever spend there? The last time she would see her parents?

 God, I cannot stay here.

 I get to my feet and unceremoniously hand Mr. Weaver the now lukewarm icepack. I mumble my thanks for his hospitality and turn to the door that will lead to the hallway and eventually the front door and my salvation.

 Only there is someone blocking me from getting past the kitchen and she is the last person I want to see right now.

 She’s managed to clean herself up a bit – the mascara has been wiped away and her face is less puffy although I’m sure her eyes wouldn’t normally be that swollen. It looks like her hair has actually been brushed and instead of the very wrinkled pantsuit she showed up in, she’s in a pair of worn in jeans and an oversized sweater.

 In all actuality, April Weaver could be considered attractive – if our first meeting wasn’t her smacking me in the face and crying uncontrollably in my arms.

 “Dad, could you give us a minute?” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, it seems like her being down here is taking April a great deal of energy, “I-I need to speak with Justin.”

 Mr. Weaver, ever the talkative man, merely places the ice pack down on the counter and nods his consent, leaving the way April entered, closing the door behind him.

 And now I’m alone with a woman who attacked me and who could be Autumn’s twin.

 She walks over to where her father had just been standing and she absentmindedly lets a finger run over the contours of the icepack, her focus completely on the square of unfrozen plastic.

 “You aren’t going to slap me again are you?” I blurt out before I can really think of what else to say.

 “No. I’m sorry I did that. I was a bit taken aback.”

 Yeah, no shit.

 “Well that’s good,” I say with a smile, “If you’re going to upgrade to punching, please don’t go for my kidneys, or my face for that matter.” I feel like making a joke or something would lighten the mood – April looks so somber I feel like she might throw herself off a roof next.

 Okay, poor form. I just really want to get the hell out of here.

 And apparently April isn’t in the mood to joke because she’s suddenly rounding on me, her brown eyes flashing with indignation.

 “I’m not in the mood to joke around. Keep it up and I’ll hit you again and it will be wherever I damn well please.”

 I actually find myself shrinking back into the chair. This April is definitely intimidating, and she sounds like her sister. So much like her sister that I can only stare at her with my mouth slightly open, fighting to find something to say that will make me believe that Autumn hasn’t just come back from the dead.

 “Why are you looking at me like that?” April snaps. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells with her. One wrong word or look and I might be used as her personal punching bag again.

 “S-sorry,” I stammer as I try my best to relax, “You sounded like your sister just then.”

 I watch, fascinated, as the tough façade April has constructed begins to crumble. The fire in her eyes extinguishes and I can see the muscles in her pushed back shoulders begin to relax as she leans against the counter, totally defeated.

 “Why were you with her?” her voice is barely audible as she looks down at the tiled floor of the kitchen. And, just like Autumn, I want to reach out and help her. I don’t know why, I can’t place the feeling that’s expanding in my chest, but I just want to be there in whatever capacity I can.

 So I try to relay Autumn’s final moments to her sister as best I can. It’s hard because even though Autumn hasn’t been gone for more than a day, it’s like I’m watching her on a high definition TV screen and it’s being played over and over again in my mind. And I want to be able to describe that to April, but there aren’t enough words to depict what it is I’m seeing or what I’m feeling.

 But I try my hardest. I tell her how I went out to get air, Autumn was there and we had a conversation that went from talking about my work to some deep philosophical reasoning. I know there is no way I’m going to talk about how one minute she was sitting on the roof and the next she was falling. It’s an image that is going to stay with me for the rest of my life and I don’t feel like sharing that with anyone.

 Not even her sister who is crying silently as she watches me retell the events of last night.

 “Did – did she say anything about me?” April asks, barely above a whisper.

 Oh God. I was hoping she wouldn’t bring this up because Autumn’s words are ringing in my head.

 “Because she’s fucking annoying and perfect and everything that I’m not. She’d look at me up here and judge me. No way in hell am I calling April.”

 And watching April in tears about her precious littler sister in her parents’ kitchen gives me a good idea that April feels she’s perceived by her sister in a completely different light. I don’t have the heart to tell her that Autumn’s last words concerning their relationship was less than complimentary.

 “She just said that she loved you very much and didn’t want you to feel like this was your fault in any way,” I lie. I feel bad for doing it, but this girl has seen enough heartache for one day.

 April nods vigorously and bites her bottom lip to try to keep the myriad of tears at bay. “And did she say anything about Rachel?”

 I can tell this Rachel is a big deal by the way April is looking at me intently with wide eyes while chewing on her bottom lip.

 “Who’s Rachel? Autumn didn’t say anything about her,” I explain and April exhales the pent up breath while she was waiting for my answer.

 “Thank God.”

 I’m about to stick my big nose into her and Autumn’s business and ask who the heck this Rachel is, but my phone starts up it’s text message alert.

 Outside. Eric.

 “I have to go,” I say looking up at April as I jam my phone into my pocket and quickly get out of the chair. 

 I move for the door that will take me towards the exit and I’m surprised to see April following close behind me, looking completely at a loss for words or any kind of expression.

 The front door is literally two paces away and I’m about to reach for the handle, when one of April’s hands presses on the front door, keeping me from opening it.

 I can only look at her dumbfounded as she pushes pieces of frazzled brown hair out of her face and looks at me sadly.

 “Look, I’m sorry I hit you. I’m just really screwed up right now and I’m still trying to come to terms that sister is…” her voice breaks and she looks down at the ground, inhaling sharply.

 Two big teardrops fall from her face and onto the floor and I feel absolutely terrible. I know I should just tell her that it will be okay and she’ll come to terms with it all in time, but I feel like that isn’t going to be enough.

 “Hey, April, it’s okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it will be okay. Look, I know this is going to sound weird, but do you want to grab a bite to eat sometime?”

 I don’t know why those words just came out of my mouth and April doesn’t either because she’s looking up at me, sadness forgotten for just a moment, with sheer disgust.

 “I’m sorry are you asking me out?”

 Oh God. She’s going to hit me again.

 “No, no, no!” I say quickly and hold my hands up to show my complete surrender, “It’s just, I remember when my grandpa died two years ago, and it was good to talk to someone about his life and all that kind of stuff. And I’m still kind of reeling from everything that happened last night and I’m trying to, I don’t know, get some closure out of it.” 

 The silence is deafening and I feel like I’m going to go crazy from the quiet. A floorboard creaks upstairs and I wonder if her parents are listening to my crazy proposal of lunch or dinner with their remaining daughter – like some sick date.

 But it’s not. I just want to make sure this girl is going to be okay, that I won’t be responsible for someone else hurting themselves, and maybe I can go to sleep in the future without relying on Ambien.

 “Yeah, sure, okay.” April nods in consent and I try my best to smile without making it look like a grimace. “Let me get my card.”

 I watch as she disappears into the living room and I quickly dig into my pocket to grab my wallet so I, too, can give her my business card. I always feel like a pretentious shit carrying this stuff around. But, I guess it makes situations like this less awkward.

 As if exchanging numbers with a dead girl’s sister who’s death you just happened to witness for a bite to eat wasn’t awkward enough.

 April shuffles back into the foyer and holds out a small business card. I hand her mine and we both take a minute to examine the other’s card.

 April Weaver -  Schulster and Robb Esq: Associate. 310-248-7512

 “A lawyer,” I say out loud seconds before she looks up at me and gives me a furtive smirk.

 “An agent. Interesting.”

 I’m about to ask her what’s so interesting about me being an agent, but the sound of a horn outside makes me jump. Guess Eric’s here.

 “Well, uh. It was good meeting you?” I don’t really know what else to say. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure or that it was nice because I’m going to probably develop a welt on my cheek.

 “Aside from the circumstances,” April comments as she opens the door and follows me outside.

 I turn to face her and nod in agreement, “I’ll call you to set something up for later this week maybe.” She returns the nod and I spin around so fast to begin my walk to Eric’s car that I almost fall over on the walkway.

 Thank God, I thought he would never get here.

 I get into the car and look up at the house. April is still standing on the stoop watching as Eric pulls the car away from the sidewalk and out into middle of the road.

 “How did the whole thing go?” Eric asks as he turns to look at me to inspect if I’m mentally damaged, “And why the hell is your cheek so red?”