The mewing sound grated across his nerves. Goddamn cat. He hissed at it from his perch on the bridge railing. George couldn’t see a thing, but he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below him. They should calm him. He took a shaky breath. Fuck the waves. He hated them for their consistency. Fuck the cat, too. He swore against the wind. This was his moment. Nothing was going to stop him. Nothing.

The mewing grew louder. He swore again, his words lost with the wind. It sounded like whimpering now. How big was the damn cat? Was it trapped? He didn’t want to move. If he moved, he’d lose his nerve. He didn’t want to care about the cat. Caring ruined everything. It brought madness—George knew it well. He knew what it was to have self-belief beat out of him with blame and anger until his words were hollow and his body an echo of itself. He couldn’t do it anymore. He hated who he had become. George longed to peel this skin off and allow his bleeding, broken body to lie backward and bent on the rocks below.

He wasn’t always angry. Hell, he was such a docile, easy-going sap once. He grimaced. His smile used to come naturally, not as an afterthought. The anger came later, after the job he couldn’t advance in, the wife who only found fault, and the kids he tried so hard to be everything to. George turned his face and let the wind slap at the tears streaming down his face. They were all gone now. He could never do anything right, not even marriage—he smirked.  She was happy for a while. They both were. Before everything turned to shit.

Once they spent the dewy morning light wrapped in each other, their breathing the only sound in the dim room. They laughed at everything; it was all such a huge joke to them. How in this big crazy world had they ever found each other? Clare called it serendipity, and he playfully argued it was the horrible concert they were both escaping from at the same time. He found her outside the Tractor Tavern trying in vain to hail a cab. The rain had plastered her dark hair to her head, she only wore a cardigan over her short black skirt and lace tank top. The day had begun bright and cheerful; now, as George sat on the bridge railing, he remembered the rain as foreshadowing. The universe must have known they would destroy each other over the next nineteen years.

She called him her prince charming when he offered her the use of his umbrella. They huddled together under the thin nylon shield and joked about the wretchedness of the music playing in the background. Clare was on a date. She laughed when George looked around anxiously—said it was a setup, ‘Don’t worry he’s not my type.’ George was alone. He fled work early and popped into the concert on a whim. Serendipity, she said.

Maybe they rushed into it. He should have waited before asking her to marry him. He should have known it would end like this. He was so optimistic back then. George gripped the cold metal of the railing tighter. He was stupid and in love. When did it stop? When did the resentment seep in?

There it was again. The loud, mewing sound. He tilted his head towards it and held his breath. Fucking cat. He was going to have to do something. His temper, shortened over the years like a retractable leash, flared. He tried to keep it quiet. The girls didn’t need to see both parents unhinged. He ate his fury until it burned and festered like a plague. It colored everything—his job, his friends, himself.  He kept it wrapped tightly in the back of his mind.  He knew when everything changed for them when he finally recognized the truth.

The girls must have been 9 and 12, or something like that. He never remembered their ages. They were just his girls, and he hoped they would always stay small and joyous. When she flung anger at him, their giggles kept him sane.  He took it, he swallowed every fault she handed him.  He harbored the hope of seeing her happy again. He did everything he could to appease her, but it just fed her frustrations.  It was their anniversary. He waltzed into the house, his damp loafers squeaking slightly on the tile kitchen floor, a bouquet of roses in hand. He caught his youngest, Sofie’s eye as she sat at the counter working on homework, and winked. She giggled. His heart bounced. Clare, chopping onions, turned from her position at the sink—he didn’t remember what she was cooking, just the smell of onions that hung heavy in the air around them. She didn’t smile. He held the flowers out to her. Clare stared at him, a frown turning the corners of her mouth down. He set the roses on the counter and leaned in to kiss her. She flinched.

It started to rain. George turned his face up to the sky. All he had to do was lean forward just a little and let go—he could dive like a raindrop, down…down…down. He didn’t believe he would find anything on the other side of this choice. He would be dead. No one would mind. That night, as he straightened, leaving his intentions hanging between them, it all made sense to him. Clare hated him. He thought he could rekindle some of what they had in the beginning, but her silent flinch spoke volumes. After that, they continued with the same farce of a relationship—afraid the girls would notice their parents becoming strangers to each other.

This time it was definitely a sob. George cursed and turned away from the water to hop down from the rail. Goddamnit. Who was up here? He shook the rain from his hair as he followed the wail. That was it. The fucking moment was gone. Why couldn’t just one thing go his way? Just one? He couldn’t even do this right.

Definitely not a cat. A young man—more like a kid, stood at the entrance to the bridge, below the trees. George squinted in the darkness as if the action would magically allow him to see clearly. He wore a raincoat over a pair of jeans and galoshes—he wore fucking galoshes. George hadn’t thought to dress for the weather when he drove out here. What was this kid doing out here at 3 am? His glasses were splattered with rain, and his dark hair hung limply around his ears. He stood facing the water. His hands rested on the rail.

“Hey?”

The kid turned and peered at him.

“You okay?”

“Go away.” He turned back to the water.

George walked over to the railing and stood next to him. Below them were only rocks made angry by the waves crashing against them. He picked a good spot. It was far more treacherous than the watery grave George had chosen for himself. Well, shit. This kid had already claimed it. He would have to try the other end. He looked out at the dark horizon, trying to ignore the stifled sobs coming from the kid next to him. “You gonna jump?”

“What do you care?” his voice sounded hoarse.

“I don’t.” George paused and turned towards him slightly. “Only, we can’t both jump on the same night… people will think we planned it or something.”

“So?”

George nodded. The kid was right. What did it matter? They would be dead. The idea still nagged him. When he envisioned this night, he didn’t see a companion—just him taking his last swan dive. This wasn’t a group effort. “Do you want to go first?”

The kid looked over to him, “Sure,” he hesitated.

“Cuz I can go first if you want.”

“No. No, I’ll do it.” He squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the rail.

“Cool,” George muttered as he backed away. He watched him lean forward and look down. His shoulders were shaking. George leaned over and glanced down. “Those rocks will kill you in seconds. It’ll be quick.”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to leave?”

The kid straightened and looked back at him. “Do what you want.”

George shrugged. “Okay then,” he leaned against the rail and crossed his arms. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. The rain fell harder, seeping through the thin fabric of his jacket. His jeans were heavy and damp. The cold felt good. Hell, it felt good to feel anything. Clare took the girls with her when she left. It’s been three years since he came home to find them gone, a note clipped to the refrigerator.  You know this is for the best. We’ll be with my parents in Bellingham. Don’t contact us, my lawyer will contact you. As he read the note, he crumbled. His resolve broke, and the emotions he had kept dammed up for the last ten years came spilling out. He hasn’t cried since. He hasn’t felt anything since. Nothing could break through the darkness, the exhaustion, the well of despair he dropped himself into. Everything he did had been for nothing. She left anyway. She took his girls.

“What about you?”

George shook himself. He looked at the kid, turned fully towards him. George could barely make out his face beyond the thick glasses. “What about me?”

“You gonna jump?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“That’s a cop-out.”

“Why are you jumping?” Two can play this game.

The kid huffed and turned away. George waited. The wind threw rain against the back of his neck.

“I can’t stand myself anymore.” His words whipped around them.

“Yeah,” George muttered. He understood this kid now. They were the same. It didn’t matter what brought them to this point. George could feel the disgust crawling under his skin. After the sadness, after the custody hearing— He should’ve fought for his girls. He let her have them. He didn’t think he had anything to offer. He was a spineless fuck. He lost everything he loved in one drop of the gavel.

“What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?”

“I dunno.” The kid shook his head. “You’re the last person I’ll ever meet. I feel like I should know your name.”

“George.”

The kid smiled thinly. “Victor.”

Of course, the kid was named Victor. He couldn’t be more than twenty. Everything from the long angle of his face to the point on his shoes shouted Victor. “Well, Victor, what now?”

“Did you know that more than 425 people have killed themselves here?”

“Well, it is called Deception Pass.” George looked back out into the inky dark water. “Seems fitting.”

“I guess the odds of there being alone here were against us.”

“I guess.”

They stood, silently watching the water pummel the rocks below. George watched Victor out of the corner of his eye. He was shivering. Goddamnit. It was ruined. Tonight he was going to help this fucking kid. Shit. George sighed and turned back to Victor. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“Let’s get a coffee.”

“No. I’m staying here.”

“Suit yourself.” George turned away from him and began walking toward his car. He didn’t care what the kid did. He was pissed that he ruined his plans, that’s all.

“Wait.”

George turned to see the kid running, raincoat flapping, toward him. He almost smiled. Instead, he crossed his arms in front of him.

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me?”

“Would it matter?”

Victor looked thoughtful. “I guess not.”

They walked to his old blue Toyota Prius. The paint was chipped and peeling in spots, but he didn’t care. It was her car. He hated it almost as much as he hated himself. It was in the shop the day she left, so she took his—she couldn’t even wait one more goddamn day.

George snorted as Victor buckled his seatbelt. “Safety first, huh?

Victor glared but said nothing. Old habits, George smirked. He drove them north, through the park, past the carefully placed log side rails and view-enticing trails. He had no idea where to find coffee this time of the morning. The clock on his dashboard read 4:03. Hell, there might be a Starbucks open. Victor sat quietly beside him. He was staring straight ahead, water dripping down his glasses. George turned on the vent. The kid was fogging up his car.

“There a 24-hour place on Commercial Ave,” Victor mumbled, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

“Yeah?” George wondered if he lived up here. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know why this sad-looking kid was crying on the bridge. He held his tongue.

“Donut House.” Victor nodded. “Turn here,” he pointed to the right.

George could just make out the white siding on the small A-frame house in front of them. The warm glow from the windows and the promise of hot coffee made his damp cold body itch with anticipation. He parked and turned off the car. Victor made no move to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You okay?”

Victor shook himself free of whatever he was ruminating on and grappled with the seatbelt. “Of course not. Are you?”

George swallowed a bark of laughter, the kid had a point. He smiled grimly and walked to the entrance, Victor trailing behind him.

The place was small; tables were scattered around the bakery counter filled with donuts and pastries. The walls were painted pink—not a soft spring pink. No, this place was Pepto-Bismol pink. A woman in a gray sweater and white apron shuffled to the counter when the bell on the door announced their arrival. She wore her brown hair in a bun. She looked surprisingly awake for this early. George smiled at her as he approached the counter.

“Cup of drip and a bear claw, please.”

She nodded and looked at Victor, “And for your son?”

Victor’s eyes shot up and met his. The kid looked like he had just been slapped. His shoulders relaxed, and he looked back at the pastries in the case. “Same.”

She handed them mugs and gestured to the coffee makers on the sideboard. Victor picked up the two bear claws and sat at a table near the window. George sighed and moved to the coffee station. How the hell was he supposed to know how the kid took his coffee? He filled one cup and grabbed a handful of creamer and sugar before he moved to the table. He dropped the paper packets and plastic containers, handed the kid his cup, and returned to fill his own. One cream, one sugar. He liked the bitterness, but not enough to appreciate it black.

George sat across from Victor and sipped his coffee. It felt good to be warm. How long was he out there? At least two hours. He should have just done it when he got there. No, he had to reminisce like a jackass. All it did was make him want to do it more. He had nothing now. Nothing but this kid pouring the fourth creamer into his coffee. George grunted. “Need more creamer?”

“No,” Victor stirred the milky coffee and took a sip. George could tell from his soft sigh he was glad for the warmth too.

After several silent minutes sipping their beverages, George gave in, “So, what’s your story?”

Victor looked up. “I dunno.”

“Bullshit. Something made you stand on that bridge.”

“Yeah, but it’s none of your business.”

“Suit yourself.” George pulled a piece off the bear claw and stuffed it in his mouth.

“What’s your story?” Victor challenged.

“I got fired today.”

“So? People get fired all the time.”

“Yeah, they do, don’t they? I’m nothing special.”

Victor stared at him. “Bullshit.”

“Yeah? You think you have any right to my story?” George lifted an eyebrow. Who the fuck did this kid think he was? Here he was, giving up his plans to help this sorry bastard. He grunted.

“You wanted to know mine, it’s only fair.”

“Ah, so I have to go first, is that it?”

Victor shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

George gripped the handle on his cup. It felt stable against his palm. “My wife left. Took my girls.” He paused, “I guess they’re not girls anymore. Lydia is 17 now, Sofie’s 14. Women—shit, where did the time go?” he ran his hands over his face and signed. “She took them and left. Took my car too. Took my life and what was left of my confidence—strangled me with it until I didn’t have any fight left in me. She took my fucking girls. They hate me now.”

“And you got fired.”

“Yeah. Today. After three years of warnings and my boss covering for my sorry-ass.”

“That’s it?”

George smirked, “Should there be more?”

“You didn’t try to get joint custody or anything?”

“I just sat there in the courtroom, like a lump, and let her take everything.

“Why?”

George shrugged and stuffed another piece of the bear claw in his mouth. He didn’t know how to tell this kid that part of him thought the girls would be happier with their mother. That by the time they signed the divorce papers, he was so deflated and angry he didn’t trust himself to speak. At the time, he felt like he gave Clare the grand sacrifice until he realized she orchestrated the entire thing to make him feel like he was being noble. She fucking played him. He was a jackass.

“Didn’t you want your kids?” Victor asked softly.

“I wanted those girls more than anything.”

“So why didn’t you fight for them?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Bullshit.” Victor was getting too comfortable with that word.

George sighed. “Yeah. It was. Complete bullshit. But there it is. I’m a fucking coward with nothing left.” He looked at the piece of pastry in his hand and tossed it back onto the plate. “I have nothing left.” He murmured, “not even myself.” He wiped his hands over his eyes. Fuck if he was going to cry in front of this kid.

Victor chewed on his bear claw, lost in thought. George dragged his hands over his face one last time. He looked down into his empty coffee cup and stood.  The short walk to the coffee station felt good on his cramped legs. He tried to relax as he walked. Goddamn it. Every muscle was clenched. He didn’t need a Charlie-horse right now.

Who was this kid? Victor sneezed and reached for a napkin. George sat back down and studied the young man across from him. Behind the thick glasses were a pair of sad blue eyes, He wasn’t a handsome boy, but George figured he could be charming if he tried. The kid draped the damp raincoat on the back of his chair. He wore a threadbare grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.  “Your turn, kid.”

“Where did you work?”

George glared at him. He already told him everything. What did he want to do? Push the knife deeper in his fucking heart? “Amazon.”

“Ah, of course.” Victor nodded. “What department?”

“Accounting. Global Financial Controls.” George answered, bitterly. “I was a Senior Account Manager. I was damn good, too.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” George shook his head and looked down. “Everything just went to shit. I couldn’t focus on anything. Things had been a mess at home for a while. Clare…I don’t know. I let everyone down.”

“How?”

George leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Who the fuck are you? The Sadness Police? What do you care?”

Victor shrugged. “It’s not like you’re going to be around much longer—Don’t you want someone to know your story?” He took a sip of his coffee, “Did you leave a note?”

Fuck. He didn’t even think of a note. George only knew he wanted to jump. Goddamnit. “No.”

“Well, then.” Victor nodded as if everything suddenly made sense.

“Did you leave one?”

“Of course.”

“What did it say?”

“That’s personal.”

“Fat chance, asshole. I told you everything. Your turn.”

“Have you always been this angry?”

“Yes.” George lied.

“Bullshit.”

George leaned into the table and met Victor’s eyes. “Listen here, you little shit–”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Then shut the fuck up,” George grunted.

Victor sighed and stood. He looked over to the woman behind the counter, “Bathroom?”

“Down the hall to the left.” She said, not bothering to look up from her phone.

He looked back at George. “Don’t leave me, okay?

“I won’t,” George replied as he watched Victor disappear down the hallway.

Oh god, what the hell was he doing? George leaned back in his chair and focused on the cream stucco looking ceiling. This was not what he planned. He figured he could at least help the kid, now he’s the one under the lights. He needed to refocus the conversation. He looked out the window at the nearly black sky.  When did the rain stop? The Prius sat alone in the small parking lot—mocking his continued existence.

Clare would laugh at him if she could see him now. She got her payback for years of supposed repression. He never told her to quit her job. He wanted her to keep it. Even after Lydia was born, they could have asked one of the grandmothers to watch her, but no… Clare needed time to recover herself. He was okay with that. He supported everything she needed. When she decided to become a Yoga instructor, he took off early so she could make it to classes. When she wanted to try her hand at pottery, he spent his Saturdays with the girls at their market booth, trying to sell her awkward bowls. He didn’t mind, it gave him time with the girls. It didn’t matter how much he supported her, she never failed to accuse him of holding her back. Nothing he could do was ever good enough, and he tried, for the sixteen years of marriage, to make sure she knew he loved her. It never occurred to him that she should have been doing the same.

Victor returned with a chocolate donut. He set the plate between the two of them.  George raised an eyebrow and watched him break it in half before sitting down.

“What happened with your girls? Do you still talk to them?” Victor asked around a bite of donut.

“Fine.” George sighed. “we’ll do this.” He shifted in his seat to rest his elbows on the table. He pulled off a piece of the chocolate donut. “No. I don’t talk to them. I don’t think they want to hear from their failure of a father.”

“What if they do?”

“They could reach out to me too. Three years later, and nada.” George shrugged. “It is what it is. I can’t change anything.”

“What are they like?”

“Sofie is a little artist. Her sketches are amazing—wait.” George pulled his wallet out of his pocket and fished out the small folded page. “She drew that years ago.” He unfolded it to reveal a picture of a goldfish. George appreciated Victor’s gasp when he saw the detail on the fish. “She’s got talent.”

“That’s terrific. How old was she?”

“Maybe ten? Yeah, no idea where she got it from.” George smiled sadly and refolded the sketch. “Lydia is my activist. She’s going to change the world. She’s already working on a clean earth project with her senior class.” He felt his eyes damped, and he cleared his throat. “She’s planning on volunteering for some project on the Salish Sea next summer,” he paused, “at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“You should talk to them.”

“You should mind your business.”

Victor almost smiled. George saw it, the quick tug at the corner of his mouth before he caught himself. Maybe it was working—this weird storytelling thing. He needed to get him to talk, but how? He cleared his throat again and looked him in the eye. “Say I did call them, what should I say?”

“Well, first, don’t say it over the phone, you should ask to take them for dinner or something. Food always helps.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And be sure to hear them out, without interrupting. Like really listen. They’re gonna need to trust you again.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Maybe…” Victor trailed off and took another bite of donut.

“What are your parents like?” George sipped his coffee. If a direct question wouldn’t work, he’d try misdirection.

Victor shrugged. “I dunno, they’re like parents, I guess.”

“Do they live around here?”

“Yeah.”

George nodded. He’d wait. He used to be a patient man, hell, he used to be a lot of things. Where did it all go? He picked off another piece of donut. He might not be able to help himself, but he’ll be damned if he wasn’t going to try to talk to this kid.

Victor sat silently, watching him. George tried not to squirm—his gaze didn’t waver. Was he testing his determination? Fine, he’ll show the little shit he wasn’t going to give up.

“My parents are good people.” His voice shook. George watched him clear his throat and straightened in the chair. “They don’t deserve someone like me.”

George leaned back in his chair, “Well, that’s a load of bullshit.”

Victor glared at him, “Shut up. You don’t know what I’ve put them through.”

“So, tell me.”

“You sit there in your stupid green jacket and smug smile and judge me?  You have no idea what I’ve done to them.” His breath was coming fast.

George laughed, “I can’t imagine you have the guts to do anything to anybody. Go ahead—tell me. What’s so bad about you?”

Victor sat completely still. George folded his arms across his chest. What could this kid have done to think his parents hate him? He cleared his throat and waited.

“I was diagnosed with Leukemia when I was 17. That’s when everything started going wrong. They couldn’t afford the hospital bills, but I was so sick… I was on my last round of chemo when they told me they were separating. They were always angry—not at me, at each other. It was as if one of them had gotten me sick. I couldn’t do anything but watch.”

“Kid. It isn’t your fault that your parents couldn’t handle the situation. Sometimes shit happens, and we fuck up.”

“It took them two years to forgive each other. Two years! I can’t do that to them again. I only have like 5 years tops. I don’t want them to suffer like that because of me again.”

“Is the cancer back?”

“Yeah.” Victor’s gaze dropped to his empty coffee cup. He gulped at the air for a minute before looking up again. His eyes were damp. Fuck. George cursed.

“How old are you?

“22.”

“Who said you have only 5 years?”

“Doctors. I’ve been in remission, they said if it came back, I’d probably only have 5 years.”

“So, you were on that bridge so you wouldn’t have to put your parents through the shit again?”

“Kinda.”

“Fuck your parents. This isn’t about them. It’s about you.” George felt his blood heat up. “If you only have 5 years left, they should make them the best for you.” He swore again.

Victor shrugged. “I’m a sick kid. I won’t be around, they will be.”

“Trust me, I know what it’s like to live with regrets. Your folks are gonna have a doozy.” George shook his head.

“What do I do?”

“Shit, kid. Let’s start by not jumping off that damn bridge, okay?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

George almost laughed. The kid was persistent, he’ll give him that. “I make no promises.”

“Bullshit.”

George raised an eyebrow.

“What about your girls?” Victor leaned forward. “Don’t they deserve a father? They need you.”

“They have their mother.”

“You said I can’t blame myself for my parent’s actions, right?” at his nod, Victor continued, “What if they’re blaming themselves too?” He warmed to the subject, “How can I fix my parents if your kids can’t fix you? You have to let them try.”

“Fuck, kid. That was below the belt.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Is that what you want? Me to talk with my kids?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, then you have to talk with your folks.”

“I have talked to them.”

“Yeah?”

“They said the same thing you did. I shouldn’t blame myself.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” George couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.  He leaned forward and glared. Maybe the exhaustion was setting in—it felt like they were talking in circles.

“My girlfriend cheated on me.”

George sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. This fucking kid. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah. When I told her the cancer was back—she spent the night with my best friend.”

“Sounds like you’re better off without them.”

“My best friend! I hate this cancer. It’s destroying everything. It’s destroying me. I can’t keep doing this.”  Victor cried, tears running down his face. “I look at myself in the mirror and see a dead man, what’s the point? Huh? My parents say it’s not my fault that they can’t get along, my girlfriend cheated the minute she heard it was back. I have nothing, George. Nothing.”

George sat back, stunned at the outburst. The kid had a point. His situation sucked, that was for sure.  He looked at the boy across from him, sobbing silently into his hands, and reached out to awkwardly pat his shoulder. “Yeah, that sucks, kid.” He muttered, “but you know, it sounds like your parents are trying. That says something about them, right? They love you—no matter what, that’s what parents do.”

“How do you know? You gave up on your kids.” His reply was muffled. Eventually, Victor lifted his damp eyes to meet his. “You won’t even try.”

“I’m not exactly a shining example of parenthood.” George smiled sadly, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how your folks feel.” He waited for Victor to blow his nose on the napkin before continuing, “and as for this girl? Fuck her. She doesn’t deserve you. She’s a coward.”

“I loved her.”

“She’s a waste of time, kid, and you don’t have a lot to spare.” George felt a tug at his heart as he spoke. “Shit, kid—you’ve got a free pass. You should, I don’t know…go skydiving, rob a bank, start up a heroin habit. People seem to like that crap.”

Victor hiccupped and blew his nose again. “Yeah, I know… I’m not much of a risk-taker.”

“So change that. What’s the risk? Death? Hell, there’re no consequences for you. Do something unexpected. See what happens.”

George sighed. What more could he say to him? The kid’s been dealt a bum hand, but that wasn’t his problem. Victor’s words echoed in his ears. Did Lydia and Sofie think everything that happened was their fault? Did they think he left because of them? A shudder ran through him. How could he possibly fix that?

He looked over to the lady behind the counter. He wondered if she was listening to them. The air smelled sweet, how long had they been sitting there? He didn’t remember seeing her move, but she must have—unless there was someone else here? How else would there be donuts baking? She straightened and looked over to them. He smiled when she caught his eye, and she gave him a little nod. Sunrise was at 7:36. He looked it up before he drove out here. There was still time to go back to the bridge. He looked back at the kid across from him. He should take him home first.

“You should call your daughters.”

“Listen, kid. I know you want to help, but not everything is cut and dry.”

“Call right now. I bet they’re awake.”

“Why is this so important to you?” George instinctively touched the pocket that housed his phone.

Victor shrugged, “I like you.”

“You like me?” He was stunned.

“You’re not the bad guy you want people to think you are.”

“How do you know?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Victor stood, “Want a refill?”

George nodded and handed him his cup. He watched him lumber over to the coffee station. What does this kid know anyway? He’s a shit person, he knew it, his ex-wife knew it, his kids know it—why couldn’t this fucking kid see it?

Victor returned with a handful of creamer and sugar packets. He dropped them on the table before sitting down again. He grabbed four creamers and emptied them into his coffee. George picked one of each and stirred his drink. “Just because I took you for coffee doesn’t mean I’m a nice guy.”

“You could have left me alone. You didn’t have to find me on the bridge.”

“You were crying so loud. I couldn’t hear myself think.”

“You could have jumped.”

“I might still.” George didn’t look up from his coffee. He took a sip before setting it down. “Sun isn’t up yet.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look, kid, there’s no fixing me. I’m a mess.” He laced his fingers together and set them on the table. “Besides, you have enough to worry about.”

“You’re the first person to talk to me like a normal person in a long time.”

“You are a normal person.”

“I’m a dying person. That changes things.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Well, it does. I can’t change that.” Victor took a sip of his coffee and looked George in the eye. “I’d like to be your friend, George.”

He couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that rumbled in his chest. “I don’t have friends anymore.”

“Then I’ll be the first. It isn’t like I’m asking for much—I’ll only be around for a bit anyway.”

“Hell, kid. You can’t play the dead card.”

“I’m not. It’s the truth.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to bring it up like that.”

“Are you going to deny a dying man friendship?”

“Fuck, kid. Seriously?” George couldn’t help the smile that crinkled his eyes.

“Seriously, this is last wish shit. C’mon. Don’t be a coward.”

“Didn’t you hear anything I said? I am a coward. A shitty little coward.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you should. Sorry kid. I’m not a good man anymore.”

“But you were once?”

“No—yeah, a long time ago.” George ran his hand through his hair and leaned back. “Fine. I can’t promise I’ll be a good friend or anything.”

“I don’t care.”

“Alright, then.”

Victor rested his hands on the table and looked at him intently. George resisted the urge to look behind him. “What?”

“Call your daughter.”

“Goddamn it, Victor.”

“Fine. Don’t. I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.” The word was like a truce. What would he say to them? Why did this stupid kid think he knew anything about having kids? How long had it been since he heard Lydia’s voice? What if they didn’t recognize him anymore? He couldn’t bear to see hatred and disgust in their eyes. They knew he didn’t fight for them. No… he couldn’t call them.

“C’mon.” Victor stood and began pulling on his raincoat.

“I can drop you off at home.” George pulled on his jacket and stood. Part of him didn’t want to leave—here he was safe. In this coffee shop in the early morning, he wasn’t himself. He didn’t have to be anything to anyone. There was just Victor. He hated to admit he liked the stupid kid.

“Not yet,” Victor said, pushing open the door and walking to the Prius.

The air was cold and damp, mist still hung around them. George turned the heat up in the car as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Where to?”

“Let’s go back.”

“Still want to jump?” George hesitated a moment before turning left onto the road that would lead them back to the bridge.

“I don’t know.” Victor turned his face from the passing trees and looked at him.

“Alright. Let’s go see.”

There were a few more cars out now, George noted the early commute beginning over the bridge as he pulled to the side of the road. It was over now. People brought questions and the need to help, two things he had hoped to avoid at 3am. They still had the darkness to cloak their movements as they began walking across. George rested his hand on the cold metal railing and paused. It seemed more than three hours had passed since he sat on the rail and leaned forward. Victor stopped next to him, leaned over, and looked down.

“Not a bad spot.”

“Yours was better.”

“Depends on how you wanted it to end. Here it’s definitely drowning. Hopefully, you knock yourself out first, right?”

“Yeah.”

“At the other end, it’s just rocks. Faster, less wishful thinking.” Victor paused and looked back at George. “You don’t really want to die, do you?”

“What?”

“You still have hope.”

“Kid, I don’t remember what hope feels like.”

“Bullshit.”

“I didn’t plan it out, sue me. I walked to the spot where I could see the most horizon and stopped. That’s it.”

“But you were looking for the horizon—that’s something, George.”

George stood quietly. His eyes focused on the separation of sky and sea. The sky was brighter now. Sunrise was in forty-five minutes. Soon the world would wake and take it’s tentative first steps. He would have to go home. He didn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was because he failed again, or because of the kid beside him. Hope. What did that taste like?

“You don’t have to wait here with me.”

George looked sharply at Victor. “What do you mean?”

“I can walk home from here.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll drive you.”

“It’s not far, and I kinda want to be alone.”

“Alright.” George sighed. “It’s been good talking to you, Victor.”

“Call your daughters, George.” Victor held up a hand as George started to shake his head. “Don’t do it for you, do it for me—tell them about the crazy dead kid you met.” He smiled.

“You’re not dead yet, kid. Make it count.” He held out his hand.

Victor clasped his hand and smiled. “You too.”

“You should do that more.”

“What?”

“Smile. You look less like a dead man.”

“Thanks, George.”

“Yeah,” He nodded and began backing away. “Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could get coffee again…Next week?”

“I’d like that. Same time?” Victor gave him another small smile and turned. George watched him cross the bridge before turning back to his car. He didn’t trust that Victor wouldn’t double back and do it. He waited. Damnit. What did it matter if the kid jumped? Hell, he still might. But not today. George shook his head and, after another long glance in the direction Victor disappeared, he opened his car door and slid behind the wheel.

Hope. Ha! The kid had a hell of an imagination. He didn’t have hope. George pulled out onto the highway instead of crossing into the small downtown. He needed a nap, his eyes felt raw. Or maybe just another cup of coffee. A sign for the Interstate divided the road, reminding him that the left lane went north and the right turned south. Clare and the girls lived north. He knew they would be just getting ready for school now. He could still hear their mumbles and grunts as they got ready. Neither of them liked mornings.

The exit approached. He glance in the rearview mirror and saw only one other car about a mile back. What if the kid was right? What if they thought it was their fault? What if he wasn’t a failure to them? He grunted, if he wasn’t then, he is now. Three years of nothing. What could he even say to them? But he would have confirmation one way or the other. Could he bear to see them? Would he just knock on the door? What if Clare won’t let him in?

He missed them. He didn’t like thinking about his girls—the fucking kid had to get him talking. Now his head was filled with them. The constant squabbling and shouting.  Sofie was a spitfire. She would tell him how it was. Lydia was his little peacemaker. George felt a shudder race down his spine. How could he have just let them go? He didn’t know what to do.  Maybe that was the problem—he overthought everything. The exit was a quarter mile away. He focused on Lydia’s slow smile and the way Sofie’s eyes squinted when she giggled. This time he didn’t think. With a quick glance at his blind spot, he cut across the left lane and onto the Interstate heading north.