Page 120 of The Next Chapter

‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Vandergilden.’

It’s true, I am. I can think he’s a bit of a knob and be sad for his situation at the same time.

In this job I realized a long time ago that bad people die, just like good people die. The thing that really matters is how we live. There’s a choice to be made, every single day that we’re alive. We all get to decide whether we’re a force for good or bad. And maybe it won’t matter in the end, but it matters in the here and now. It matters in the tiny moments that make up a life. And really, in the end, that’s what counts, isn’t it? The choices we make.

‘Pah, I’ve had a good innings. Nothing to go getting your panties all twisted up about.’

I nod, because what else can I say?

‘The thing to remember about all of this, Louisa—’ I let the Louisa go this time, ‘—is that you’ve gotta take the bull by the horns.’ I think we’re talking about life here, though I can’t quite be sure. ‘You gotta do what makes you happy, even if it scares ya. Fuck the rest of ’em.’

If I were feeling less generous, I could point out that Mr Vandergilden certainly did his bit when it came to fucking people over. But it is making me think about Lola, about Noah and how much the thought of them both leaving scares me.

Even though they sounded like they wanted to stay this time, how can I trust them not to leave? Everyone leaves me.

Sometimes I wish I was braver. I wish I could move through the world freely, without resistance. Sometimes being me feels like one long battle through a wind tunnel.

‘Thank you, Mr Vandergilden, I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Make sure you do, missy. When you’re scared, that’s where the magic happens.’

I’m almost certain that he’s referring to the story of when he almost got mauled by a bear during a particularly bloody hunting trip, but the sentiment rings true.

We say our goodbyes and then I just sit, staring at my screen as the office moves around me. I don’t even take off my headphones, so the sound is all muffled.

Mr Vandergilden was right (and there’s a sentence I never thought I’d think). I need to do the thing that scares me.

But there’s one more thing that I need to do first.

I pull my headphones off.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ I announce to the office.

Clementine and Phil are playing chess.

‘Fucking finally,’ Seb says.

I head outside, ignoring the ominous rumble of clouds above me, heading in the direction that I’ve been in so many times before.

Neither Mum nor Dad wanted a traditional burial. They weren’t religious and they both asked for that poem, ‘do not stand at my grave and weep,’ at their funerals. But after Mum died, Dad picked out a memorial bench for her and put it in Whitworth Park. It’s where they met all those years ago. There’s a plaque with Mum’s name first and then Dad’s next to it, the etching newer.

I march all the way there, the air cool and the rain spitting.

The first sob comes as soon as I clock the bench.

Sometimes, I think that Dad didn’t choose anything bigger than a bench because he knew how much time I’d spend cleaning it. And even now, I’m proud of the fact that their bench is the best looking one in the park. The council didn’t seem to mind when I revarnished it after the winter. And their new plaque is super shiny. That plaque polish I’d bought from Amazon really is the best in the business.

I sit in the corner of the bench, facing the plaque and wondering what I’m meant to do now.

Normally when I come, it’s the weekend or after work. I bring a book. Just being here is a comfort. I’ve never before arrived in a fit of dramatics on a Monday morning.

The first splash of rain hits my nose.

‘I can’t believe you made me go find her,’ I tell them, thinking that if now is the time that I start to talk to myself, at least there’s no one here to witness it. ‘But then, I guess you always knew what was best.’

The rain starts harder. I don’t have an umbrella; I didn’t even pick up my coat.

‘The thing is, I really want to hate her. It was easier when I hated her. But now I like her and I’m so scared. What if she chooses to go again? What if she doesn’t choose it but goes anyway? Leaving isn’t always a choice we get. You both didn’t want to leave.’ Dad’s letter. If I could have stayed, I would have done.