My brother and I traveled around Europe the summer after I graduated high school. France, Italy, Spain, and we finished the trip in Germany and Austria. The latter is home to a massive ice cave that Nick insisted on seeing. I’ll admit, it was pretty fucking cool. The tour only lets you walk the first mile or so, which is covered in ice. Beyond that, the interlocking chambers and endless passageways were formed of limestone. Nick and I weren’t interested in one measly mile, so badasses that we are, we broke the rules and snuck away from the tour group.
We got lost. Hopelessly fucking lost, and to this day I still remember the suffocating feeling that came over me. The echo of our voices bouncing off the impossibly high walls. The cold breeze blowing through the cave. The footsteps of the tour guide who came to our rescue—we could hear those footsteps, clear as day, but it was impossible to figure out which direction they were coming from. The echoes fucked with our ears.
That’s how I feel now. I hear Garrett talking, but I can’t see him and I can’t be sure of what he’s saying. His voice is an echo. Bouncing off the walls and off my ears and just kinda…swirling around aimlessly.
My brain still can’t comprehend the first thing he said.
Beau died.
As in, he’s dead?
Beau is dead?
Beau Maxwell?
My friend Beau Maxwell?
“…on impact.”
My head snaps up. It’s like Garrett’s words are spitballs that he’s firing at the wall, and the last two finally stick.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
His gray eyes are lined with sadness. “I said he died on impact. He didn’t suffer.”
I blink. Repeatedly. “Can you tell it to me again? What happened, I mean.”
He curses. “Goddamn it, why?”
Because I didn’t hear a word you said! I almost roar. I take a breath and say, “Because I need to hear it again.”
Garrett nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay.”
I stagger to the counter and open the top cupboard. Good. There’s a bottle of Jack in it. I twist off the cap and take a deep swig, then join my roommates at the table. I sit next to Tuck, and the Jack Daniel’s gets passed around as Garrett starts talking again.
It’s not a very long story.
But it’s a gut-wrenching one.
Beau flew to Wisconsin this weekend for his grandmother’s birthday. I already knew this—he called me before he left. We made plans to grab beers on Tuesday night.
Last night, the Maxwells celebrated Grandma’s ninetieth at a restaurant in her small town. The roads were icy. They took two cars—Beau was with his dad. His dad was driving.
Joanna told Coach Deluca that dinner was a ton of fun.
On the drive back, Beau’s father swerved to avoid hitting a deer that darted out in front of their car.
The car hit a patch of black ice. It flew off the road, flipping over twice.
Then it slammed into a tree.
Beau’s neck snapped on impact.
His father didn’t have a scratch on ’im.
I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. It burns my throat and sets my insides on fire. My eyes are on fire too. They’re hot and stinging, and when Garrett finishes speaking, I scrape my chair back and pick up the bottle.
“Going upstairs,” I mumble.
“Dean—” It’s Tucker, his voice rippling with sorrow.
Tuck barely knew Beau. Neither did Garrett, aside from chilling with him at parties. Logan was close to him, I guess. I know he went over to Beau’s place to hang out. But me…I was one of Maxwell’s best friends. He was one of mine.
Somehow, I make it up the stairs without falling over. My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the whiskey bottle half a dozen times before I stumble into my room. I collapse on the bed and tip the bottle, pouring a stream of amber liquid into my mouth. It splashes my neck and soaks into the collar of my shirt. I don’t care. I just drink more.
So I guess Beau’s dead.
He was twenty-three.
I drink more. And some more. And then some more, until my vision is nothing but a fuzzy gray haze.
I’m wasted now. No, I’m beyond wasted. My brain don’t work so good anymore. Hands? Working? Fuggedaboutit. I try to set the bottle on the nightstand and it crashes to the floor. For some reason, that makes me laugh.
I think time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s standing fucking still because Beau Maxwell’s neck snapped like a twig and now he’s dead. Dead. Dunzo. Dun-zo.
“Dean…?”
A voice whispers my name from far, far away. Jeez. Maybe I’m in the cave again. Maybe I never left it—how fucked up would that be? If I died in some cave in Austria but didn’t know it? If the life I’ve been leading ever since that Europe trip is really a figment of my imagination, and my dead body is actually decomposing in an ice cave right now?
“That’s fucking trippy,” I slur.
“Dean.” Warm hands cup my cheeks. There’s a soft curse. “Jesus. You’re drunk out of your mind.”
I’m bouncing. No, the mattress is. It’s shaking because someone is climbing on the bed with me, and my stomach starts to feel queasy. Nausea sticks to my throat. I swallow. I breathe deeply. I can smell the whiskey, but there’s another fragrance in the room too. Allie’s mysterious scent.
“Baby.” I feel my head moving. She’s tugging it into her lap, threading her fingers through my damp hair. I’m sweating bullets. Why is it so hot in here? “Logan just told me what happened. I…” Her hand trembles in my hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“Broke…his neck.” My voice sounds far away, too. It doesn’t even sound like my voice, actually. Jesus, I’m so drunk. Disgustingly, pathetically, lost-in-oblivion drunk.
“I know,” Allie whispers. “And I’m so, so sorry. I know you’re hurting right now. I…” She strokes my hot forehead. “I’m here, okay? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
I draw a ragged breath. “Babe,” I mumble.
“What is it?”
“I’m gonna…” I lift my head, but the simple act of doing so incites the very thing I was trying to warn her about.
The nausea spirals to the surface and I throw up on my girlfriend’s lap.
*
Allie
The memorial service for Beau is held in the football stadium. The entire team is there, along with the coaching staff, his friends, his family, hundreds of alumni, and thousands of people who probably never even met him.
We got lost. Hopelessly fucking lost, and to this day I still remember the suffocating feeling that came over me. The echo of our voices bouncing off the impossibly high walls. The cold breeze blowing through the cave. The footsteps of the tour guide who came to our rescue—we could hear those footsteps, clear as day, but it was impossible to figure out which direction they were coming from. The echoes fucked with our ears.
That’s how I feel now. I hear Garrett talking, but I can’t see him and I can’t be sure of what he’s saying. His voice is an echo. Bouncing off the walls and off my ears and just kinda…swirling around aimlessly.
My brain still can’t comprehend the first thing he said.
Beau died.
As in, he’s dead?
Beau is dead?
Beau Maxwell?
My friend Beau Maxwell?
“…on impact.”
My head snaps up. It’s like Garrett’s words are spitballs that he’s firing at the wall, and the last two finally stick.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
His gray eyes are lined with sadness. “I said he died on impact. He didn’t suffer.”
I blink. Repeatedly. “Can you tell it to me again? What happened, I mean.”
He curses. “Goddamn it, why?”
Because I didn’t hear a word you said! I almost roar. I take a breath and say, “Because I need to hear it again.”
Garrett nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay.”
I stagger to the counter and open the top cupboard. Good. There’s a bottle of Jack in it. I twist off the cap and take a deep swig, then join my roommates at the table. I sit next to Tuck, and the Jack Daniel’s gets passed around as Garrett starts talking again.
It’s not a very long story.
But it’s a gut-wrenching one.
Beau flew to Wisconsin this weekend for his grandmother’s birthday. I already knew this—he called me before he left. We made plans to grab beers on Tuesday night.
Last night, the Maxwells celebrated Grandma’s ninetieth at a restaurant in her small town. The roads were icy. They took two cars—Beau was with his dad. His dad was driving.
Joanna told Coach Deluca that dinner was a ton of fun.
On the drive back, Beau’s father swerved to avoid hitting a deer that darted out in front of their car.
The car hit a patch of black ice. It flew off the road, flipping over twice.
Then it slammed into a tree.
Beau’s neck snapped on impact.
His father didn’t have a scratch on ’im.
I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. It burns my throat and sets my insides on fire. My eyes are on fire too. They’re hot and stinging, and when Garrett finishes speaking, I scrape my chair back and pick up the bottle.
“Going upstairs,” I mumble.
“Dean—” It’s Tucker, his voice rippling with sorrow.
Tuck barely knew Beau. Neither did Garrett, aside from chilling with him at parties. Logan was close to him, I guess. I know he went over to Beau’s place to hang out. But me…I was one of Maxwell’s best friends. He was one of mine.
Somehow, I make it up the stairs without falling over. My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the whiskey bottle half a dozen times before I stumble into my room. I collapse on the bed and tip the bottle, pouring a stream of amber liquid into my mouth. It splashes my neck and soaks into the collar of my shirt. I don’t care. I just drink more.
So I guess Beau’s dead.
He was twenty-three.
I drink more. And some more. And then some more, until my vision is nothing but a fuzzy gray haze.
I’m wasted now. No, I’m beyond wasted. My brain don’t work so good anymore. Hands? Working? Fuggedaboutit. I try to set the bottle on the nightstand and it crashes to the floor. For some reason, that makes me laugh.
I think time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s standing fucking still because Beau Maxwell’s neck snapped like a twig and now he’s dead. Dead. Dunzo. Dun-zo.
“Dean…?”
A voice whispers my name from far, far away. Jeez. Maybe I’m in the cave again. Maybe I never left it—how fucked up would that be? If I died in some cave in Austria but didn’t know it? If the life I’ve been leading ever since that Europe trip is really a figment of my imagination, and my dead body is actually decomposing in an ice cave right now?
“That’s fucking trippy,” I slur.
“Dean.” Warm hands cup my cheeks. There’s a soft curse. “Jesus. You’re drunk out of your mind.”
I’m bouncing. No, the mattress is. It’s shaking because someone is climbing on the bed with me, and my stomach starts to feel queasy. Nausea sticks to my throat. I swallow. I breathe deeply. I can smell the whiskey, but there’s another fragrance in the room too. Allie’s mysterious scent.
“Baby.” I feel my head moving. She’s tugging it into her lap, threading her fingers through my damp hair. I’m sweating bullets. Why is it so hot in here? “Logan just told me what happened. I…” Her hand trembles in my hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“Broke…his neck.” My voice sounds far away, too. It doesn’t even sound like my voice, actually. Jesus, I’m so drunk. Disgustingly, pathetically, lost-in-oblivion drunk.
“I know,” Allie whispers. “And I’m so, so sorry. I know you’re hurting right now. I…” She strokes my hot forehead. “I’m here, okay? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
I draw a ragged breath. “Babe,” I mumble.
“What is it?”
“I’m gonna…” I lift my head, but the simple act of doing so incites the very thing I was trying to warn her about.
The nausea spirals to the surface and I throw up on my girlfriend’s lap.
*
Allie
The memorial service for Beau is held in the football stadium. The entire team is there, along with the coaching staff, his friends, his family, hundreds of alumni, and thousands of people who probably never even met him.
