Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
“And you love me too?”
Jennifer smiles and lets out a long sigh. “Are you joking? You know I do.”
“Then say it.”
She leans in close and presses her lips to mine.
“I love you, Marlon.”
“I love you too, Jennifer.”
I slide my hand up her shirt, causing her to gasp. “Now put those down so I can show you just how much I love you.”
Six months later…
Leg day. Some guys say it’s the worst, but it’s honestly my favorite. I love squats, I love deadlifts, I love leg presses, and I love lunges. I don’t know why. Maybe I just love torturing myself at the gym, or maybe I just love the soreness I feel the next day when I’m recovering. Either way, today is leg day, and I’m amped up for a kickass workout as I stretch and get my music going.
I start off with one set of warmup squats and glance over at the guy beside me who really should be putting more weight on his heels, but I’m not about to go over and critique his form. You just don’t do that. If he ends up needing a spot, maybe I’ll mention it to him, but until then, it’s on him.
I load up the bar with more weight and am just about to start my first working set when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Normally I don’t answer calls or texts at the gym, so I just leave it and position myself under the bar, but it vibrates again.
It could be Brian, my new guy at the company, and he could have something important to tell me about a deal we’ve got coming up, so I pull my phone out and check it, only to see I’ve got two texts from Jennifer.
I smile and open them.
I can’t do this: I just can’t do this anymore, baby.
My heartrate speeds up. I frown at the screen and text back.
What? Do what?
She writes back instantly.
This.
What is she talking about?
I quickly dial her number, but it just rings and then goes to her voicemail.
My phone buzzes again as she sends me another text.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be here anymore.
My heartrate skyrockets. Sweat pours out of me.
Baby, what are you talking about? Be where?
Again, she writes back instantly.
Here. I’m going to the bridge.
Massive adrenaline dump.
I call again, but this time she ignores the call, and it goes straight to voicemail. In two seconds, I’m in my car dialing 9-1-1. I scream at them, telling them where to go as I slam on the gas, leaving tire marks on the pavement as I peel out of the parking lot.
I call her again, but again it goes to voicemail.
Baby, pick up!
I text as I floor it. I know I’m at least ten minutes away from where she’s going, depending on traffic.
She’s going to the bridge–our bridge–where we went so many times together. We discovered it once while we were out on a drive. It’s just an old truss bridge, covered in rust, hanging high above the river below, which can flow with strong currents, especially during the spring runoffs like we’re experiencing right now.
We would go there on date nights with pre-made meals to eat and watch the water flow beneath us while listening to music.
It’s where I brought her for our three-month anniversary.
And now she’s going there to end her life.
I dial again, but the call goes straight to voice mail.
“Goddamn it, Jennifer! Answer the fucking phone!”
I’m absolutely losing it as I merge onto the highway and floor it. I don’t care if the cops see me and try to pull me over for speeding. They can follow me to the bridge for all I care. No one is getting in my way tonight.
Don’t do this.
I send her another text, praying that she’ll read it despite the fact that she’s not answering my calls, praying that she’s still able to read it.
My fingers are shaking as I set my phone aside.
Has 9-1-1 made it there yet? This is an absolute nightmare.
The traffic is heavy, and I feel like there’s a car in front of me at every turn as I thread my way up the road, pounding the steering wheel, trying to keep myself from falling apart.
My heart feels like it’s about to explode when I finally pull off the exit and start cutting through the trees, a mere two minutes from the bridge.
“Come on, baby. Come on!”
I see her car, parked carelessly in the dirt on the side of the road, almost as though she’d swerved to miss hitting something and then just left it there. The lights are off. I park behind it and leap out, not even bothering to shut my door. I see no signs of 9-1-1 or any emergency services. I must have beaten them here.