Maverick

Chapter 31

As we finally pulled up at my house, the envelope seemed to weigh a thousand tons. During the journey I had fantasised so much about what was written inside, that it seemed to open it would ruin the reverie I was experiencing at having just one last piece of Ezra to myself. I couldn't help tracing Ezra's scribbled name on the front with my finger, lightly. The hard indent in the paper reminded me that he had existed. He wasn't yet a forgotten dream. We had been best friends. He had fallen in love with me. Just his name brought up a multitude of memories in my mind. Reading his letter would only increase the pain. "You sure you don't mind me coming in?" Maverick's eyes were liquid gold. His tone soft, and sultry. I smiled, ran a hand through his disheveled curls. "Don't be stupid. Is your mum going to be all right, though?"

"I'll go round later, once you're asleep." He gently took a strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. "I just thought you might want to read it on your own."

"Hey," I reproached him, "we both went to Gabby's. We both have to find a way to deal with this." I gestured to the two of us. "It involves us both. Whether Ezra wanted you to read it or not. He knew we were an uncompromisable package deal."

Purely from his expression, I could sense that Maverick wasn't certain. While Ezra was alive, Maverick would always ensure that he always did the complete opposite of what Ezra wanted, but now that he was dead, Maverick was warier. I didn't know if this was down simply to guilt, or just basic respect for the dead's wishes, but I still had the feeling that, even after our meeting with Gabby, he still had the weight of culpability hovering over him like a rain cloud.

It was quiet inside the house. When we reached the kitchen, I found lying on the table a scribbled note from Dad on the back of an old receipt.

"Watching football at Joe's. Be home later. Love you."

I crumbled the receipt in my hand, chucking it into the bin as I passed. At the moment, Dad seemed to be spending more time with his friends and a can of beer than his own home. Not that I worried too much. I guessed that this was his way of dealing with everything. As we made our way silently to my bedroom, each step felt like an eternity. The longer the journey felt, the less and less I wanted to open the letter and hear what Ezra had to say. Once in my bedroom, I pulled off my Converse, slipping out of my jeans, not bothering to change into my pyjamas, and slipped underneath my bed covers. Maverick pulled my desk chair over to where I was dozing and sat in it, covering himself with my ragged, patchy quilt that lay at the foot of my bed. He was preparing himself for a long night. Whatever my reaction to the letter, I knew that he would stay and watch me until I fell asleep.

All was silent. For a moment, both of us just stared at the white envelope, hoping it would evaporate into the silk bed cover.

"Reece," Maverick said, carefully, "maybe you shouldn't open it, after all. You might be disappointed."

"I'm not expecting him to apologise, Maverick," I retaliated, "I just want to know why. Why he killed himself. If it was because of me, or you, or..."

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his fingers twined with mine, his lips in my hair, his teeth grazing my ear. "He might not give you any of the answers you're looking for, Reece. He'd know how angry you'd be. How disappointed. And do you really want to know if he blamed you?" he continued, letting out a long, broken breath, "Reading, in his own hand, that you were the reason he topped himself?"

Maverick was right. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew deep down that, if Ezra so much as hinted that the weight of culpability should lie upon my shoulders, I would never recover. Watching him play the blame game was hard enough. If the tables happened to turn, I didn't know how I would cope.