Page 35 of Three Minutes
Beck: Happy Birthday, Esther. We love you, Ezra. I’m here if you need me.
Blake: Don’t do anything stupid today. Be easy on yourself. Call me if you need me.
Eric: Thinking about you today. Please call us if you need us for anything.
I scroll down my notifications, making sure I didn’t miss any texts. Nothing from her, but I’m not surprised. Why would I hear from her? She doesn’t even know today is my mom’s birthday, and even if she did, she has no reason to reach out to me after everything. And I don’t expect her to. There is just a small kernel of my mind that wishes she’d text or show up at the bar. Just to give me a reason to talk to her or see her again. Every time I’m at the bar and hear the front door open, I’m hoping that when I look up, it’s her walking through it. But no, she’s just a ghost that haunts my mind.
I’ve followed her wishes, I’ve left her alone. Have I had temptations? Yes. I’ve come so close to showing up at her door, so close that I’ve gotten off the elevator on her floor, only to force myself to leave. Or almost dialing her number, calling her just to hear her voice, but never following through. It’s the least I could do after everything I put her through. Drawing her in then pushing her away. I didn’t even have the fucking decency to at least tell her how I felt about her. I left her with nothing but a broken heart and unanswered questions. Which is really fucking foul of me, considering I’ve suffered silently since the fire, stuck with questions I can never get the answers to. That’s the one piece of this I can find peace in, knowing she’s better off without me in her life. I can’t say the same for myself. It took me some time away to understand the different ways she had made me a better person. Those parts don’t matter, though. It wasnever about me. She’s still so young, and she deserves a good life without my chaos. And just as I wanted it, she won’t have to suffer; only I will. Because I’ll never be able to get her off my mind. She’s branded there.
Blake and Callie have stayed in touch and even driven to each other multiple times since first meeting at the bar. I’ve found comfort in that, because he gives me little updates on Raina. Callie isn’t fond of me currently, but can I blame her? Fuck no. But I’m glad she keeps Blake informed on Raina’s well-being. She hasn’t told Blake not to tell me anything, which I’m sure she knows he does. The only thing I don’t know is if she is seeing anyone. Callie has left that part out. Does it bother me, not knowing? Yes. Would I selfishly be livid if she were seeing someone? Again, hell yes. Is my head extremely fucked up, and I don’t know how to fix it? Another, fuck yes.
Everything else has mostly remained unchanged. Beck and Jenson officially announced their relationship a couple of weeks ago, which we all saw coming. Honestly, I couldn’t be happier for them. It’s wonderful that she found someone who shares the same profession as Eric. She has always looked up to her dad’s career, and I know Eric takes pride in that. I do, too. It seems like everyone is thriving, and that’s truly all I’ve ever wanted for those I care about. They each deserve happiness.
I finally drag myself out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. As I lean against the counter, I can’t help but grimace at my reflection. Dark circles have made a permanent home under my eyes, and my irises look dull and lifeless. It’s clear that these past twenty-nine days have been a grueling ordeal on top of the usual struggles I face. And now there’s today. I let out a heavy sigh, turning on the cold water to splash my face. The chilly water jolts me awake, injecting a small spark of life back into me. I pat my face dry just as Mango jumps onto the counter to say hello. I give her a few gentle strokes on the head. I justneed to get through today; I’ve done it every year, so I keep telling myself this time will be no different.
I set a pot of water on the stove for tea, just as Mom always preferred. Gazing out the kitchen window, I take in the scene. Winter is creeping in, and the days have grown colder and more dreary. The trees stand nearly bare, stripped of color. I often imagined my mom celebrating her birthday in spring or summer, surrounded by warm sunshine and blooming flowers. She always loved this time of year. My attention drifts to the mailbox, and I squint, stepping closer to the window. The flag is up. I quickly go to my room, pull on some warmer clothes, and grab my Zippo lighter along with a cigarette.
I walk down my long gravel driveway until I reach the mailbox. As I open it, I find a single envelope inside. Flipping it over, my heart skips a beat—my name is written on the front in my mom’s handwriting. There’s no stamp or any other indication on who sent it, just my name. I glance both ways down the road and into the woods before heading back to the house. I pull my phone from the pocket of my sweats and tuck the envelope in there.
I pull up the surveillance footage, scrolling through last night’s and this morning’s recordings. Frustration builds as I find nothing unusual until I stop at 3:43 a.m. Bringing my phone closer to my face, I zoom in on a mysterious car that pulls up to the mailbox. I’m increasingly annoyed because I can’t tell who dropped the envelope off or identify the vehicle. The camera is too far to capture any details. I keep watching and notice a hand raising the flag on the mailbox. The hand lingers for a moment before the car slowly pulls away, stopping right at the end of the driveway. A cold chill runs down my spine as I realize that whoever it was must be staring at the cabin, searching for me. As the car drives off, I desperately try to zoom in on the license plate, but I have no luck.
I take a long drag from my cigarette, pulling out the envelopeand staring at it. My heart rate skyrockets as I run my trembling fingers over my name. She always had the prettiest handwriting. I take a deep breath, flipping it over and tearing it open. I pull out a piece of paper, slowly unfolding it. My heart stops.What the fuck.My cigarette falls from my fingers, and my eyes bulge as I read the wordsDNA Test Report.
My eyes immediately read.
Name of child: Ezra Gray Stone
Name of alleged father: Jesse Reed Stone
The alleged father is not excluded as the biological father of the tested child. Based on the testing results obtained from the analysis of the listed DNA, the probability of paternity is 99.9998%.
I grip my hair tightly with one hand, staggering back in disbelief as I almost lose my balance on the stairs leading to the front door. How could this happen? A whirlwind of questions floods my mind, leaving me confused and disoriented. Where did this paternity letter come from? I steal a glance at the driveway, desperate to piece together a puzzle that offers no clues. All this fucking time, everything I’ve believed has been a lie. I bite my tongue, casting another look at the letter before crumpling it in my fist and shoving it into my pocket. Jesse is my father. I killedbothof my parents.
I shout at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing through the trees and mountains. Bursting through the door, I head straight to the kitchen, where the water has boiled over on the stove. I rush over, grab the pot, and toss it into the sink, sending scalding water splattering everywhere. I’m at a loss for what to do or think next. I try to replay the moments leading up to this, searching for answers. The two people who could have explained everything are gone, leaving only him—the man I’ve always called my father. My mind drifts back to the envelope and the mysterious figure who delivered it. All these years, therehave been no signs of him, no trace of his existence. But who else could it possibly be?
I pace around the living room, wrestling with what to do next. What can I even do? Fucking nothing. It feels like I’m trapped with this massive piece of my life that’s been buried for God knows how long. My mind is teetering on the brink of explosion. My gaze wanders around the room until it lands on the hallway leading to Jesse’s room.My dad. Even calling him that feels surreal. I bolt toward his room, slamming the door against the wall as I enter. I pause for a moment, taking in the familiar sight. It looks just as it did when he left it behind before he passed. I’ve avoided stepping foot in here until now, but I’m desperate for answers—I need something, anything.
I start digging through drawers and rummaging through his closet, searching for something that might ease my nerves. I desperately need answers. An explanation of why and how this happened. It feels as essential as the air I breathe. I move to his nightstand, pulling open the top drawer but find nothing useful. Frustration simmers beneath my skin as I continue my frantic search. In a moment of anger, I yank the bottom drawer open, and that’s when I notice a small wooden box. Curiosity piques as I pull it out and run my fingers over the smooth wood. I slowly lift the lid, my brow furrowing as I take in the contents. At the top rests a picture of my mom holding me, taken on the day I was born. I recall Mom’s photo albums, but this picture wasn’t in any of them. Jesse must have taken it and kept it for himself. My eyes well up as I gaze at my beautiful mom. She looks so happy and at peace, cradling me in her arms. The way she gazes at me is just as she always looked at me when I was growing up.
I squint my eyes, pulling the picture closer to my face. In the distance, I see the window, and sitting on the glass is a butterfly. A deep ache hits me in the gut. It’s a monarch butterfly—the very one Mom told me about on my sixth birthday. I can’t believe hecaptured this moment. Did he even realize its significance, and did Mom know he had this picture? A rush of emotions sweeps over me, leaving me unable to fully articulate what I’m feeling. I don’t have a single photo of my mom. I lost everything in the fire. I pull the picture to my chest, pressing it tightly against me in an effort to hold back the tears. For just a moment, I feel grateful that I now have something more than just memories of her, and I couldn’t have asked for a better picture.
I wipe my eyes and notice a folded paper lying beneath the photo. Setting the picture aside, I grab the paper and unfold it. I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting to keep it together. As I drop the paper, the weight in my chest intensifies with every passing second. It’s a copy of the paternity test. All this time, living here, I had easy access to it. Yet I remained completely oblivious to its presence just feet away. Frustrated, I slap the wooden box, sending it crashing against the wall. I grab the photo of my mom and me and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me. Tucking the photo into my sweats, I lean my head against the door, taking deep breaths. I know I need a distraction right now.
I make my way to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind me as I pull out my Zippo lighter. My hands tremble as I lift my shirt, biting down on the hem to keep it out of the way. Just as I flick the lid open on the lighter, Mango begins meowing and scratching at the door. I pause for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to shut her out. “Mango, go away!” I call out, but she keeps at it. Frustrated, I whip the door open, and she darts away as fast as she can, retreating to my room under the bed. Fuck this. I don’t want to be in this house right now. With a quick grab, I snatch my keys from the kitchen counter and head straight for my bike.
I pull into my usual spot at the back of the bar, fumbling for my keys. After a moment, I slip through the back entrance, makingmy way through the double doors and straight to the bar area. I stand in front of the shelves lined with bottles, the memory of my last drink on my sixteenth birthday at the twins’ house flashes through my mind. That night spiraled into pure chaos. A snarl escapes my lips at the thought, and without a second thought, I start grabbing bottles, chugging them down. The warm burn of liquor and tequila fills me as I take a swig from one before smashing it to the floor, relishing the shattering sound of glass breaking into countless pieces. Then, I grab an unopened bottle of bourbon, and instantly,hecomes to mind.
My jaw clenches at the thought of him. All this time, I believed I was a monster because I was a piece of him, not realizing it was just me all along. “AHHH!” I scream in frustration, slamming the bottle against the bar counter and shattering the stem. I turn it around, my eyes narrowing at the sharp edges of the glass. Shrugging off the warning in my mind, I lift the bottle to my lips, drinking deeply, feeling the burn as it slides down my throat. The taste of bourbon mingled with iron fills my mouth. Slowly, I wipe my lips, noticing the fresh blood that stains my hand. My head begins to spin, the alcohol surging through my veins.
Raina occupies my thoughts, her green eyes and contagious smile etched in my mind. I ache for her presence, but a wave of nausea washes over me, followed by a heavy sense of dread. I turn to face my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Who am I? A twenty-seven-year-old who feels utterly useless. My life has been nothing but a series of blunders marked by trauma and grief. My mental state resembles a never-ending merry-go-round, spinning with emotions that I can’t seem to grasp. The fire that took my parents away never extinguished, it lingers within me—coursing through my veins, always ready to erupt from my fingertips. I bite down on my lip, wincing at the sting of a fresh cut.
I look down at the bottle of bourbon in my hand. For the firsttime since I was thirteen, I focus on the voices screaming in my mind. My expression goes blank as I stumble away from the bar. I slam the bottle down and dig into my pockets, emptying everything onto the bar in a chaotic mess. Grabbing the bourbon again, I take another swig. Where it once tasted bitter and difficult to swallow, now it flows down my throat like cool water. I pull my shirt off, leaving it hanging on one shoulder and exposing my left side. My eyes dart to my Zippo lying on the counter. I slide it across the granite, gripping it tightly in my hand. I glance down at the scars on my skin, marked and etched with self-inflicted burns. My mind whispers,do it…do it, over and over.
I take a deep breath, my face like stone. I slowly pour bourbon onto my side, watching it seep down my sweats. I drop the bottle to the floor, breathing heavily through my nose and flipping the lid back on my Zippo. I grimace as I hold it at my side and flick it on with my thumb. Instantly, my entire side lights up with flame, traveling down my sweats. I groan, watching it as it burns my flesh and begins melting away pieces of fabric. I can feel blood dripping from my lip from biting down hard on it. The pain is unreal. This is what my parents felt in those moments. A sharp pain stabs at my chest, causing me to collapse onto the floor. I scream out in pain, swatting at my pants and side. I pant, gripping my chest, wishing I could reach through my chest cavity and rip my heart out. My vision blurs as my head becomes light-headed and dizzy. I blink slowly, looking down. Parts of my leg are exposed with large burns where my pants melted away. I roll my eyes to my side. I can’t comprehend the damage I just caused. It is an agonizing pain, but I also feel so numb. I curl up into the fetal position, grunting at the painful movements. I can feel myself drifting away into a thick fog. I try to open my eyes, but they feel so heavy. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to live, I want to die.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Loud voices swirl around me, cutting through the fog in my mind. I recognize the heated exchange of a man and a woman. They sound familiar, voices I’ve encountered countless times before. I force my eyelids open, blinking hard to clear the haze. As my vision sharpens, I see two figures looming above me. With a few more blinks, their faces come into focus. Beck and Blake are there, their expressions a mix of horror and concern. Beck has her hand over her mouth, eyes glistening with unshed tears, while Blake wears an expression tinged with both anger and hurt. I attempt to shift, but a sharp pain slices through my body, causing me to grunt in response. Looking down, memories flood back in an overwhelming rush of what I’d done to myself. I roll onto my back and let my head drop against the floor, rubbing my temples in an effort to ease the throbbing sensation.
