But she wasn’t really there at all.
I passed out of the lights of Green Creek.
Red eyes looked at me from the passenger seat.
Thomas said, “An Alpha is only as strong as his pack.”
I said, “I know.”
Thomas said, “You are one of the strongest Alphas I’ve ever met.”
I said, “Am I strong enough to do this?”
Thomas said, “Are you going to do this?”
I said, “Yes.”
He said, “Then you’re strong enough” and “You’re my son just the same as the others” and “We’ll sing together soon and I promise you, it’ll fill your heart” and his eyes flashed red again, because even in death, he would always be an Alpha. My Alpha.
The bridge was a couple of miles away when I pulled over to the side of the road.
I had one last thing to do.
The seat was empty next to me.
They hadn’t really been there, I knew that, but I thought maybe I wasn’t alone.
I picked up my phone.
I typed two words to Joe and two words only.
Because I knew he’d understand.
He’d find it in the morning when he woke, since I’d turned his phone off before I left.
I stared at the screen, hesitating.
I didn’t think I could do this, what if I couldn’t do this, what if I couldn’t keep them safe—
I hit Send.
The message disappeared, relayed into towers and then the ether.
I turned off my phone.
I hoped he didn’t hate me for this.
I hoped he could forgive me one day.
I hoped he would find happiness again.
He’d know what the two words meant. Because he’d sent the same thing to me when he’d known what had to be done.
I pulled back onto the road and continued toward the old bridge.
And I thought those two words over and over again.
I’m sorry.