It Ends with Us

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For my father, who tried his very best not to be his worst.
And for my mother, who made sure we never saw him at his worst.

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Part One

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Chapter One
As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking down from
twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can’t help but think about
suicide.
Not my 
own
. I like my life enough to want to see it through.
I’m more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come to
the decision to just end their own lives. 
Do they ever regret it?
In the moment
after letting go and the second before they make impact, there has to be a
little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do they look at the ground as it
rushes toward them and think, 
“Well, crap. This was a bad idea.”
Somehow, I think not.
I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I just—twelve
hours earlier—gave one of the most epic eulogies the people of Plethora,
Maine, have ever witnessed. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most epic. It very
well could be considered the most disastrous. I guess that would depend
on whether you were asking my mother or me. 
My mother, who probably
won’t speak to me for a solid year after today.
Don’t get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasn’t profound enough to
make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered at Michael Jackson’s
funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs’s sister. Or Pat Tillman’s
brother. But it was epic in its own way.
I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew
Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine.
Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits. Husband
of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most revered teaching assistant in
all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloom—that strange girl with the erratic
red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great
shame upon her entire family.
That would be me. I’m Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father.
As soon as I finished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a flight
straight back to Boston and hijacked the first roof I could find. 
Again, not

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because I’m suicidal.
I have no plans to scale off this roof. I just really
needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I can’t get that from my third
floor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access and a roommate who
likes to hear herself sing.
I didn’t account for how cold it would be up here, though. It’s not
unbearable, but it’s not comfortable, either. At least I can see the stars.
Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable eulogies
don’t feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to literally feel the
grandeur of the universe.
I love it when the sky makes me feel insignificant.
I like tonight.
Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately reflects my
feelings in past tense.
I 
liked
tonight.
But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, I
expect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. The door slams
shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I don’t even bother
looking up. Whoever it is more than likely won’t even notice me back here
straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They came out here in such a
hurry, it isn’t my fault if they assume they’re alone.
I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco wall
behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful, introspective
moment out from under me. The least the universe could do for me today
is ensure that it’s a woman and not a man. If I’m going to have company,
I’d rather it be a female. I’m tough for my size and can probably hold my
own in most cases, but I’m too comfortable right now to be on a rooftop
alone with a strange man in the middle of the night. I might fear for my
safety and feel the need to leave, and I really don’t want to leave. As I said
before . . . I’m comfortable.
I finally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaning
over the ledge. As luck would have it, he’s definitely male. Even leaning
over the rail, I can tell he’s tall. Broad shoulders create a strong contrast to
the fragile way he’s holding his head in his hands. I can barely make out
the heavy rise and fall of his back as he drags in deep breaths and forces
them back out when he’s done with them.
He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplate speaking
up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat, but between

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thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around and kicks one of the
patio chairs behind him.
I flinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isn’t
even aware he has an audience, the guy doesn’t stop with just one kick. He
kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than give way beneath
the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scoot farther and farther
away from him.