Page 9 of Our Last Resort
When Gabriel moved to Seattle—after the disappearance and the body and the police interrogations—we were so good at keeping in touch. We emailed every other day; I visited him in person three times a year. Sometimes we traveled. We met up in Yosemite, in Portland, even in Vancouver. But time does its thing. Our emails got shorter, lighter on the details. Soon, they landed just once a month. In-person visits faded from our calendars. We saw each other twice a year, then only at Christmas, and then—how did that happen?—pretty much never.
But then, the documentary. The producers were planning something for the tenth anniversary of Annie’s death. I forwarded their message to Gabriel a month ago.
From:[email protected]
Did you get this one?
From:[email protected]
Yep.
I expected a sarcastic comment next, or at least an acknowledgment that he’d trashed the email. But then:
From:[email protected]
I think I’m going to do it.
From:[email protected]
Really??
We never do the documentaries. But Gabriel, apparently, was ready for a change.
From:[email protected]
It’s been almost nine years. Everyone has said their piece but me.
From:[email protected]
I’m ready. I think.
From:[email protected]
There are things I need to say.
From:[email protected]
If you do it, I’ll do it, too.
That was always our dynamic,You jump, I jump.
By then, we hadn’t seen each other in five years.
