His friend, a prescription drug addict, snapped one night and shot two of his dealers.
Justin said his friend turned the gun on him and demanded that he help bury the bodies; Justin was, in turn, arrested and imprisoned.
But I couldn’t quite find a way to fit in at school either, where one relationship after another imploded. I drank too much, drove too fast, worked too hard, and dated men even worse off emotionally than me.
I loved him, but I also cherished the convenience the physical distance provided. It was as easy as not answering a phone call or not picking up the letter lying on the counter.
But when I did need him, I could conjure him up with a pen and paper.
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I never really had to figure out how he would treat me after a bad day at work, or whether we would fight over money or our in-laws.
How much can you ever really know about another person, anyway?
Justin and I had dated off and on for years, and some part of me always believed we would end up married. I was quiet, studious, painfully shy; he was full of boisterous energy and crude jokes.
Our parents were close friends, and we’d grown up together. I loved his pug nose, his fiery red hair, and his teasing smiles.
In the months before the trial, Justin had a lot of time to think. We wrote about books and family and mutual friends.
I’d tell him about quitting Subway after only a few weeks, and then I’d describe my nights working at the next job, front desk clerk at a hotel and casino.
For the first time, I allowed myself to admit I had no idea what I was doing.