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the rental office and take the cheapest they have. I hand the attendant my credit card and get a sick feeling knowing I’m living off of borrowed credit.
    I shove my stuff in the shitty sedan and exit the airport, hopping on the 405S. The freeway is jam-packed with cars, but that’s nothing new. If it’s not an accident or a stalled car bringing traffic to a stop, then it’s construction. I mean really, where else in LA do you get to park your car for free except on the fucking highway. I always hated this town, and today nothing feels any different.
    Thirty minutes later I’m still inching along the road listening to the radio when I look ahead and see the bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It reads, “Life is only what you make of it,” and those eight words remind me of the advice my mother gave me just before we took Trent to the recovery center.
    She looked at me with such sadness and placed her hands on my face before saying, “Please, be happy for the life you have. Make the best of it and don’t waste it. Instead, try to put your life back together. Benjamin, please try. If not for yourself, then do it for me. I only want to see you happy.”
    I grip the steering wheel and jerk my car toward the 110, and away from the road that would take me to Laguna Beach. I silently answer her plea because I didn’t then. “I can do that for you Mom. I can try.”
    With her words ringing in my head, I know what my first step toward a new life has to be—securing a job. So I reluctantly decide to call my old editor from the
LA Times
. She liked me and I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from me. I dial the paper and enter her extension. I get her voicemail and leave her a message.
    The sun is starting to set as I click my blinker, taking the Adams Street exit. I figure the next thing to check off my list is finding a place to stay and it might as well be near the paper since I don’t have a car. When I stop at the light my mind flips to the last time I drove down this street and stopped at this very same place—the day I “died.”
    The glow of the headlights shone through the rain. I hated listening to top 40 music, but I turned the radio station to 102.7 for her because I knew she’d like it and it would make her smile. We were listening to Gavin DeGraw’s “I’m in Love with a Girl,” and I was singing along to the lyrics. She was surprised that I knew the words. Of course I did, I always listened to what she was listening to after all.
    She was watching me, I could feel it, so I turned to look at her. I stopped singing and I told her, “If I ever wrote a song, this is the one I’d have written about you.” Then I got off the 110 the same as I just had and headed toward the Millennium Biltmore. I noticed she was still looking at me. So I asked her, “What?”
    She grinned at me and reached over the console. She placed her hand on my thigh before running it up my leg and said, “We’re going to be late to your first award party, and it’s all your fault.”
    I grinned and said, “So fucking worth it,” because it was. I needed that one last time with her—I had to show her how much I loved her.
    Then we stopped at a traffic light and she took her hand off my leg to turn the radio station back. I knew the set-up was on. It was time, but fuck I wasn’t ready. I wanted her hand back on me. I wanted to feel her touch forever. But it was too late. Tires squealed. The SUV with heavily tinted windows jackknifed in front of us just as planned. The passenger door opened, and the paid-off shooter in a ski mask jumped out holding a gun with blanks for bullets.
    She screamed, “Oh my God, he has a gun!” but I already knew he would.
    She was afraid and it killed me. I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. I sat there trying to decide if I should just tell her. I couldn’t take it, but once I looked at her, I knew I had to go through with it. She was too perfect, so beautiful, and all too fragile to