Waiting For You

There was a feeling in my gut that I cannot explain. It was that feeling that something was off, and you can't figure out what it is. It's a warning, I figured out now, and it hurts when you finally figure it out.

My heart sunk to the pit of my stomach and my body froze. My brain was on pause but my adrenaline, my blood, my heart was on fast forward. Your instinct to breathe is gone and the truth slowly slips into reality, and you finally realize that this is real life and it's not a dream.

I was sitting in my living room, waiting. Waiting for him. Waiting for him to come over, to pick me up so we could do something, anything at all. I hadn't seen him in over a month, the phone calls weren't enough for me, but I'd never tell him that. I couldn't touch him through the phone and I couldn't see his big, stupid grin whenever he tried to tell me the same dumb joke.

I would've given anything to see that stupid grin again.

When my cell phone rang, I grabbed it from the coffee table, not even thinking of would it could be. I answered without a thought, "Pete?"

There was a breath and then a silence. "No, it's me, Aly, Patrick."

"Oh."

I can't say I wasn't disappointed, but what he said next put me in the state known as a shock.

"He did it."

We, immediate friends and family knew what that meant. It meant it all. The end.

"He did it," I repeated quietly. "He did what?"

I was reaching for something, hope, I guess.

"We got home this morning...he left, said he was going home--" Patrick stopped himself, "I'm sorry, Aly."

"Sorry for what?"

My brain wasn't processing what Patrick was saying. Though, my brain knew exactly what every word meant.

"I..." He trailed off, "Do you wanna talk to--"

"Are you trying to tell me he's dead?" My brain finally comprehended it all.

Patrick was silent. Silence meant it all.

"When?" I asked.

"At 2."

I looked at my wrist watch; it was 5 PM.

"Why didn't he call me?" I asked softly.

"I don't know, Aly."

I sat there for a moment, quiet.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I think I should."

I had no control over myself, really. I was lost and my emotions were frozen over. I can't explain it.

I hung up without a goodbye and immediately dialed Pete's number. The phone rang and rang and rang and rang before his voicemail picked up: Hey, you reached Pete, if I know you leave me a message. If this is Aly, I should've picked up then, huh?

I swallowed and sat there after the beep. "Please pick up. What's taking you so long?"

I hung up, not fully realizing that he wouldn't ever pick up the phone. I called again, and again and again and again until I just gave up. My head swelled, my heart still dug to the bottom of my belly.

It wasn't until I actually got up and walked down the street to the Wentz's that it hit me. There was no one there, the lights were off, Pete's duffle bag was on the porch. I went up to it and opened it up; all there was dirty clothes, his phone and laptop.

I sat and grabbed the phone and saw a bunch of missed calls from me and from various friends. I saw his phone wallpaper was a picture of us, and I couldn't help but smile. A moment after I set the phone back in his bag, a car pulled up; it was his mother in his car.

Mrs. Wentz got out of his car, "Oh, Aly," she cried softly.

"Where is he?" I asked dumbly.

Her eyes glossed over, her tear stained face clouded over and tears rolled down her cheeks. She embraced me once we were close enough and all I could do was hold her while she cried. It didn't register that he was truly dead, not yet anyway.


Pete had parked his car in the parking lot of Love Lace park and took all his anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. He left his family and myself a note. I hadn't read it, not for a long time.

I didn't cry. I was not sure as to why. I was pissed, I think, too angry to cry. I was mad at him, I cursed his name when I was alone, cursed his existence in my life. I hated him, wish I never met him.

At his funeral, I was in the second row with my family and his close friends; Patrick, Andy, Joe, Chris, Charlie and Nick. The church was quiet as the pastor spoke and spoke, begging the heavens to forgive Pete for commuting such a sin as suicide. He recited quotes from the bible, until I just stood up and screamed. Everyone looked at me, the pastor stopped speaking, I just screamed and screamed until I was carried out.

Out in the parking lot, I finally cried. I screamed and screamed until my throat ran hoarse and I was choking. I sobbed against a car, Patrick and Andy patting my back, while my mom cooed to me.

I screamed at her, "Shut up!" My voice was hoarse and tight, "Stop it! Stop telling me to stop screaming! I can scream if I want to!"

It hit me full force. I hadn't even seen him in his casket yet.

"Aly, do you want me to take you home?" My mom questioned against my shoulder as she held me.

"No," I shook my head, "I just wanna know why."

"He was hurting," Andy explained.

"He said he'd never leave me," I cried against my mom.

"Honey, let me take you--"

I cut her off, "I have to see him! One last time, then I'll go home."

My mom, Andy and Patrick led me back into the church and back to the pew. Mrs. Wentz was sobbing quietly in front of me, while Mr. Wentz comforted her. Andrew and Hilary, Pete's young brother and sister, were silent, silently crying, I could see.

The pastor stopped talking and soon we were all able to line up to say our last goodbyes to Pete. I was set behind Hilary, who was now shaking and crying. I wanted to reach out and embrace her, but I couldn't; I was afraid I would breakdown again.

As the Wentzs looked at Pete and then returned to their seats, it was my turn. My stomach tightened, it was all too real then; I saw his pale face, the black circles that he was so infamous for were gone. He didn't look like himself, he actually looked like he got some decent nights of sleep, and that didn't look right at all.

I touched his stone cold face; his lips flat and shut, his long eyes lashes looked natural, as if he would flutter them open at any given moment. In his hand was his favorite book, Catcher In the Rye, and pictures Hilary had placed there. I had one thing to put in it, a note I wrote him, with a drawing; it was a drawing of an owl; he loved owls. He wore his favorite faded Guns and Roses shirt, his sister's Hollister jeans, with a black belt; I couldn't see his feet. His tattoos weren't visible, just his Nightmare Before Christmas sleeve, but that didn't look at vibrant as it used to be. His hair was swept across his head, as he usually wore it; and, as I saw, his brows looked furrowed, like he usually had them.

I swallowed, "I waited for you," was all I could say.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stuffed the knot into the side of the coffin, near his arms. I walked off and out of the church. I needed to smoke.


They buried him on March 9th, 2005. Fall Out Boy's album came out May 3rd. That was it, even when the album went platinum, Fall Out Boy didn't perform or make any appearances. Joe, Andy and Patrick went their separate ways.

Joe moved to New York and got married. Andy stayed in Milwaukee and drummed in a few hardcore bands before returning to college to study to become an Anthropology professor. Patrick stayed in Glenview, became a music critic and married, too.

I stayed in Wilmette, went to college, tried to move on, met guys and finally met someone who loved me. I got married in 2010, had a daughter in 2011 and I lived a mundane life, worked mostly as an assistant. I never read Pete's note, I strayed away from everything that was Pete.

My husband, Stanley, knew about him, he was very supportive of me getting over Pete. When we got married, I knew that marrying Stan was wrong, but I thought, who else could I be with? After having my daughter, that was it for me, I knew that I would be typical.

As I got older, I still clung to the thought of Pete. I would sit on my couch and wait for him. I'd sit on the porch of my home, smoke a cigarette and wait for him to come walking up the grass. I would sit out for hours on end, waiting and waiting. My daughter, Wendy, would sit with me sometimes and ask me what I was waiting for.

"I don't know."

Was all I could say. I couldn't explain to my child that I was waiting for a dead man.

As she grew older, she didn't ask anymore. Wendy met a guy, she had a happy life, got married and was following the steps I had taken, but she was very happy, and very lucky. Stan died when Wendy was a teenager and I felt relief for him; after nearly 20 years, I could breathe and not feel as if I ruined my husband's life. Stan is in a happier place; I was stuck on earth, in hell, nearly 50, waiting for Pete. Alone at home, I waited and looked out my window and sat on my porch.

I didn't dream of Pete, I wish I had. He never came to me, he never explained why he did what he did, and this one night, I finally made myself go through my things and get my answer. I went through a box of my high school things, where I stashed the letter and looked it over.

The envelope had my name in his faded, scratchy writing and I tugged open the seal. I sat down on my couch and looked over his shit handwriting, laughing to myself.

It read: Dear Aly: I'm sorry about this. I am. I never ever mean to hurt you. All I ever want is for you to be happy and you'd be happier without me. I can't keep a promise, I can't keep a secret and I can't do anything right. I'm not smart, I'm not good looking, I'm not made for this world.
I'm afraid to die, but I'm more afraid of hurting you, hurting my family. What I'm about to do is going to be a big relief for everyone. I'm a burden, nothing to get in a twist about. Don't cry, don't be upset, you'll be happy now.
I love you so much, but this is something I have to do. If I miss anything, I'll miss you the most. You always waited for me and I'm so sorry for making you wait so long. I promise to wait for you.
Love, Pete

I had set the letter down and pushed it away from me. My old eyes had fogged with tears, my nose stuffed and I could barely breathe. I sat back, wiped my eyes and shook my head at his stupid thinking. I couldn't believe had much I missed him then. I could feel it in the pit of my soul, the feeling of his sudden death rippled through me.

I was suddenly 24 again, learning my boyfriend had killed himself. Body frozen with warm tears rolling down my cheeks. At 60 years old it rippled through me like a knife in my heart and my back just like it did when I was in my 20's. You'd think you'd be over it, but you're not. It's fresh again, you can see his body and you question: What could I have done?

I shut my eyes and thought it over and over again. This sleep, with the thought, rippled through me again. My heart felt full, my soul felt lifted and suddenly, I'm not who I am now, I return to who I used to be, who I was.

I open my eyes and see my old apartment. I see my old things and look at my hands. There aren't any wrinkles, age spots that I've grown fond of. No, I am young again and I wonder what's going on. Then, as confusion swirls my head, there's a knock on the front door.

I get up, straight, no wobbling like before. I feel strong, hollow, but strong. All that's full is my heart, my mind is blank. Suddenly, I feel that sinking feeling, but, even so, I open the front door.

My heart shoots to my throat when I see Pete there. He's wearing his Guns and Roses t-shirt, he's holding daisies and he's smiling that big stupid grin of his, the black circles around his eyes are vibrant; he's real.

"I'm sorry I've been away so long," He says shyly, sweetly, "I hope you haven't been waiting."

I leaped into his arms, the daisies fell at our feet, "I've been waiting forever."

"I'm sorry I took so long, Aly...I'm back, though, you'll never have to wait again."