Aside from a similar conference a few years ago, during which he’d never left the hotel, he hadn’t been to San Francisco, not properly. A little sightseeing would kill some time. Had Lauren ever been here? He didn’t think so.
So no memories, then. For now, he could be a guy who wasn’t married, wasn’t widowed. He could just be a normal person.
San Francisco was balmy, beautiful and overly gentrified. So many homeless people, so many new glossy, sleek apartment buildings to house the wealthy. He considered designing a pop-up shelter that could be folded and moved, but ten seconds on Google showed him it had already been done by a plethora of architects. He went to Japantown and Haight-Ashbury. Bought some gifts for the family. In Lower Pacific Heights, he stared for half an hour into a window of an aquarium store that had mystically beautiful tanks, filled with living plants and exotic fish, then ordered one to be shipped to Sebastian for a Christmas gift.
When his stomach growled, he ate lunch at the bar of a small Italian restaurant and watched the Red Sox lose to the Yankees. He imagined living in a number of Victorians, so different from their—his—loft. Were the people inside these homes happy, living in such a beautiful place? Was anyone widowed, wailing on their floor the way he’d wailed?
He walked and walked, soaking up the sunshine, admiring gardens and dogs—seemed like everyone had a dog in San Francisco. Pebbles and her friendly ways would fit right in. He found himself looking at the Ghirardelli sign, and stood in line to get an ice cream cone. It was worth the wait.
“Excuse me,” said a young woman, maybe twenty, twenty-five. “Do you know how to get to the Golden Gate Bridge?” She wore a backpack and had pretty red hair. Almost the same color as Lauren’s. Her eyes were green, though, not like Lauren’s whiskey-brown. Give her a pair of contacts and a different haircut, though, and they could’ve passed for sisters.
“Sorry, I don’t,” he said after too long a pause.
“No worries! Have a nice day!” Off she went, looking at her phone, probably texting her friend that she’d just met a creepy guy.
After a minute, he followed her. He had no destination in mind, and seeing the sunlight bring out the colors in her hair, so very, very close to Lauren’s . . . it seemed like a beacon. Where was she going again? Ah, yes. The Golden Gate Bridge.
He’d never seen the Golden Gate Bridge up close. He was afraid of—
Do something you’re afraid of. He was afraid of heights.
Thoughts of the girl forgotten, Josh summoned a Lyft to the bridge, suddenly on fire to be there as soon as possible.
It was more beautiful and graceful in real life than any photo. The sun was shining, and against the violently blue sky, the bridge did seem to glow. It stretched impossibly far across the water to Marin County. Sailboats and shipping vessels dotted the water, and birds flew above the bridge, below it, between its cables.
The bridge was ridiculously high. Really. It was unnecessarily high. Surely he could skip this and have a drink at the Top of the Mark and be done with it, right? Wouldn’t that be easier? He could just . . . just . . . yeah, nope, he was already here.
Already, his heart was pounding at the thought of walking across it. Was he dizzy? He felt a little dizzy. A lot of people fell off this bridge, didn’t they? No. No one fell. They . . . they jumped.
Shit.
Sweating, he started walking. Fast. He was wearing his hiking boots—the last time he’d worn them was with Lauren when they drove up to Acadia National Park last fall, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had panicking to do.
Just keep going, he told himself. Haul ass. Get across and take a Lyft back to the hotel.
He walked as fast as he could, staring straight in front of him, concentrating on the people. Cars shouldn’t be allowed up here. That was a horrible idea. Cars were so heavy! Had this bridge ever snapped, or was that just in disaster movies? Shit. What about earthquakes?
Oh, God. He glanced to his left to see if the city was crumbling, and saw the water below him. Far, far below him. That was a mistake, looking down. His knees buckled, and suddenly he was on all fours, heaving for breath.
“You okay, mister?” someone asked.
“Yep,” he said, his voice sounding overly loud.
“Are you having a heart attack?”
Probably. “Afraid of heights.”
Could he get up? He didn’t think so. His heart was shuddering in his chest, and his shirt was damp with sweat, despite the cool temperature and breeze.
He felt the tremor coming, felt the earth begin to shudder . . . no, nope, that was just a pickup truck. But what about the wind? Was the bridge swaying? Was it about to break, and all these people would fall to their deaths, screaming, clawing, all the cars and trucks pouring into the bay, the noise thunderous and—
“One step at a time,” came the voice. “You got this, bud. You can do it.” A white hipster dude with a red beard reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Deep breaths, yeah?”
“Yes,” Josh said. He knew all about deep breaths, after all. All that respiratory therapy he’d done with Lauren.
It worked. His fear dropped from a ten to about an eight and a half. The hipster dude beamed at him. “So awesome that you’re doing this. Good for you. He’s afraid of heights,” he added to the few onlookers. Most people ignored him, cruising past, looking at their phones or taking pictures. He appreciated their lack of interest.
“Need an escort?” Hipster Guy asked. “I’m walking to meet up with some friends over on the other side.”
“Um . . .” He didn’t have much choice, did he? He was on the damn bridge. He was stuck. He would take this up with Lauren later. In his imagination, anyway. Maybe it would be good to fight with her.
“I’m David,” said the hipster. “From Arkansas originally, but you know, the culture out here is so intense, and I came out to see a friend a few months ago? And I was like, dude, I’m staying. Seriously. Arkansas cannot compete with this place. Also, weed is legal, right? Just another perk.”
Walking was slightly easier with David, because David did not stop talking to draw a breath. He was overcoming some issues of his own, right, doing great, eating clean, and he was so psyched to see other people, you know, confronting their fears and the past and future, and wasn’t it, like, crazy that the world was so beautiful even with all the shit going on?
Josh tried not to look at anything other than the pavement in front of him, though his peripheral vision showed the cables that made the bridge stand. Would one snap? Would it hit him in the head and send him tumbling over the side, or would it hit him in the throat so he’d bleed out, clutching at the geyser of blood? Would this cause a chain reaction that would then send cars careening into pillars and the bridge crashing into the water, the people screaming—