Last Girl

by K. S. Thomas

  Well, I got what I wanted. I got alone.

  Two hours after I told them I would meet up with them at the Taco Shack, I finally arrived there. But they’d never made it. Penn’s truck had blown a tire and he’d been out there in the dark on the side of the road changing it. Trix had been out there with him. Probably holding a flashlight and telling him all the ways he was doing it wrong.

  The headlights on the approaching car had been off. Trix had never seen it coming. But Penn had. When they found their bodies, his had been wrapped around hers, as if he’d tried to shield her from being hit somehow.

  The driver was so drunk, he never even stopped. Just kept right on plowing down the road. Wasn’t until a cop out on patrol passed by and decided to pull over and investigate the truck and its half changed tire, that anyone became aware of the accident. By then it was too late. Penn had died from internal injuries while Trix had a head wound so severe she suffered brain herniation, which untreated, turned fatal.

  After they died, I couldn’t cope. I let go of the scholarship I had for college, insisting I just needed some time off, but knowing all along I’d never go. And I dumped Lori because I couldn’t stand the sight of her. Every time I looked at her all I could see was Trix’s face the last time she glared at me before I turned my back on her. If I had just stuck to the original plan, none of it would have ever happened. Both of them would be alive today. Trix would have been in the car with me and we both would have known when Penn’s tire went flat because he would have been on the road right behind us.

  A dainty hand curls around mine tenderly and I realize I’m clenching my fists.

  “Tell me about their wedding,” she says softly. “What was it like?”

  I squeeze her hand. She’s the only one who understands why I do this. Why I come back here every year and tell these stories. Stories of lives they never had a chance to live. And I think this year, I finally got it right because this is the first year I kept them together.

  “It was a beautiful September evening. They got married outdoors, out at Merrion Groves, you know the place.” She nods. “Anyway, Penn’s whole crew showed up. So did half the staff from the hospital. Even my parents came, although it was Pop who walked Trix down the aisle.” I stop to clear my throat. I can picture her, her hair down, blowing softly in the wind, a simple gown to compliment her carefree beauty, and hiding beneath the long skirt, two mismatched socks in her Converse sneakers. “Nat was the maid of honor, of course, standing with Trix and holding Marianna in her arms for the ceremony. And Tony stood up beside Penn, just like he promised. Trix and Penn exchanged their own vows because no words already written could have possibly told their story the way they could. By the time they said ‘I do’, there wasn’t a single dry eye in the house. Lupe, who catered the event, was crying the hardest of them all. Because she knew. She’d been there from day one. The evening ended long after dark. People lit sparklers, drank champagne and danced barefoot on the grass until they were too tired to stand. And the pictures that were taken that day were every bit the testament to love Penn had predicted they’d be.”

  Lori smiles. “Sounds like the perfect wedding.”

  “It was.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand before I reach into my pocket. It’s time I gave Trix what was already hers a decade ago.

  Holding the precious golden band between my fingers, I’m captivated by the stone sitting at its center. It would have suited her. She would have loved it. He would have loved giving it to her.

  Carefully, I lay it down on top of the cold, rough stone. My hands are still shaking when I pull them back and shove them deep inside my pockets.

  For a long time neither Lori nor I say anything at all. We both just stand here, staring at the cold gravestone before us and willing our eyes to lie to us and show us her beautiful smiling face instead. After years of practice, the lies come easier now than they used to. And I can see her. Laughing at me. Because knowing she managed to keep her secret hidden from me all those years is entertaining her to no end. And it should. Looking back, it seems so obvious now. I almost have to wonder if I really was the glue that held our threesome together growing up.

  Lori’s hand reaches into my pocket and folds into mine. I pull them both out so my gaze catches on the band on her finger. It’s not as glamorous as the one Penn saved for my sister, but it still brought tears to her eyes when I finally proposed two years ago. We eloped three days later. It was the perfect wedding too. For us.

  I bring her hand up to my lips, pressing a kiss down on her fingers. Then I drop my free hand to graze the top of the stone one final time.

  “Good bye, Trix.” I push my palm down into the gravelly, cool texture. Freeing both hands, I sign my last words to her, “I love you. I miss you. Every damn day.”

  Penn is buried beside her. Pop’s doing, and I realize now, he must have known all along. Because he fought for it. Fought my parents hard until they had no choice but to agree.

  Even though I know he’s been listening to every word I’ve said since I got here, there’s one last thing I need to say to him directly before I go.

  I take another step over, until I’m standing directly across from him. I take a deep breath and smile.

  “You were right. She said yes.”

  I lay one last letter down on the ground, nestled carefully in the lilies and daffodils I know Pop tends to so diligently. He planted tulips for Trix this year. In all different colors. She would have liked them.

  One last look and I’m ready to go. Ready to lay them both to rest and my guilt with them.

  Every aspect of the journey I took them on this time, reflected mine. Because had the roles been reversed the way I imagined them, neither my sister nor my best friend would have been able to forgive themselves any more than I’ve been able to. But they were always stronger than me. Both of them. Because they had to be. When everything comes easy in life, it require no strength. No courage. No fight. And so, I faltered where they would have risen to the occasion. And in the times when I let myself fail in this life, I chose to make them succeed in theirs. Even if it was only pretend. For me, somewhere out there, beyond what I can see or comprehend, it’s real. They’re real. And they’re living happily ever after.

  Bo,

  It’s likely, that as you’re reading this letter from me, Trix is opening hers. If that’s the case, you should know two things.

  One, when you glance up from reading this, you’ll find me down on one knee, asking your sister to spend the rest of her life with me. Because I love her. I’ve loved her from the moment I met her. Before I could understand what love was...I loved her. And I’ve been terrified of her ever since.

  Fear will lose in the end. I know that. It’s why I can write this letter with such certainty right now. Why I sealed my mother’s ring inside an envelope and wrote Trix’s name on the front of it. Fear will lose. Because this thing that I’ve carried with me for the last twelve years, it feeds off of her. It’s getting stronger every day. And it’s not going anywhere.

  I love her. It’s that simple. And that fucking complicated. I love her.

  So, if you need to punch me, either do it fast or make it wait.

  There. That’s one.

  And two...

  She’ll say yes.

  The End

  Every story has its source of inspiration...for LAST GIRL it was a novel I wrote earlier this year titled WITH WHOM WE SPEND OUR LIVES. Ironically, LAST GIRL influenced WITH WHOM WE SPEND OUR LIVES before I ever even wrote a word of Trix and Penn’s story...You’ll have to read it though to find out how ;-)

  For a peek at WITH WHOM WE SPEND OUR LIVES simply keep scrolling ~

  with whom

  we spend

  our

  Lives

  By

  K.S. Thomas

  Copyright © 2015 - by Karina Gioertz.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including pho
tocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the author, except where permitted by law.

  WITH WHOM WE SPEND OUR LIVES is a work of fiction. All characters and subject matter are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, alive of dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by KG Cover Art

  Final Proofing by Magic of Books Promotion

  This book is dedicated to coffee. There. I said it. And yeah, it means that much to me.

  (It’s also dedicated to my mother. Because she scolds me for the filthy, gross language I use and then laughs about it half a second later.)

  Chapter 1

  Cole

  “Hey, Pickle.”

  I bang my head into the cupboard door and groan. “Do you have to call me that?”

  She drops her purse and keys on my kitchen counter and snags the bottle of water I was just about to pour over my glass of ice. “Yes. I call everyone I love Pickle.”

  She winks and gulps my water right in front of me. Regina Richards. The bane of my existence. And the only person on earth who ever gave a fuck about me. Well, maybe not the only one. I’m still kind of hoping there’s one other.

  “I take it, it’s safe to assume I’m not getting any of that water back?” I slide my empty glass along the surface of my marble counters until I reach the fridge and retrieve another bottle.

  “Sorry, kid. I was parched. The sun is scorching out there.” She walks over to the breakfast bar and has a seat. “Meanwhile, is your air conditioner broken? It’s not much better in here.” She’s fanning herself with the stack of mail she brought up from downstairs.

  “I like the natural breeze.” I nod toward the open windows and pull up the barstool beside her. If she’s taking the time to sit, she’s going to be here for a while. “What’s up, Gina? And don’t tell me my place. I’ve got shit to do today and I’m not in the mood to hear you complain about my choosing to live on the top floor for the fifty-thousandth time.”

  “Wouldn’t be so fucking horrible if the building came equipped with an elevator. You try hauling your ass up five flights of stairs in six inch heels.” She eyes the newest addition in her ongoing collection.

  “Stop dressing like a hooker and you won’t struggle so much.” I take my mail from her and start to sort through it. Bills, mostly. Then.

  “What is this?”

  Gina shrugs. “Looks like an invitation.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You know exactly what it is. What am I being invited to?” I wave my envelope in her face accusingly. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash. She never does.

  “Well, I’m no psychic, and I make it a habit never to open other people’s mail – it’s illegal, you know – but, I did get an envelope just like that one, and it was addressed to me, so I did open it.”

  She’s been here less than five minutes and she’s already making me batshit crazy.

  “Gina!”

  “Meg and Barret are getting married. Shocking. I know. It only took them ten years to set a date.” She screws the cap back onto her now empty bottle and then has herself a mini-basketball moment by shooting it straight for my recycling bin.

  “That’s great. I’m happy for Meg and Barret. Whatever. Why am I invited?” It doesn’t even matter why. I’m not going.

  “How should I know? I didn’t make the guest list.” She’s glancing at my glass with a dangerous amount of interest. “You going to drink all that?”

  “What? Yes. What were you doing before you got derailed and wound up here? Running a marathon? Why are you so thirsty?” I get up and head for the fridge. Then I launch another cold bottle at her, which she catches without skipping a beat.

  “I wasn’t doing anything strenuous. I just drank too much damn coffee all morning. Now I’m completely dehydrated.” She has a sip. This time there’s less fervor in her gulping. “So, the wedding. You’ll be there?”

  I laugh. “Fuck no, I won’t be there. Why on earth would I go to Meg’s wedding?” Meg hates me. Always has. Not that I blame her. I was a seventeen year old fuck up when she met me. I hated myself, too. And I definitely would have hated my fifteen year old daughter going out with a guy like me.

  “Um, because Harper will be there?” Gina’s an asshole. I knew this already, but moments like this serve to remind me of that fact.

  “So what?” I turn away and start toward my studio. I have work to do.

  “So, you’ve been waiting for seven years to get a chance like this. Why let it go by the wayside?” She’s on her feet. I can tell, because the clickity-clack of her hooker heels is following me.

  I stop and spin back to face her. “How did I get an invite, Gina?”

  She just purses her lips and raises her brows like it’s the biggest damn mystery she’s ever encountered.

  “Gina!”

  “Fine! Barret might have let it slip that he was wondering where the hell you ended up and I might have let it slip that I knew...and then it’s totally possible that I pointed out how great it would be for you all to catch up...and...you know, what better time than the wedding? When everyone would be in the same place at the same time anyway.”

  Barret was my high school music teacher. The only one I actually learned anything from during the twelve years I attended school. Even then, he was engaged to Meg, Gina’s best friend. Not that Gina and I met back then. Wasn’t until after I dropped out and wound up in LA that Barret called her, the only person he knew out here. Guess he had to ease his conscience one way or another. And Gina was it. Whether Meg knows about any of this, I don’t know. Gina’s never said, and I’ve never asked. It just sits there on a long list of things I don’t know, and frankly, I like it that way. Of course, if Gina has her way and makes me attend the wedding, and this farce of a reunion, that list is about to get a whole lot shorter.

  “I’m not going.”

  She grins. “You’re going.”

  I’m getting pissed. She makes me feel like a fucking toddler, only at thirty-seven she’s not exactly old enough to be my mother. “You can’t force me.”

  “True.” She takes her phone from her back pocket and begins to tap away at the screen.

  I slant my eyes suspiciously. This can’t be good. “What are you doing?”

  “Just setting a few daily reminders to call you.”

  My hands drop to my sides. I already know surrender is inevitable. “And by few you mean?”

  “Not too many. Maybe one little jingle, every fifteen minutes or so between now and the time you agree to go.” She’s got a wicked smirk on her face. I hate her. I don’t really. Some days I wish I did though. But who could hate Gina? Really. She’s a piece of work, but only because she cares too freaking much.

  “You can put your stupid phone away. We both know I’m going to the wedding.”

  Her face lights up in mock surprise. “You are?”

  “Whatever.” I shake my head and take note of the sudden bounce in her step as she goes to retrieve her belongings from my kitchen. “You know, I’m starting to see why they call you Aunt Dick.”

  She swings her purse over her shoulder and squints at me. “Shut it, twat sucker. They call me Aunt Dick because my last name is Richards. And that’s all.” Then she blows me a kiss and starts down the stairs, leaving the door wide open as she goes.

  “Yeah. And because you swear too damn much,” I mutter as I stare at the ground, contemplating my shitty new fate while I listen to her heels plinkety-plink down the stairwell.

  “That too,” she calls back from somewhere down below.

  My head pops up. “How the hell can you still hear me?”

  “Bye, Cole.” Then the main door slams and she’s gone.

  I stand there for way too fucking long, just staring at the invite in my hands. I still haven’t opened it up. I probably won’t. What would be the point? I already know what it says. And knowing it is messing with me plenty. I don’t need to have the words
permanently seared into my memory bank via the handy visual of a printed invite.

  Harper. The girl who got away. Well, that’s the romantic version. The realistic one is far more sadistic than that. She didn’t so much get away as I packed up all my shit one night and drove across country without ever saying goodbye to her. I’d had my reasons. Still do. I change my mind almost daily on whether or not she’ll ever know what they are. And whether or not she will think they were worth it.

  Harper

  “Hi, Mom.” This is her third call already today. The last two were so close together I didn’t even have time to take a proper shower in between. Even now, I reach up and touch my wet hair only to find remnants of conditioner still laced between the brown strands.

  “Hi, honey. Sorry to bug you again, I just couldn’t remember if I asked you about the pink dress or not. And if I did, what were your thoughts? Yay or nay?” She’s rattling off her words a mile a minute and I’m pretty sure she needs to put something other than coffee in her system.

  “We did talk about the pink dress. I said no. You said yes, which is probably why you forgot the conversation we had about it.” I shake my head and laugh. “Seriously, though. If you want to wear a pink wedding dress, do it. Who cares what I think?”

  She coughs and I think she may be consuming more coffee and choking on it. “What do you mean, who cares what you think? Obviously, I care what you think.”

  I lock the door and walk the steps down to the sidewalk. “No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t keep calling, trying to get me to change my answer. So just go for it. Wear a pink dress. Better yet, wear a purple one. That’ll show ‘em.”

  “And by ‘em you mean?”

  As if she doesn’t know. “Grandma and Grandpa.” They’re pretty hung up on all things tradition, which I’m pretty sure is the driving force behind my mother’s desire to wear a pink dress down the aisle in the first place.