The Last Thing You Said

by Sara Biren

I won’t let that happen.

  I slam on the brakes, pull over.

  I never should have let her go.

  50 · Lucy

  I’m about a half mile past the Gas-n-Go when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel of the shoulder behind me. The car stops but I do not.

  “Lucy!”

  I stop walking.

  It’s Ben.

  Ben.

  He’s here.

  “Lucy,” he says again. He reaches me in an instant, turns me toward him, his hand on my arm. “Let me drive you home. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  I can’t look at him. I look down at my sandals, the gravel.

  “I’m fine.” I’m so tired of this. “I don’t need a ride. I told you that.”

  “Please get in the car,” he says.

  “No, I can’t go with you.”

  “Get in the fucking car.” He sounds frustrated. “Stop playing this game.”

  “What game?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. “Just get in the car!”

  I wrench my arm away from him. Now I’m angry. I’m so mad at him for everything he’s done and hasn’t done since Trixie died.

  “How about your game?” I snap. “The game where you’re so nice to me one minute and the next, you’re a complete dick? Or how about the one where you sleep with every girl who thinks she can save you? Fuck you.”

  That shuts him up. His mouth drops open.

  “What?” I say. “Why do you seem so surprised? I’ve watched you, Ben. You eat up their sympathy.”

  His mouth closes, then opens again like he’s going to say something.

  I want him to say something. I want him to tell me that he’s sorry, that he misses me, that he loves me. I want him to take back every terrible thing he said to me after Trixie’s funeral.

  He knew. He knew how much I liked him, that I had for years, and he pushed me away. He knew. He knew when we were in Duluth last summer—how could he not have known?

  I screw up my courage. “How long have you known how much I liked you, Ben?” Loved you. I have always loved you. “A long time?”

  There’s a flicker in his eyes. He nods.

  “And you—did you like me, too? What were you going to say to me just before—”

  “Lulu.” He cuts me off, his voice low and certain. He moves toward me, and his mouth is on mine and his arms circle around my back and he pulls me close. We stand in the gravel on the side of the road and cars whoosh past us and he kisses me, urgent and seeking, and his tongue slips into my mouth and oh, God, it’s so much. Everything.

  I reach my arms up around his neck, twist my fingers into his curls, and pull him closer to me. I press my body up against his. I can never be close enough to him. Everywhere we touch, electricity and warmth course through me. I’m alive, I’m living.

  This is what I’ve waited for since that day, the day of Trixie’s funeral. I’ve waited for him to come back to me. Waited for the impossible.

  But not like this. Not like this, so close to the anniversary, when we’re both so sad and angry.

  What are we doing?

  I slide my arms down, against his chest, and shove him back. He gasps as I step away.

  “Lu?” There’s hurt in his voice, but I can’t let it get to me. I can’t.

  “No. Not like this.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I want to hurt him like he hurt me.

  “Isn’t this your usual routine? You’re sad, some girl wants to save you from your sadness, you get laid?”

  His mouth drops open again, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. And I can’t believe I’m saying it. His eyes bore into me, wide and wounded. “Lulu, no,” he says, and takes a step toward me.

  I hold up my hands to stop him. “Leave me alone, Ben. I can’t save you.”

  I walk away and let the tears fall. I’ve gone a few yards when I hear the car door slam, hear the Firebird rev and peel out. In the other direction. Away from me.

  51 · Ben

  This is not the right path.

  52 · Lucy

  The next day, I wake with the memory of Ben’s arms around me, of his kiss. How I pushed him away. My stomach drops.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  My parents are at work, and the empty, echoing house closes in on me. I step out to the deck. The sky today is sunny, bright blue. A bluebird sky, Ben would call it.

  I wonder what Ben’s doing, if he’s out fishing, if he’s thinking of me and the horrible things I said.

  I call Hannah.

  “Lucille,” she says after I’ve told her what happened, “honey, you’ve got to let him back in.”

  If only it were that easy.

  I get ready for work.

  At the Full Loon, I can be one of my mom’s best servers. I can treat every customer like a guest. I can throw myself into it. I can ignore the sick feeling in my stomach, the guilt that bubbles up. Guilt about the kiss. Guilt about feeling so relieved that Simon has gone home for his grandfather’s funeral, that I don’t have to see his bruised face.

  Everyone in town comes out for the Grand Reopening the next day. Tami brings Emily, who spins on one of the new stools at the counter. Clayton shows up as promised. He hugs me and says, “So, how’s my favorite little delinquent?” I shove him but really I’m glad to see him.

  We serve pie and coffee. The man from the newspaper takes pictures and interviews Mom and Daniel. We all crowd around behind the red ribbon as Mom cuts it with an enormous pair of silver shears. Rita’s here even though she quit months ago—Mom said it wouldn’t be the same without her.

  And later, because it’s Monday night, Guthrie and Ben show up.

  They sit at the counter and my mom serves them. Guthrie raises his hand in a wave as I walk into the kitchen.

  I shiver, remembering Ben’s hands on my back as he pulled me close to him, his lips on mine.

  “Take these out to the boys?” Daniel says, motioning to two plates of the Grand Reopening Special—Daniel’s brand-new Five Alarm Jalapeño Burger with Smoky Sweet Potato Wedges.

  “The boys?”

  “Yeah. Ben and Guthrie, at the counter?”

  “I’m not on the counter tonight, Daniel,” I tell him. My voice shakes, and I’m irritated with myself for being such a baby.

  “Patty’s out having a smoke. I’d take them myself but I got my hands full back here. Come on, Luce.”

  “Fine,” I snap. I can do this.

  When I bring out their plates, Guthrie says, “The place looks great, Luce. Even better than before.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “Can I get you guys anything else?”

  Guthrie mumbles no, his mouth already stuffed with sweet potato wedges. I feel Ben’s eyes on me, and when I turn to him, he holds my gaze and I can’t move. There is so much hurt in his eyes. I can’t bear to look at him.

  “Lucy!” I hear Daniel call from the kitchen. “Order up!”

  I turn away before Ben can see my tears.

  Three days later, Simon comes back.

  When I get home from work, Dad says, “Shay stopped by. She said Simon’s pretty upset. She asked if you’d go over when you got home.”

  “Okay,” I mumble. “Sure.”

  I’ll go. Of course I’ll go. Simon’s still my boyfriend. And he’s hurting.

  I’d planned to talk to him soon anyway, for a different reason. This—being with him when he’s grieving—might be harder than telling him that I need to break up with him.

  Now I know how people must feel around me.

  I walk across the small grassy patch between our houses. Shay answers the door.

  “Oh, Lucy,” she says and pulls me into her chest. “Thank you for coming over.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Shay.”

  “Simon’s downstairs. He’ll be so glad to see you.”

  There’s something in her voice that tells me she wants me to find a way to help him.
r />   I don’t know how, really. But one thing I do know: Grief takes its time.

  Simon sleeps in the basement. I haven’t been here much this summer, and I haven’t set foot in his bedroom, but I know my way around the Clarks’ house as well as my own. His door is closed, so I knock. He doesn’t answer or invite me in, but I open the door slowly and walk across the room.

  The room is dark except for the bright blue glow of a neon clock above the dresser. Music plays from an iPod dock on the desk, Pink Floyd, “Wish You Were Here.” Clothes are thrown across the back of an old recliner in the corner, and there’s a stack of Stephen King paperbacks on the nightstand.

  Simon’s lying on top of the covers, his hands linked across his stomach, and his even breaths carry across the room. He’s asleep.

  I step closer to the bed. His hair’s its usual mess, and except for the fading bruises, his face looks so peaceful, so calm. You’d never know that someone important to him had died, that inside of him, his heart and his soul have withered with the news.

  I know what it’s like. I know what he’s feeling. I wheel the office chair from his desk over to the bed. I sit. The music changes to a song I don’t recognize, melancholy and aching.

  Like everything in this room.

  Simon stirs and startles when he opens his eyes and sees me.

  “Lucy,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He reaches out a hand for mine, and it’s warm and soft against my skin.

  “I’m so sorry about your grandfather, Simon.”

  He nods and his eyes fill with tears.

  “I’m not ready to believe it yet,” he murmurs. He props himself up on his elbows like he’s about to sit up. “Not even after the funeral.”

  “No,” I tell him. “Sleep. I’ll stay here with you.”

  He smiles, but it’s not the wide grin that I’m used to.

  He’s hurt.

  “You know, don’t you?” he says. “You know what this feels like.”

  I nod.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He scoots to the side of the bed, making room for me. I lie down close to him and put my arm across his chest. He’s warm, and I can feel his heart beat. He turns to face me. “Thank you.”

  I shouldn’t be here.

  It’s not long before he falls back asleep.

  I remember the days right after Trixie died, when I couldn’t get out of bed, my body so heavy, exhausted by the grief coursing through me. While I was sleeping, I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to think about what happened the day Trixie died or Ben’s words that echoed through my head. I slept until I couldn’t sink any further into my grief, I moved through the days on autopilot, I prayed that I would wake up and the pain of missing her would have dissipated in my slumber.

  Simon stirs again, murmurs a word I can’t make out. I brush my fingers against the hair that lies across his forehead.

  I let him sleep. I let him feel comforted.

  The next time I see him will be different.

  53 · Ben

  It’s quiet at the resort today—there aren’t a lot of kids here this week. One of the cabins has rented out the pontoon for the day. A group of sisters and their daughters in Bear and Wolf are spread out on the loungers at the beach. I hang out at the lodge and wait for someone to come in to play pool or buy snacks but no one does. At three o’clock I close up the lodge and do the garbage run, then go over to Loon to start cleanup.

  Loon’s the smallest cabin, a studio with a small bathroom. The resort is usually sold out all summer, but this year they haven’t rented out Loon as much. John decided to add on a loft bedroom, so they’re closing it up for the last two weeks of summer to get started on renovations.

  This is good. I need the quiet, I need to be alone.

  Lucy’s not here today.

  Monday night, seeing her at the Full Loon, was a kick in the gut. I think of how she pushed me away when I kissed her and what Simon told me the night of Hannah’s party.

  Lucy slept with Simon.

  And she doesn’t want to be with me.

  I start in the kitchenette, cleaning out the small refrigerator. The stuff guests leave behind—mustard, half-empty milk jugs, tubs of butter.

  The guy who rented Loon last week left a couple of cans of beer in the fridge. No sense in wasting those. Perfect. I’ll drink away every fucking thing that’s happened this summer, Lucy and Simon and what an asshole I’ve been. I’m about to crack one open, but something stops me.

  John and Tami trust me. I shouldn’t drink on the job.

  All this time, I’ve been killing everything with booze—all my guilt and regret, all the sorrow that’s been eating away at me. And it hasn’t changed one fucking thing. Trixie’s still dead.

  But Lucy’s not. She’s right here.

  God, if I could just think of a way to fix it.

  I put the beer in a plastic bag I find under the sink and throw it in the back of the UTV.

  I’ve screwed up a lot of shit this summer, but I’m not going to screw this up. It’s a start.

  When I get back up to the lodge, Dad and John are playing pool. John takes a shot and sinks the eight ball, game over.

  “Why don’t you two knock off?” he says. “No sense in hanging around when it’s this slow.”

  “I guess,” I say.

  Dad puts his cue in the rack and turns to me. “What do you say we hit up the weeds?”

  I’m about to say no when I catch his eye. There’s something different about him today.

  His eyes are clear. Bright.

  “You thinking walleye?” I ask. It’s August, hot and humid, some say a slow month for fishing. Not my dad. You just gotta know where to look.

  “Yeah, why not?” he says.

  Why not?

  Dad and I spend the next three hours out on the edge of the weeds. We don’t snag any walleye, but we get a couple of nice bass and a few northerns.

  Neither one of us says much, but just before Dad pulls up anchor, I ask, “How many days has it been?”

  He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Four. Friday night was the last. Went to a meeting up at the church last night.”

  Four. He hasn’t had a drink in four days. He went to an AA meeting.

  “What changed?” I’m almost afraid to know.

  He doesn’t answer right away. And then, “Me, I guess. I took a long look at myself, and I didn’t much like what I saw. I had to stop blaming myself for what happened to Trixie, for not knowing that she was sick. And I realized that I’m the only one who gets to decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “How I’m going to get through this. And it can go either way, so why not make the best of it?”

  I expect him to segue into a lecture about how if I’m not careful, I’ll end up a drunk like him, in denial, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You have to stop blaming yourself, Ben. And living without your sister? It might not get easier, but it will get different.”

  I nod. I think I know what he means. Different. It could go either way. And I’m the only one who can choose how I’m going to get through it.

  At home, I open up my laptop for the first time all summer. It takes me almost an hour to find exactly what I need. I pull Lucy and Trixie’s notebook from my desk drawer and open it to the first blank page I find. And then I write the quote I found. I want to say more. I want to explain everything, but I don’t. I write a few more words, sign my name.

  I hope it’s enough.

  I put the notebook and one of my unpolished agates—rough, but still beautiful—in a brown paper bag and write Lucy’s name on it with a marker. I walk back to the resort. The late afternoon heat presses down on me. I feel the sting of Lulu’s rejection, but it doesn’t slow my steps. A lull has settled over the resort and there’s no one to see as I climb the rickety ladder of the tree house and put the paper bag in the corner.

  My peace offering.

  54 · Lucy

  “Lucy! Lucy!”

/>   I hear Emily’s call from the tree house across the yard and I speed up, my heart pounding. It’s not panic, but I am up the ladder in seconds, not bothering to worry about the loose boards or the height.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, out of breath.

  She’s grinning, pointing at a plain brown bag.

  “It’s for you!” she says. “A mysterious package!” She doesn’t pronounce mysterious correctly, slipping the last syllables together, and I smile.

  “You scared me,” I tell her, and I pull her to me in a hug before I move to the bag.

  My name is there, in heavy letters, all caps, slanted to the left.

  Ben’s handwriting.

  I think about his kiss on the side of the road, the look he gave me at the Full Loon, and again, my heart’s in my throat.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Emily tugs on my hand.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” I kneel down, pick up the package. It weighs almost nothing. The paper crinkles as I open it.

  Our notebook. The Book of Quotes. And something else—an agate.

  “An old notebook?” Emily asks, obviously disappointed. “And a rock?”

  When I look at her, she is a watery blur.

  I’m crying.

  I open the cover, run my finger over the familiar letters.

  “It was mine and Trixie’s,” I manage to tell her.

  “Oh,” she says, like she understands, and I believe that she does. She sits down next to me, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “It’s okay, Lucy,” she says. “Crying will make you feel better.”

  It does.

  And when I’ve stopped crying, I look through the notebook, page by page, and soon I’m laughing, caught up in the memories.

  Trixie, studying for a humanities exam: My head hurts like Aristotle when he was thinking.

  Trixie, cleaning out her hamster Ethel’s cage: I can’t tell what’s shit and what’s raisins.

  Me, one afternoon at the Full Loon: You can tell a lot about a person by the kind of pie they order. Mainly if they’re assholes or not.

  One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood. —Seneca