Page 11 of The Last Thing You Said

“Oh, I know you, Lucille. That skirt is too long. God, girl, show a little leg or something. What good is that hot gymnast bod if you don’t show it off?”

My gymnast bod isn’t as hot as it used to be. I quit the team after Trixie died. Not that there would have been the money for it anyway, not with Clay calling home and asking for money all the time on top of everything else.

Hannah pulls the Lexus into the parking lot across the street from the theater and leans forward to scan for a good spot.

“By the way,” she says, “remember Dustin, that guy from Carly’s party? He’s meeting us here.”

“Great.” I pull the mirror down and tuck a loose curl behind my ear. “You two have fun.”

“Oh, now, Lucille, don’t be a party pooper!” She opens her door and gets out of the car.

It’s been a long day. I’m tired, and I’m 99.9 percent sure that when I cross the street with Hannah to hang out with the crowd that’s gathered under the marquee of the theater, Ben will be there. It’s easy enough to try to pretend that he’s not around at school. He’s a junior; I’m a sophomore. We have different schedules. But on the weekends, it’s hard not to run into him.

But it’s not just Ben.

Ben will be there with Dana, his girlfriend.

Typical Saturday night in Halcyon Lake.

6 · Ben

I get in the Firebird and drive.

I’m in the parking lot at the Fire Tower before I even know where I’m going.

The lot is empty—not that there are ever a lot of cars here this time of night. Later, after the movie’s over, and in the fall after football games, that’s when the lot fills up.

Right now, I’ve got the place to myself.

I reach into the backseat for my hiking boots and once I’ve got them on, I hit the trail. It’s a good hike up a steep hill to get to the tower, and by the time I reach it, I’m breathing heavily.

Shit, I need to start training again.

The tower looms tall against the trees and inky blue sky. I start to climb, gripping the handrails as the tower sways in the wind. This thing isn’t called “historic” for nothing.

It’s a long way up.

I reach the top and stand near the railing, looking out over the roads and trees and lakes, and I realize that I’ve never been up here alone.

It’s quiet and peaceful high above the treetops, but I don’t feel that way inside. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without the clutch of guilt and sorrow around my neck.

At Trixie’s funeral, I greeted the hundreds of people who came to the church to offer their kind words and clichés. I nodded my head, said, “Thank you for coming,” and “That’s so kind of you,” a million times.

Then it was over, and Lucy and I were the last ones in the church basement.

And I remember thinking, Lulu is the only good thing about today. She is the only good thing about my life.

We walked out to the parking lot so I could drive her home. She didn’t want to get in the front seat of the Firebird and I understood that. Sitting there, without Trixie to ride shotgun, meant that it was real. The funeral, the casket in front of us, the sound of the dirt hitting the top of it—all of that was real, expected.

This was not expected. We had not factored this into the plan.

This was how our lives would be now, the subtle differences along with the obvious ones.

“It’s okay,” I told her, and she slid in, crying.

She’d cried so much. I wished I knew a way to help her.

We sat in her driveway for a long time, not talking, the rain landing in sheets across my windshield, the wipers on double time until I flicked them off, pointless because we weren’t moving, and she started to cry again and I couldn’t bear it.