Page 33 of The Last Thing You Said

There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh, okay.”

What I said must be enough for him.

Mosquitos buzz near my face and I swat at them. “We’ve got citronella candles in the shed. Bring those down next time.” I reach over and smash one on his calf. “Don’t you have mosquitos in St. Paul?”

I smile at him. He reaches across the arm of his chair and clasps my hand. This time, his hand is sweaty. This time, Ben’s not around to see. This time, he means it.

I tug my hand away a minute later to slap at a mosquito on my neck. “I’m getting eaten alive here.”

Simon stands up and smiles down at me. “I’ll walk you home.”

We walk up the hill toward my house and stop at the bottom of the stairs to the deck.

“There are so many stars here,” he says. “It’s so beautiful. I wish I could paint this.”

He leans over and his lips touch my cheek in the slightest whisper of a kiss.

“Good night, Lucy.”

Simon turns and walks across the grass. I watch until he ducks around the lilac bush, out of sight, my hand on my cheek.

I like him. I like his shaggy hair and his paint-stained fingers. He’s nice to me and he wants to spend time with me.

I want to spend time with him.

That’s got to count for something.

18 · Ben

Guthrie and I started hanging out at the Full Loon on Monday nights a couple of months after Trixie died. I was so sick of being at home, of sitting across from my parents at dinner, struggling to find something to say that wouldn’t remind them of Trixie, that I called up Guthrie and asked him to meet me there to watch Monday Night Football. And the next week and the week after that.

I don’t even like football.

We ate there every Monday night, even after the football season ended.

Lucy doesn’t usually work Monday nights. Last week had to be a fluke. I’m counting on it.

“Hey, Ben,” Daniel says as I sit down at the counter. “How’re the fish biting?”

“Good,” I say. “Water levels are up after this week’s rain.”

“How are the folks?”

“Good,” I say again, although this time it’s not quite the truth. Mum had one of her days when she didn’t get out of bed, and Dad flipped out at me when I scraped the Crestliner against the dock.

“You want the special?” Daniel asks, and I nod.

The special, Daniel’s famous Onion Ring Barbecue Bacon Burger. Dad used to call it a heart attack on a plate, but we don’t make jokes like that anymore.

We don’t make any jokes anymore, come to think of it.

Guthrie slides onto the stool beside me. He’s tall and lanky with dark copper hair and a broad forehead. He’s part Irish, part Ojibwe, with a low, even voice. It takes a lot to get Guthrie riled.

“Hey,” he says. “I’ll have the same.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Well,” he says, “me and Eddie drove up to Whitefish today. Caught a nice mess of walleye.”