Page 97 of The Last Thing You Said

“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.

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.”