Page 3 of The Last Thing You Said

No, that’s not right. Ben is not mine. He is not wonderful, not anymore.

He walks around the other side of the garage to the path that leads to the resort and the lake. He doesn’t look at me again. He doesn’t say good-bye.

It wasn’t always like this, back when we were friends, back when I thought someday we might be more than friends. Before Trixie died. I miss him, I miss him as much as I miss Trixie. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I wonder if he misses me, too.

I slip my hand into the pocket of my jeans. It’s there—Ben’s agate, smooth, cool to the touch. I flip the agate again and again between my thumb and index finger.

I wish I could find a way to get Ben Porter out of my heart.

2 · Ben

It’s 9:54 and I’m late for work. Well, technically not late, except that my uncle believes that if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late. So my ten A.M. shift really began at 9:50. Mum and Dad give me a hard time about driving here—I mean, it’s a five-minute walk, max—but it’s hard enough for me to get here on time as it is. John will shake his head, but what’s he going to do, fire me?

Some days I wish he would. I wish I would get kicked out of school, I wish I could get the hell out of this town.

But Lulu—no, Lucy—is here.

I mean, she’s here, sitting on my uncle’s front sidewalk.

Lucy’s the last thing I need today. I want to spend the day out on the lake, not worry about anything, not think about anything, and there she is with my cousin. Emily laughs at something Lucy says, and Lucy has this sort of half smile on her face.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lucy smile. Maybe she smiles, but not around me. God, I used to love her smile. The way it sort of creeps up on one side first, tentative, and then goes full out, lighting up her whole face.

I walk down the hill as fast as I can, away from Lucy and Emily. Trixie should be here watching Em, not Lucy. I’m a prick for thinking it. And it’s not the first time.

We’re not friends and it’s my fault. You can’t be a complete ass to someone and expect her to act like you weren’t.

What does she think about when she sees me? Does she remember all the fun we had together—all those times fishing off the dock, all the talks we had on the Lazy River at the water park—or has she pushed it out of her mind? Does she think only about my sister? Does she hate me for what I did? For what I couldn’t do?

For what I said?

I don’t like to think about it. Our school schedules are different enough, and I usually don’t see her much. But today, with Lucy here, everything about that day forces its way back. I think about how Trixie slipped away from us. And I think about what happened after that day, too, the day of her funeral, and how I screwed up everything.

Lucy must hate the sight of me, and I don’t blame her. Most days, I hate the sight of me, too.

John waits for me on the dock with a guy in a goofy straw hat and a couple of kids, maybe around ten and twelve years old.

“You’re late,” John says under his breath. “It’s 10:01.”

“Sorry about that, folks,” I say, and I step into the boat.

The weather is good—partly sunny, streaks of white clouds, a cool spring breeze. We head out to one of John’s secret sweet spots. It’s too early for bluegills, but we might be able to bring in a few crappies. There’s a chill out here on the lake, so I pull on my ratty army-green Rapala hoodie. An image comes to me, and I suck in a breath: Lucy wearing it, standing on the rocky shore of Lake Superior, orange streaks of sunrise glistening on the water behind her.

I close my eyes against the memory. I’ve got to get her out of my head.

The dad knows a thing or two about fishing, but the boys whine and give him a ton of attitude. I help them bait and untangle their lines for what seems like hours but is probably only about forty-five minutes. They throw night crawlers at each other. They both catch a couple of crappies and then fight over which one is bigger.

Trixie and I fought like that, too, when we were their age.

“Dad,” the older one whines, “this is so boring. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” says the younger one, “and it stinks out here.”

After a few more minutes of the kids pissing and moaning, the dad gives in and John pulls up anchor.

The ride back to shore won’t take long, but John slows the boat to a crawl when he sees a family of loons. We watch as they drift across the lake, dive down, resurface.

Moments like this, when I’m out on the lake, I can pretend that nothing has changed, that life is all sunshine and roses and shit like that. It doesn’t last. I can’t live my life out on a boat in the middle of Halcyon Lake.