Page 51 of The Last Thing You Said

What seems like only minutes later, Mum pulls me out of bed and tells me I need to hustle to get ready for the gift opening.

“Why do I have to go?” I mumble.

“You’re in the wedding party, that’s why. Now get going.”

At breakfast, I can barely stomach the smell of waffles and eggs. I sit down next to Dad with a cup of coffee and a hardboiled egg. He shakes his head and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but I cut him off.

“Save it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other opportunities to rag my ass this summer.”

Lucy’s here with John and Tami and Emily, but they’re at a table across the room and Lucy has her back to me. Which is good.

And the bride’s little sister, Ah-lee-see-ah, she’s here, too, shooting daggers at me. She leans close to María and whispers in her ear. María looks in my direction and laughs.

My time with the bridesmaid—and the tequila, for that matter—is even hazier this morning.

But everything leading up to that point?

Crystal fucking clear.

Like when we posed for our family picture out on the steps of the church, and I had the craziest thoughts. Like: Lucy should be in the photo. She belongs with us.

Or even worse, when I walked her down the aisle before the ceremony began and I thought, Someday we’ll do this again. Her fingers trembled against my arm, and I wanted to take her hand, hold it in between mine, and tell her that I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I want to marry her.

Jesus.

And then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

Lucy looked gorgeous and Emily wanted me to dance with her. And when could I ever say no to that girl? Either of them.

And before I knew it, I had the girl we used to call Lulu in my arms. She looked beautiful. She smelled like wildflowers. She fit into my arms like it was meant to be. I could have danced with her forever, and I hoped that the DJ would play another slow song so I could keep my girl close.

My girl. Lulu is not my girl.

I could hold her like that at a wedding, but not in our real lives. In real life, we are too damaged.

Mum is not happy with me, her mouth turned down in a constant frown. I should feel guilty—her daughter gone and her son a disappointment. I feel nothing but the lingering effects of the booze and too many cigarettes and the need to get the hell out of this place.

But why am I in such a hurry to get back home, where things are even worse?

28 · Lucy

Late Sunday afternoon, John and Tami drop me off at home. It’s been a long day. At the fancy gift-opening breakfast, Ben looked like hell and didn’t glance in my direction, not once. Emily was overtired and irritable on the drive home.

I’m thankful that my mom gave me the night off, even though she had to cover my shift herself. I’m looking forward to a hot shower, a quiet evening with a good book, and a full day off tomorrow.

I’m not surprised to find Simon sitting on the steps of my front porch, his long legs stretched out, earbuds in his ears. He hops up when he sees me, pulls out the earbuds, and grabs my suitcase.

“Let me carry that for you.”

“How long have you been waiting here?”

“Not long.” He smiles, a slow smile that lights up his whole face. “I missed you, Lucy.” Inside, he sets the suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, then reaches his hand toward me and raises one eyebrow. He pulls me close and kisses me, slowly, gently. His kisses are sweet and comforting.

But I still feel Ben’s arms around my waist as we danced, his touch, the arc of electricity straight to my battered heart. I shake the thought away.

When Simon pulls away from me, he asks in a whisper, “Are you—are you okay?”

“Yes.” Not really.