Page 70 of The Last Thing You Said

My eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

“Well,” Mum says, “she seems like a nice girl. And you’ve been seeing her for a few months. Is it serious?”

“Does it matter? I graduate next year and then—” I pause.

“And then?” Dad prompts.

“I suppose I’ll go to college. We’ll break up then, if we’re still together . . . I don’t understand why you’re asking me this.”

Mum sighs.

“Ben, we’re worried about you,” Dad says.

Here we go.

“What is there to be worried about?” I have a feeling I know what’s coming.

Mum looks at Dad like this is some big secret or something. Or maybe because she’s thinking he has the same problem.

“Ben, it seems like you’re having a tough summer,” she says. “A tough year since—since your sister died.” There’s a pause. “We know about the drinking.”

“The drinking,” I repeat. I look at Dad. He’s not saying anything. He’s letting Mum do all the dirty work.

“Yes, and we’re worried that you’re driving, too, after. Have you done that?”

I want to lie. I want to tell her that I’d never be so stupid, not after they lost one child. I would hate for them to lose me, too, for something as irresponsible as driving drunk.

I can’t lie to her, so I don’t answer.

“Ben?” Dad says. “Mum asked you a question.”

“Well, I usually stay at Guthrie’s,” I say. It’s the truth. I usually do.

“That’s your answer?” Dad says.

“What about the times you don’t stay at Guthrie’s?” Mum asks. “Sweetheart, you’re not in trouble—we just want the truth. We want to help you. You need to make better decisions.”

“Maybe once or twice.” I take a drink of my Coke and wish I had some whiskey for it. I wave my hand toward Dad’s glass. “You planning on driving after that beer?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Dad says. “This is about you and your underage drinking.”

“Tom,” Mum says, and puts her hand on his arm. “We all need to find ways to deal with this, Ben. Some days are better than others. Some days I feel like I can’t even get out of bed, I miss her so much. And I’m glad you have Guthrie and your fishing to help you. But I think you’ve made some poor choices.”

“Fine. I won’t drink and drive.” I don’t tell them I won’t drink, though, and I hope that’s enough. I want this to end.

Mum sighs and gives Dad that look again.

“There’s something else,” Dad says.

Our server sets down our plates, and I’m glad for the break in this pointless conversation. What else could they possibly have to say to me? I’m not going to stop drinking because they’re worried about me. And I can’t believe that hypocrite sitting across from me.

“Well?” I ask. No sense in prolonging this. I pick up one of the ribs, covered in thick homemade barbecue sauce.

“Ben, we want to talk to you about Lulu,” Mum says.

I drop the rib, my appetite gone in an instant. “What?”

Mum takes a sip from her water goblet and then dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Ben, did something happen between you two? Did you get into some sort of argument after Trixie died?”