Page 93 of The Last Thing You Said

I expect Hannah to say something like It’s time to accept it or She’s gone, there’s nothing you can do, those terrible things people say, people who don’t understand.

Instead she pulls Lucy into a hug. “I get it. This is a sad day for you. We’ll take you home.”

Lucy shakes her head again. “No, don’t be stupid. I can walk.”

“You’re not walking home by yourself! Guthrie, tell her we’ll take her home.”

“I can take her,” I say. I don’t know where it comes from. Hannah and Guthrie both look at me, surprised, but Lucy doesn’t. She won’t look at me. I don’t blame her.

“No,” Lucy says. “I want to walk home. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

I reach out and put my hand on her arm. Now, finally, she looks up at me, her eyes wide. “I’ll take you home.”

She nods and hands the rest of her ride tickets to Hannah.

“Text me when you get home, Lucille,” Hannah says, “so I know you’re safe.”

Lucy starts walking.

She’s not arguing with me. She’s letting me help her.

She’s not pushing me away.

There’s a twinge again, but this time, it’s not guilt. It’s hope.

48 · Lucy

What is wrong with me?

I’m still not one hundred percent on everything that happened with Ben at the party last night, and now I’ve just told him he can give me a ride home. Or didn’t tell him he couldn’t, I guess. My stomach churns with anxiety and the leftover effects of the Hurricane ride.

Once we get to the mini-donut stand, I’ll stop and tell him I changed my mind. That I can’t get in the car with him.

But we pass the mini-donut stand, and I don’t say a word.

When we get to the Zipper, I’ll tell him. I’ll say, “You know what? It’s fine, I’m fine, just go back and have fun.”

But we pass the Zipper, too, the screams of its riders cutting into my thoughts.

The gate. I’ll tell him at the gate.

And then we’re out of the gate, walking down the street toward his house. It’s quieter outside the carnival grounds, quieter still as we walk away, except for occasional laughter or the rev of an engine.

It will take us three minutes to walk to his house, maybe less.

I’ll tell him in the driveway.

He’s so close to me. His footsteps and mine are in sync as we walk together. I don’t notice anything around me except for his closeness and his warmth and his smell. Tonight he doesn’t smell like the lake or sunscreen or fish. He smells fresh, like soap, and sweet, like the cinnamon sugar of mini-donuts.

He pulls his keys out of his pocket as we walk up the driveway. He opens the passenger door for me, and I’m so overcome by the rush of emotion that my knees buckle.

He reaches out to steady me.

His fingers on my arm are too much.

“Ben,” I say, but still, I won’t look at his face. This is when I will tell him that I can’t get in the car, that I’ve changed my mind.

“Please let me take you home,” he says, his voice so low and plaintive, I want to cry.