me
kind of knowing—I also see something else, something that looks like very genuine fondness. That affliction—the beating plague in my chest—leaps without any directive from me. If it could, it would escape from my rib cage and tackle him on the spot, like a golden retriever welcoming its long-lost owner home.
“Hi,” I say, hating the catch in my voice, the crackling octave rise.
All the little strands of smoke slowly resume their corporeal forms. Conversational noise—along with the surf and gulls—fills the air around us. A waiter comes by carrying a tray of Champagne flutes. Charlie reaches out and takes the wine glass out of my hand. He places it on the waiter’s tray, takes two glasses of Champagne, hands one to me, then clinks his against mine.
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
“I do,” I say. “You’re the one who didn’t read
Th
e Sun Also Rises
.”
“But you read it.”
“Of course I did. I was an English major. I’m named after Lady Brett Ashley.”
“So why did you lie?”
Th
ump
.
Th
ump
.
Th
ump
. Can he hear it? Can everyone? Can Ladd—somewhere in the crowd? Did he turned into a strand of smoke, too?
“Because,” I say to Charlie. “Because I’m an idiot.”
His smile widens, if that’s possible. As if I’d just paid him the best compliment in the world. And I can’t believe that he remembers as clearly as I do. I thought he had forgotten everything.
Charlie holds out his hand and says, “Present tense. Does that mean still? Still an idiot?”
“Apparently,” I say, then take his hand, and we walk together across the lawn to the wooden steps that lead down to the beach. Ladd’s grandmother’s diamond presses into Charlie’s palm.
When we reach the shore, I can’t help saying, “I’m surprised you remember. About the book. About anything.” I feel grateful that my voice sounds neutral, not wounded or accusing. Just honest.
Charlie says, “I remember all of it. The book. The bear. The snow. The whole night. I remember you, Brett.”
For a moment, I can see it. He looks sad. He looks
sorry.
He’s going to apologize, and might even explain. But Ladd must have seen Charlie and me emerging from the sea of people, walking hand in hand and disappearing behind the bluff. Not hard to catch up to us, our dreamy saunter, and he appears at just that moment, before Charlie can speak again. I remember turning—the sunlight so much flatter, in that direction, pixels from staring at the water still dancing in front of my eyes—and seeing Ladd coming toward us. To my surprise he doesn’t look angry—as if anger, at this juncture, would be too risky. He just looks determined. And separate, as if the
us
naturally refers to Charlie and me. Ladd’s face wears a poorly concealed woundedness, a question mark, whereas Charlie and I stand next to each other, no question mark at all. Owning this moment together, this reunion, but not the discomfort we have created for Ladd. And I know that when I think back on that moment it’s obvious whom I should feel guilty on behalf of: Ladd.
But oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry. Because if only I had been truer, stronger, deeper. If I’d ever been able to control and squelch that frantic, girlish knocking inside myself. You would still be here today. Not with me, it’s true. But here. Among the living.
6
What were you and Charlie talking about?” Ladd asked on the drive back to his parents’ house, after five full minutes of loaded silence.
“Nothing. Just hello, how are you. That sort of thing.”
“Why were you holding his hand?” He used a conversational tone that must have taken quite a bit of effort.
“I don’t know.” I tried to keep my voice equally neutral. “He just took my hand. It would have felt rude to yank it away. I think he was just being polite.”
Ladd snorted. I didn’t blame him. And I didn’t have an answer for myself. Riding next to Ladd, it was like I’d just come out of a trance and couldn’t
kind of knowing—I also see something else, something that looks like very genuine fondness. That affliction—the beating plague in my chest—leaps without any directive from me. If it could, it would escape from my rib cage and tackle him on the spot, like a golden retriever welcoming its long-lost owner home.
“Hi,” I say, hating the catch in my voice, the crackling octave rise.
All the little strands of smoke slowly resume their corporeal forms. Conversational noise—along with the surf and gulls—fills the air around us. A waiter comes by carrying a tray of Champagne flutes. Charlie reaches out and takes the wine glass out of my hand. He places it on the waiter’s tray, takes two glasses of Champagne, hands one to me, then clinks his against mine.
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
“I do,” I say. “You’re the one who didn’t read
Th
e Sun Also Rises
.”
“But you read it.”
“Of course I did. I was an English major. I’m named after Lady Brett Ashley.”
“So why did you lie?”
Th
ump
.
Th
ump
.
Th
ump
. Can he hear it? Can everyone? Can Ladd—somewhere in the crowd? Did he turned into a strand of smoke, too?
“Because,” I say to Charlie. “Because I’m an idiot.”
His smile widens, if that’s possible. As if I’d just paid him the best compliment in the world. And I can’t believe that he remembers as clearly as I do. I thought he had forgotten everything.
Charlie holds out his hand and says, “Present tense. Does that mean still? Still an idiot?”
“Apparently,” I say, then take his hand, and we walk together across the lawn to the wooden steps that lead down to the beach. Ladd’s grandmother’s diamond presses into Charlie’s palm.
When we reach the shore, I can’t help saying, “I’m surprised you remember. About the book. About anything.” I feel grateful that my voice sounds neutral, not wounded or accusing. Just honest.
Charlie says, “I remember all of it. The book. The bear. The snow. The whole night. I remember you, Brett.”
For a moment, I can see it. He looks sad. He looks
sorry.
He’s going to apologize, and might even explain. But Ladd must have seen Charlie and me emerging from the sea of people, walking hand in hand and disappearing behind the bluff. Not hard to catch up to us, our dreamy saunter, and he appears at just that moment, before Charlie can speak again. I remember turning—the sunlight so much flatter, in that direction, pixels from staring at the water still dancing in front of my eyes—and seeing Ladd coming toward us. To my surprise he doesn’t look angry—as if anger, at this juncture, would be too risky. He just looks determined. And separate, as if the
us
naturally refers to Charlie and me. Ladd’s face wears a poorly concealed woundedness, a question mark, whereas Charlie and I stand next to each other, no question mark at all. Owning this moment together, this reunion, but not the discomfort we have created for Ladd. And I know that when I think back on that moment it’s obvious whom I should feel guilty on behalf of: Ladd.
But oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry. Because if only I had been truer, stronger, deeper. If I’d ever been able to control and squelch that frantic, girlish knocking inside myself. You would still be here today. Not with me, it’s true. But here. Among the living.
6
What were you and Charlie talking about?” Ladd asked on the drive back to his parents’ house, after five full minutes of loaded silence.
“Nothing. Just hello, how are you. That sort of thing.”
“Why were you holding his hand?” He used a conversational tone that must have taken quite a bit of effort.
“I don’t know.” I tried to keep my voice equally neutral. “He just took my hand. It would have felt rude to yank it away. I think he was just being polite.”
Ladd snorted. I didn’t blame him. And I didn’t have an answer for myself. Riding next to Ladd, it was like I’d just come out of a trance and couldn’t
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