The End of Our Story

“Hm?”


“In a few seconds, please remember that I didn’t want to tell you, because we’re having such a great time and all. But I figure you’d want to know.”

I sit up. Sand slides into my bra. “Leigh.”

“Okay, okay.” She looks at the sand. “Wil’s here with Ana.”

Sweetness rises in the back of my throat. I jump up. It’s too dark to see, but I would know Wil’s lines anywhere. He’s leaning next to Ana, sipping a beer. She slides her arm around his neck. I look away.

“They are together,” Leigh says softly.

“I’d kill for a beer,” I tell her without shifting my gaze. “Two, while you’re up there.”

“Bridge,” she pleads. “We should go. I don’t think a drink is a good idea.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say fiercely. “I have just as much of a right to be here as they do.”

“Okay. Okay.” Her eyes shift from Ned to Susan, which is unnecessary.

“He’s fine when he’s with her,” I whimper. “He just can’t be around me without losing it.”

“Am I missing something?” Ned asks.

“You’re not missing anything. I’m just toxic. I’m like this toxic, terrible person that people can’t stand being around.” My eyes sting.

“Bridge. My darling. Love of my life. Let’s go home,” Leigh suggests. “It’s like my mom always said: Nothing good ever happens after”—she checks her cell—“9:27.”

“Fine.” I can’t tear my eyes away from him. Them. Wil sees me, too. There are history magnets in us, and that’s why we always find each other. Wil raises his hand like can you come here a second? and I look away. Leigh leans close to my ear.

“Talk it out,” she says. “It’ll kill you if you don’t. I’ll catch up with you later.” She disappears into the crowd.

I find his eyes and he’s still watching me. Come on, I tell him silently. His head dips, like he understands. I wander through the house and into the front yard where it’s quiet, finally, and I can wait for him. The grass feels good under my feet.

“Hey,” he says behind me. I don’t turn around.

“Hey.” It’s killing me that we are the kind of people who just say, “Hey.” Strangers say, “Hey.” Not us.

“We should talk,” he tells me.

“It’s not fair, what you’re doing,” I say.

“What I’m doing?” I hear him behind me, feel his hands on me, warm and rough. He spins me around, gently, and we’re so close. This feels right, him and me, the two of us, and he doesn’t see it.

“Yes!” I shove him, hard. “What you’re doing. Pushing me away again and again. Not letting me be there for you. Not being there for me! I lost someone when your dad died, too. Whether you want to think that’s important or not.” I clench my jaw hard enough that my head starts to spin. “I loved him, too. I miss him, too. I think about him and about you all the time.”

“That’s the thing, Bridge.” Color creeps into Wil’s face. “You think you loved him. You can think you love a person and it turns out”—he bends over and spits in the grass—“it turns out you didn’t know them at all.”

“Don’t say that to me ever again, Wil. I’m sick of hearing it.” I start down the street. “I’m going home.” Heat from the asphalt rises. The air smells like beach tar. I think I’m walking toward the water, but all the houses look the same. Wil would know. He’s like a human compass who can always find water.

“Hey. Hey.” He runs after me and matches my stride. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You don’t know him. You don’t. And I didn’t, either.” His voice splits like warped wood.

“What are you talking about, Wil?” I stop. I peer into him, try to read the jumbled colors in his eyes and the pulse throbbing beneath his jaw.

“Nothing. I’ll walk you home.”

“No. Tell me. I’m not going anywhere until you—”

He wrenches away from me. “He hit my mom, okay?” The words explode out of him; rocket into the sky like fireworks. “He was a drunk asshole, and he beat my mother.”

Everything stops.

No. He’s lying.

Not Wilson.

Not—I close my eyes and claw at the memory of the Wilson I knew. The man who served apple wedges and peanut butter with calloused hands. The man with yellow tulips and Anastasia’s doughnuts. Wil is telling me that all these memories are a lie. Everything I knew about Wilson was a lie.

“Wil. Don’t,” I beg. Hot tears pool behind my lids. It’s not fair, what I’m asking. I close my eyes and I picture Wilson, just behind the clouds. I reach for him, for the person I thought he was. “Please don’t say that. He couldn’t.”

“He fucking did. He hit . . . my mom . . . and sometimes I wake up and my very first thought is I’m glad he’s dead.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “Can you believe that? Can you—” His face shatters into a million shards and then he’s crying. And I know it’s true. It’s been true for I don’t know how long, and I wasn’t there. It was true when I saw him at Publix, holding tulips. It was true when he held the door open for me at Nina’s. Maybe it’s been true forever.

The Wilson I knew slips away, just like that. I should have been there. I should have kept Wil close to me, and I failed.

“Wil,” I murmur. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It was his.” Wil lists forward, a vessel seeking shelter, and I pull him into me. I erase all the space between us. I despise the skin and bones keeping us so far apart. I hug him tight and close. I stroke his wet cheeks.

“I should’ve told you,” he whispers, just loud enough. “I needed you.”

I hold him tighter. “You’re telling me now. And I’m here now. You’ve got me.”





WIL


Summer, Junior Year


IT’S the dead of August, and I’ve started running. Early in the mornings, before either of my parents are up. I need to sweat out the acid anger that’s bubbling up in my blood. And I can’t stand being in my house anymore. My dad has two speeds now: silent and screaming. It’s one or the other, one after the other, and no matter which speed he’s on, I’m always wishing for him to flip the switch.

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