The End of Our Story

“Just happened to slip that in there.” Mom sniffs.

“What’d he say?” I am hungry for this. I realize that I know nothing about them, about their history or who said hello first or why.

Dad grunts. “He told me I could take her out on his boat,” he says, disbelieving. “He made me swear on the keys that I’d bring her back safe, and I said I would and I told him, I think I really like this girl, sir, and he said—” Dad tilts his face toward Mom, and his beard grazes her cheek. She pulls back a little. It’s a reflex: quick, but I see it. “You remember?”

They say it together: “I was talking about the boat, son.”

I laugh louder than anyone.

“Well,” Ana announces. “You guys don’t need us cramping your style. But first, I brought some wine, for a little toast.”

“Ana,” I say as she unearths the bottle from a bag at her feet. I’ve told her.

“Oh. We don’t drink, dear.” Mom’s voice is stiff. Her eyes dart from my dad to me and back again.

“I told her,” I say quietly.

“Henney.” Dad reaches for the bottle. “The girl brought wine. Let’s thank her.”

I am instantly wearing damp skin. “Dad?”

“Wilson,” Mom says without moving her lips.

“One glass of wine. On our wedding anniversary. On the evening I planned for you.” Dad’s voice has an edge.

“Dad,” I say again. I beg him silently not to do this. It’s been such a nice time. It’s the only thing I want from him in the whole world. I’ll never ask for anything again.

Finally, he puts the bottle down. “Coke it is.” He disappears into the galley, and Mom and I exchange looks.

“Um—” Ana says, and I have to take a slow, deep breath, and I can’t look at her.

He resurfaces a few minutes later, and he’s his old self again, cradling a two-liter bottle of Coke and four plastic cups. He pours a few sips into each cup and passes them around in the silence.

“To my wife,” he says. He opens his mouth like he has more to say. I know he does, words buried under his skin, tucked between all the years they have together. But after a few seconds, he tosses back the drink like it’s a shot, and we all do the same.

We drive to the bonfire in silence. Ana tries a few times—Aren’t they so cute? and Seriously, I wish my parents . . . —but after a while, she gives up and turns on the radio.

The bonfire is exactly what I expect: a bunch of kids I don’t care about chugging watery beer in somebody’s backyard because that’s how they want to remember high school. When we get there, Ana finds her friends, and I stand at the edge of the yard, watching.

I get a beer to have something to hold on to, and I retreat back to my spot at the edge of the world. I don’t see Bridge. I’m not looking for her or anything, but I don’t see her. I do see her brother, buzzing around Emilie Simpson. If Bridge and I were speaking, I’d drag Micah home right now, myself.

“Wil Hines!” Ana comes winding back to me. “Wil Hines, don’t you know not to leave a girl alone at a party?” She leans into me, her mouth so close to my skin, her body touching mine.

“This is kind of lame, don’t you think?” I ask, but I don’t think she hears me. I wish I knew what my parents were doing now—I’m hoping for laughter and calm seas beneath them.

Ana sighs into me. “Do you ever think about when we’re old like our parents, how we’ll look back on this time in our lives and wish we could do it again? If you think about it, it’s kind of amazing: We are living the best part of our lives right this very second. It will never be this good again.”

I look into my red cup of beer. I have never felt more alone.

“I kind of think I’ll like being older,” I tell the beer. I’m not one of those people who thinks, Everything will be different when . . . I am who I am—a simple kind of man—and my life probably won’t change much. But I can’t stand the idea that this is it.

“Oh. Me too,” Ana says quickly, and her eyes get sharp all of a sudden. “College will be fun.”

That’s not what I meant.

“Hey.” I brush her hair away from her face. “Do you maybe want to get out of here?”

“Wil Hines!” She slaps my chest with her free hand. “It’s early. Thea’s not even here yet.”

“Okay, well.” I set my beer down. “I think I’m going to head back to my place. I’m kind of tired. Big day.” It’s such a lame excuse that I close my eyes for a second, so I don’t have to see her expression. But I feel a pull toward home. “You gonna be okay?”

“Um, yeah.” She looks past me. “Sure.”

“Thea’s coming soon, right?”

“Probably.” She shrugs. She scans the crowd.

“Okay. I’ll, ah—I’ll text you.” I lean in to kiss her, and she turns her head at the last second. “Okay.”

I walk for a while before I know which way is home, before the neon lights of Atlantic appear against the dusty purple. By the time I turn onto my street, it’s dark. The walk has unscrewed me, and everything I’ve been holding on to floats outside of me and drifts into the trees. I let go of Ana’s blank face and the line of her jaw when she turned away. I release my dad’s weirdness on the boat and the thoughts about Bridge and the gone look on her brother’s face. By the time I shove the key in the lock, I feel good.

“You guys home?” The house is dark. Once my eyes adjust, I can see shadows that don’t belong here. I see the edges of a pink suitcase I haven’t seen in years. Some hanging clothes: dresses and coats I’ve never seen Mom wear before. I sidestep Dad’s golf clubs, leaning against the table in the entrance hall. (Dad has golf clubs?) I feel my way to the wall, and I flip the light switch. Dad wouldn’t like this, I think. It’s messy. She should put her things away. I fight the heaviness that is filling me up, because I don’t know what this is yet. I don’t know.

“Wil?” My mother’s voice is thick, coming from the kitchen.

Dad wouldn’t like this, I think again. It’s the only thought I can manage.

My mother is leaning over the island in the kitchen. She’s my mother but somebody has rearranged her features. Her lips are puffy and I can barely see her eyes, and her face is inflated and red, like a horrible doll. She’s been crying, hard.

“What?” I snap, even though I know. I already know. “What?”

“I asked him to leave,” the strange doll tells me. “I want a divorce.”





BRIDGE


Summer, Senior Year

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