The Last September: A Novel

“Funny,” I echoed. “I think I’ll go say hello.”


We stepped down off the deck and partygoers closed in around us. One of them stopped Ladd as we made our way toward Eli, but I continued until another break in the crowd. The rainy day had morphed into a spectacular night. The temperature hovered a few degrees above cool. The wind blew just softly enough to seem romantic—the leaves on the trees fluttering, along with hems and stray wisps of hair. The grass felt slightly damp as I walked across it, toward Eli, who hadn’t yet seen me. From this distance, I marveled at how normal he looked, and wondered if that impression would burst as I got closer. Whatever Eli’s state, it made me happy to have someone there I knew, not because of Ladd or his family. I’d had a life before these people.

“Brett,” a voice said as I approached the next section of crowd.

If I’d taken one more step I would have physically bumped into him. Him, Charlie, the only man at the party not wearing a coat and tie, grinning at me like I was something he’d misplaced, and nothing in the world could possibly be happier than at last, after all this time. Finding me.

I REMEMBER THIS MOMENT two different ways, depending on my mood. One way, I’m an immature and shortsighted girl who’s mad at her boyfriend but not strong enough to say so, my fragile ego still not repaired from Charlie’s rejection. I care so little for morals and responsibility that I ignore the diamond ring on my finger, the future I’ve accepted from the good man who sincerely loves me. And will-o’-the-wisp Charlie, thoughtless and charming, sizing me up because he hasn’t seen any more interesting girls at the party.

AND THEN THERE’S THIS other way. The way, if I’m honest, I remember the moment most often, even now, knowing where it all led. I remember a single second where the sea of dark and pale blue, of summer paisley and Lilly Pulitzer pastels, fades away. It’s as if every other person at the party suddenly transforms into a thin mist of smoke—leaving him standing there, not only without a tie but wearing blue jeans and a white-and-red-striped shirt with a Nehru collar. Charlie, with curly blond hair and eyes the precise color of the sky that frames him. But most important smiling—at me—in a way that contains every private joke I’ve ever wanted to have with him. If I see arrogance in that smile—a how can you help loving 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 The 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?”

Thump. Thump. Thump. 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.