The Last September: A Novel

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 account for my behavior while I’d been under.

He pulled the car into the driveway. His parents were still at the party, so we had the house to ourselves, but Ladd didn’t go inside. Instead he walked around back and through the gate to the swimming pool. I stood on the lawn and watched him go, then went inside through the front door. In the kitchen, I poured two glasses of white wine and carried them through the hall and out the French doors. Rebecca’s dog followed me. Ladd sat by the pool, still wearing his blazer, his pants rolled up and his feet dangling in the cool water.