The Last September: A Novel

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Daniel said, and then moved on to me. “Brett,” he said. He took my hand in both of his and looked me straight in the eye. It was hard to interpret that look, exactly. Not forgiving, but not accusing either.

“Hi,” I said. Probably I didn’t remind him of Sylvia anymore. But maybe I reminded him of himself, the excessive love that both indicted and exonerated me. Daniel let go of my hand, and moved down the line. Ladd’s parents skipped the reception, but Daniel didn’t. As I shadowed Charlie throughout the wine-infused afternoon on his father’s lawn, I would see him occasionally, deep in conversation, or else staring through the crowd at me.

THE MOSS HOUSE NEEDED to be closed up for the winter. I needed to get back to Amherst, to resume my classes and officially break Ladd’s heart. Before his mother got sick, Charlie had been living in Maine, painting houses and doing odd jobs. I can’t remember how we formulated a plan for what would happen next, I only remembered what happened: We drove to Amherst in his mother’s car. He dropped me off and then headed north to collect his things. My apartment was on the top floor of an old Victorian house that had been divided into four units, across the street from the Homestead, the yellow brick house where Emily Dickinson lived almost her entire life. When I walked into my living room, the place smelled sourly of overused cat litter. I’d left Tab with several overflowing bowls of cat food. She chirruped furiously across the living room and jumped into my lap, alternating rubbing against me with grateful passion and scolding me for my desertion. I stroked her back and stared across the room, at the rickety side table and the telephone that perched on top of it. No longer reprieved by the broken cell phone, I had to face the process of disentanglement. I wanted it done before Charlie came back.

“Brett,” Ladd said. His voice sounded flat and hard.

“Hi,” I said.

“I hear condolences are in order.” Dripping with sarcasm, none of the usual attempts to squelch emotion. I tapped my bare fingers on the table, noting the line where his ring had been worn all summer.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We need to talk.”

“So I hear. Go ahead and talk.”

By now, Tab had calmed down and lay in a large furry heap in my lap. She purred so loudly I guessed Ladd could hear on the other end of the line through his stubborn silence.

“Not over the phone,” I said. “In person. I need to come get my things, and give you yours.”

An intake of breath on the other end, like I’d just told him something he didn’t already know.

“Seriously?” he said, no anger now, just incredulous hurt. “You’re really doing this?”

“I am,” I said. “I’m so sorry. But I really am.”

“Because I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it at all.”

I nodded at the phone. The reason Ladd couldn’t believe it, I’d never told him about Charlie and the feelings I had for him. If I had, it would all make perfect sense.

Ladd said, “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your life.”

“I realize that,” I said, and then—not wanting to doom myself with the admission—I amended: “I realize that it might be.”

“You know he’s just going to break your heart.”