The Last September: A Novel

“Ladd,” I said. “Even if I came back now, why would you want me, after what I’ve done?”


Ladd moved forward in his chair, the storm clouds in his eyes breaking up just slightly, with this glimpse of opportunity. Before he could speak, I stood up. I knew I had to face him, and at the same time there was nothing to be said. By now Charlie had piled whatever belongings he had into his mother’s car. He’d be heading back toward me by tomorrow at the latest. I wouldn’t allow myself to think that he might evaporate again, unreachable. He would come back to me this time, and he would stay, because I had lucked into a window of opportunity, the one moment in time he really needed someone, and found himself possessable. Given my specialty in late-nineteenth-century literature, I should have known better than to think of it as fate, but that’s exactly what I did. It seemed like proof that we were meant to be together.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Ladd. “But I think I’d better go.”

“But you know, I would take you back,” Ladd said, his voice cracking. He stood up. “If you wanted me to.”

The ceilings in the house were low and close. Trying to avoid eye contact, I noticed a water stain just above Ladd’s head. Someone, years ago, had let a bathtub overflow, and no one had ever painted over the stain. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us. The only way to reimpose it would be to sit back down, which felt rude. So I stayed where I was, lifting my chin to look up, toward if not directly at him, granting him whatever came next as his due. The cruel things he had a right to say—about Charlie’s breaking my heart or whatever aspersions he could cast on my character, so obviously lacking. My only excuse was being in love, and I couldn’t tell Ladd that.

“Stay,” Ladd said. His voice shocked me with its softness. He reached out and closed his hand around my wrist. The grip felt gentle, more plea than demand.

“I can’t.”

Anyone could have told me, and I knew even as I moved forward: This whole thing was a mistake. A disastrous mistake. Charlie had already rejected me once. And now I was leaving Ladd, breaking off my engagement, for a man who hadn’t even said he loved me and maybe never would. Charlie was scattered, penniless, jobless. Who knew what he even aspired to, as far as character, as far as life? Whereas this man in front of me wanted to be great and good. Ladd loved me. Even after what I’d done to him, he was prepared to forgive me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go. Maybe one day we can talk about this, but not right now.”

“Who decides that?” Ladd said. His grip became slightly less of a question. “Who decides all of this?”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wish it were different. I wish I felt differently. But I don’t. And I have to go.” I tried to step sideways, but Ladd’s fingers tightened. When I pulled my hand toward myself, away from him, he pulled it back.

“Ladd,” I said. My voice sounded tinged with humor, it seemed so preposterous, that he would use force. “Let me go.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ladd said, tightening his grip. “Is this not playful enough for you?”

The two of us stood there for a long time, me trying to step back, away from him. Ladd holding me there, his body rigid, his jaw set.

“You’re hurting me,” I said, but still he held on while I understood that the physical pain with its increasing sharpness was nothing compared to what I’d done to him.