54 · Lucy
“Lucy! Lucy!”
I hear Emily’s call from the tree house across the yard and I speed up, my heart pounding. It’s not panic, but I am up the ladder in seconds, not bothering to worry about the loose boards or the height.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, out of breath.
She’s grinning, pointing at a plain brown bag.
“It’s for you!” she says. “A mysterious package!” She doesn’t pronounce mysterious correctly, slipping the last syllables together, and I smile.
“You scared me,” I tell her, and I pull her to me in a hug before I move to the bag.
My name is there, in heavy letters, all caps, slanted to the left.
Ben’s handwriting.
I think about his kiss on the side of the road, the look he gave me at the Full Loon, and again, my heart’s in my throat.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Emily tugs on my hand.
“Oh, yes, of course.” I kneel down, pick up the package. It weighs almost nothing. The paper crinkles as I open it.
Our notebook. The Book of Quotes. And something else—an agate.
“An old notebook?” Emily asks, obviously disappointed. “And a rock?”
When I look at her, she is a watery blur.
I’m crying.
I open the cover, run my finger over the familiar letters.
“It was mine and Trixie’s,” I manage to tell her.
“Oh,” she says, like she understands, and I believe that she does. She sits down next to me, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “It’s okay, Lucy,” she says. “Crying will make you feel better.”
It does.
And when I’ve stopped crying, I look through the notebook, page by page, and soon I’m laughing, caught up in the memories.
Trixie, studying for a humanities exam: My head hurts like Aristotle when he was thinking.
Trixie, cleaning out her hamster Ethel’s cage: I can’t tell what’s shit and what’s raisins.
Me, one afternoon at the Full Loon: You can tell a lot about a person by the kind of pie they order. Mainly if they’re assholes or not.
One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood. —Seneca
My breath catches when I turn to the last of the filled-in pages.
The handwriting matches my name on the brown paper bag.
One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love. —Sophocles
And below it: Lulu, please forgive me. I love you. —Ben.
I touch the inky words, my heart racing. Ben found the notebook, wrote his love in the pages, and brought it back to me. I’m filled with a rush of lightness. Forgiveness.
I love him. No matter what.
It’s time to let him back in.
I need to break up with Simon tonight.
I call Simon when I get home from the resort.
“I’m sorry I was so out of it last night,” he says. “Can you do something tonight?”
“Yes. Can you come over here?”
“Let’s go out for pie,” he says. “I’m really going to miss that pie.”
The Full Loon isn’t the ideal location for this conversation, but I can wait until the drive home.
I meet him in the driveway and he hugs me. “I wish you could have been there with me,” he says.
I step back out of his arms, thinking of the words Ben wrote in the Book of Quotes, and when we get in the car and Simon reaches for my hand, I pull away, pretending to look for something in my purse.
On the way into town, he talks about his grandfather, the funeral, and how his dad asked him to come back to St. Paul early and fill in at the hardware store until they can hire a full-timer.
“This is my last weekend here. I’m leaving Sunday night, and I won’t be back. Not for the rest of the summer, anyway.”
I don’t say anything. I bite my lip. I’m relieved, but I won’t take the easy way out. I have to be honest with him.
He must mistake my silence for sadness, because he says, “I know, babe, I’m going to miss you, too.”
My mom is still at the restaurant. It’s busy, but there are two stools at the counter. Simon orders a slice of coconut cream, his favorite.
“Nothing for you?” he asks.
I shake my head, but Patty brings me a cup of coffee anyway.
“Lucy, I wanted to talk to you about this fall. My dad’s asking how much I’ll be able to work at the store, and I told him that it would depend on you.”
“On me?”
He nudges me with his shoulder. “Yes, you. You know, if I’ll be driving up here on the weekends or if you’ll be coming down.”
My mouth goes dry. “Coming down?” I somehow say.
“Yeah, to St. Paul? To see me?”
“Oh.” It comes out like a sigh. “I, uh. I don’t have my license, you know. Or a car.”
Mom stops as she walks toward the kitchen, her hands filled with dishes she’s just cleared from a table. “Luce, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got a tour bus coming through in about fifteen minutes—any chance you could help out?”
I’m relieved, so relieved.
“Sure,” I say. “I can stay as late as you need.”
She smiles. “That would be great. Thanks.” She disappears into the kitchen.
But Simon is frowning. “You’re going to work?”
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
“Lucy, I’m leaving Sunday night. For good.”
“I know.”
“I want to spend as much time with you as possible before then.”
“Simon—” I start, but I can’t do it here. Not at the Full Loon in front of all these people. I’ve got to stick with my plan. “Just wait for me, okay? I’ll throw on an apron when the bus gets here, and I’ll be done in half an hour.”
He shakes his head and pushes his plate away. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“My mom needs me.”
“I need you, too. What’s more important, me or the restaurant?”
In that instant, I change my mind.
Now is the time.
“Simon, I know that you’re really hurting right now, but there’s something I need to tell you.” I’m going to do this, right here at the counter at the Full Loon where Ben and Guthrie sat Monday night. “I shouldn’t have let you believe that there could ever be anything between us. And I’m sorry for that.”
“What do you mean, you let me believe there could be something between us? Isn’t there something between us, Lucy? I love you.”
How many times have I let him say I love you?
“I don’t love you,” I tell him. “And I know that’s not fair to you. And—I’m sorry, Simon.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head.
“Oh my God,” he says. “This is about Ben, isn’t it?”
When I don’t say anything, when I don’t deny it, he runs his hands through his hair. “I’ve been so stupid. It was right in front of me the whole time. You’re in love with him.”
“Yes,” I say. “I love Ben. I’ve loved him for a long time.”
“I have to go,” he says.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say, and my voice breaks.
He pushes away his plate, the pie untouched, and stands up. He doesn’t say a word when I stand up to follow him.
When I turn, my heart leaps into my throat.
Ben and Guthrie are standing in front of me.
Guthrie looks amused, the corners of his mouth twisted up in a smirk. Ben isn’t smiling, but his eyes—his eyes are filled with a light I haven’t seen in a long time.
And it fills me.
Simon doesn’t say anything as we walk out the door, into the parking lot. When we reach his car, I take his hand. He flinches but doesn’t let go. It makes no sense to wonder if things could have been different between us. I know the answer. I’ve hurt us both.
“I’m sorry,” I say again in a whisper.
He drops my hand without a word, gets in the Volvo, and drives away.
Good-bye, Simon the Renter.
I need to catch my breath before I go back inside and face Ben, but a tour bus pulls into the lot, and Ben will have to wait.