The Beginning of After - By Jennifer Castle Page 0,112
I totally provoked him. Nice, huh? Real sweet suburban family. I guess he got an involuntary rehab with this whole thing.”
We were quiet for a moment and then I asked him, “So you think you’ll stay?”
It wasn’t about Mr. Kaufman. It was about me. I was ready to admit that I wanted David near me. It was one thing I now knew I wanted for myself; maybe I should tell him that.
He turned and smiled at me, and took the hand that had just been petting his hair. “I don’t know, Laurel. It felt really good to go.” Then his smile disappeared, and he looked very serious. “I think you should try it.”
I didn’t get it at first, but then I did. “You mean Yale.”
“Yale, or anywhere else that’s not here. Which equals your life. Versus not Yale or anywhere else that’s not here, which equals sitting here in this car at this place, in, you know, a metaphorical sense, indefinitely.”
I did get that one. I could see that.
I watched a pickup truck speed by us. Then a few seconds later, a minivan. It was amazing how fast it seemed they were going, with us standing so still.
“Can you make this car move again, like, quickly?” I asked.
David’s smile came back. “I sure can.”
He put the car in gear and pulled slowly back onto the road, where up ahead of us the light had just turned green. It seemed strange yet perfect to me that within a second—less than a second—we were farther down the route to Freezy’s than our families had gotten that night back in April.
We were continuing on.
Epilogue
It wasn’t quite noon yet, but the bench had already grown warm in the late August sun. I looked over at Meg, who was leaning back with her eyes closed, soaking in the rays as they splashed down on us.
“Pretty soon this will be gone,” she said. I knew she was talking about the heat, but I also took it to mean her and me, sitting together on the main street of our hometown, surrounded by things we’d known forever.
Although the bench officially fit three people, we had scooted to either end so that neither of us was leaning on the plaque on the back of the bench. It read:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF OUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS
MICHAEL MEISNER
DEBORAH MEISNER
TOBY MEISNER
I had to hand it to Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom; it was simple and tasteful and I was glad, so very glad, that they’d done it. We’d had an unveiling ceremony for the bench in April, just a few days after the anniversary of the accident. Almost a hundred people showed up, and I stood with Nana and Meg, listening as Andie gave a lovely speech thanking everyone for their donations.
She had asked me to say something, but all I could do was step up to the microphone and say, “Thank you,” in a shaky voice.
I’d hugged Andie tight afterward, even though our friendship—if that’s what it ever was—had faded. I didn’t even mind that the newspaper was taking pictures of us.
Mr. Churchwell had been there and I’d hugged him, too; it was a quick, barely touching one. I still thought he was a huge dork, but now that I knew all he’d ever tried to do was his job, I didn’t mind giving him something back.
Suzie had also come. She stood far away and looked sadly out of place, wearing black among all the spring colors. I hadn’t had a session with her in more than a month, although we left it that I would call as soon as I needed to talk. But I hadn’t needed to. At one point during Andie’s speech, my eyes met Suzie’s and we smiled at each other. I knew I had a lot to thank her for.
And Joe. Who stood with a couple of his friends near the front, where I could see him. After that day in the driveway, we’d gone back to a quick, painful nod-and-hi greeting whenever we passed each other at school. There was something about the way Joe’s shoulders hunched when this happened, the way his bangs swept over his eyes as he looked away first, that still pierced me.
At the ceremony, I’d glimpsed Eve showing up late and moving her way into the middle of the crowd, blending in perfectly.
So to me, the bench was not just about my mom and dad and Toby, but also about that day, when I was able to measure how