The Last Time We Say Goodbye by Cynthia Hand Read Free Book Online Page B

statement and ran the tests on him and acted in general like the whole thing was a stunt, like he’d tried some harebrained move on his bicycle. You’re so lucky. Lucky, lucky you.
    Lucky was the last word my brother would pick to describe himself. But in the end he nodded and told them they were right. So they would let him go.
    The Advil thing was a “cry for help,” they said, so they required him to see a therapist, who got my brother started on antidepressants and tried to get him to talk about his “pain” every week for the next year or so, at 60 bucks a pop, which our insurance didn’t cover but Mom convinced my dad to pay. And for 2 whole years, nothing much happened. Mom became a licensed nurse. Dad married the cliché. I got an 800 on the math section of the SATs and everybody began talking about what college I would go to. Ty joined the basketball team. He started lifting weights, and his body filled out. His arms grew strong and muscled. He wore a letterman’s jacket when he swaggered through the halls atschool. Girls liked him. People in general liked him. He was popular in a way that I never could have dreamed of being. And it was easy to forget that he’d ever been sad enough to down a bottle of pills.
    We only talked about it once, after that day at the hospital. It was about 2 weeks later, and we were at Denny’s, waiting for Dad to show up for breakfast. Dad was late. I was looking at Ty, really looking at him, and his eyes seemed glazed over, like he was staring out at his life through a pane of glass.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked him.
    He glanced at me, startled. “I’m hungry. I wish Dad would get here already.”
    â€œThat’s not what I mean,” I said. “Are you okay?”
    His ears went red. “Oh, that. I told you, that was stupid. I’m fine. Really. I won’t do that again.”
    â€œOkay. But I want you to promise me, if you ever feel like that again, like you want to—”
    â€œI won’t—” he said.
    â€œBut if you do, you have to tell me. Call me, text me, wake me up at three a.m., I don’t care. I want to know about it. I’m here for you.”
    He didn’t meet my eyes, but he nodded. “All right.”
    â€œPromise,” I said.
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œGood,” I said, but I worried that he was just telling me what he knew I wanted to hear.
    In the end, I shouldn’t have concerned myself with whether he’d keep his promise.
    I should have thought about whether I’d keep mine.

6.
    ASHLEY DAVENPORT , according to the yearbook, is a cheerleader. She’s a sophomore. She has long blond hair, or at least I think she does—it’s hard to tell from the 1-by-1.5-inch black-and-white photo on page 173.
    She could be the one.
    There are 1,879 students at my high school, and nineteen of them are named Ashley: about 1 percent. Over the past two days I’ve already checked off Ashley Adams, who’s practically married to her boyfriend (so clearly not the droid I’m looking for), Ashley Chapple, who’s a senior and I know her and no way she dated Ty, and Ashley Chavez, whose raven’s-wing-black hair doesn’t match my memory of the girl Ty took to homecoming.
    So now I’m to the D s, and Ashley Davenport. Blond. Sophomore. Cheerleader.
    Ashley Davenport is today’s objective.
    Also: it’s Valentine’s Day. Which sucks.
    Last year on the dreaded V-Day I discovered a white paper daisy slipped between the upper slats of my locker when I arrived at school. It was paper, but I still stood there holding its green wire stem between my fingers, smiling stupidly, before I bent my head to smell the petals. It smelled like books, a heady mix of paper and ink and glue, a sweet knowledge.
    There was no note on the flower. No card. No name.
    A mystery.
    We weren’t dating yet—we didn’t officially start dating until