The Last Post Read online

  “That was fucking crazy!” she yelled, moving closer to my ear.

  “I know, right?”

  “Hey, I meant to ask, how much do I owe you for the wine?”

  I shook my head. “It’s on me.”

  “No, really, I don’t want you to buy me a drink.” Her expression fell as she riffled through her purse for money.

  “It’s just a drink. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.” She looked away and finished her wine in three large gulps. She was still happily bouncing to the music. I hoped she was able to escape her grief for a few minutes, but it wasn’t long before everything shifted. The next song, “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks,” was slow and somber. She sang the words, “Vanderlyle, crybaby, cry,” while tears were streaming down her face. She tried to hide it. It was almost the end of the show when she darted out of the crowd and headed for the exit.

  I followed her, hoping she wasn’t going to run out and throw herself into oncoming traffic. She looked back and spotted me. Her pace sped up like she was trying to get away from me. I was still carrying half of my beer when she turned so abruptly that the beer cup shot out of my hand and landed on her shoes. When I looked down, I noticed she had two different shoes on. One dark-beige flat and the other black, but a similar style.

  “Oh my god, I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry,” I said.

  She just stared at her shoes for several moments.

  “I don’t care,” she replied.

  “I’ll replace them. Is that a style, like a new trend? I’ll replace them,” I repeated.

  “It’s not a style; I put the wrong damn shoe on,” she said. “Are you following me?”

  Our gazes caught each other and for a moment we were frozen. I was searching her eyes but they looked empty.

  “No, I was going to offer to share a cab?”

  Her head jerked back as though I had offended her. “I’ll take the subway.”

  “I mean, it’s late; you should get a cab.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  That was it. She spun around on her beer-soaked shoes and was gone.

  Damn it.

  7. Ground Control, Are You There?

  LAYA

  I rushed toward the E train entrance outside while dialing Cameron’s number. On the subway platform, I took several long breaths while I listened to his outgoing message.

  “This is Cam, you know what to do, silly. Text me like a normal person.”

  “Cam, I finally got to see The National. They were great. Wish you could have been there. The lead singer jumped down and sang right to me. I was alone but I didn’t feel lonely for the first time in a while. Gotta go. Three. Two. One. See ya.”

  The subway was coming to a stop. I got on and was left only with my thoughts. I was oddly attracted to the man standing next me at the concert, and I felt guilty for that. He was tall, a whole head taller than me. It looked like I could fit my head right underneath his chin, like a perfect little nest. For being a thin guy, he had nice biceps and a broad chest. He smelled clean, just a hint of aftershave. He was dressed casually in jeans, sneakers, and a heather-gray T-shirt. He reminded me of someone. Then again, my mind was constantly playing tricks on me, especially when it came to seeing Cameron. I didn’t know who I was seeing in everyone else’s face. Sometimes it felt like everyone I came into contact with somehow knew I was self-destructing.

  I fell asleep immediately after crawling into bed. It could have been the wine. It could have been the exhaustion from actually leaving my apartment.

  * * *

  LOOKING AT THE calendar, I tried to figure out what day it was. The National ticket stub had the date on it and I figured it had been two days since the show. I hadn’t been out of the apartment or even looked at my phone. I’d barely done anything but sleep the entire time.

  My room smelled and looked like a teenager lived in it, complete with my frilly peach comforter and bedside table and lamp to match. My father had whipped them out of storage the instant I’d said I was moving back to New York. My dad had even hung a poster from the space camp I went to as a kid. The only thing left that my room needed was a lava lamp and some Skittles.

  The phone rang. The caller ID said it was Cameron’s mom. I answered in two rings. “Hello, Carin.”

  “Laya. Thank you for the pictures. I do appreciate the gesture. It’s so nice to see Cameron doing what he loved.” Her words stung. He loved me and I’m not in any of those pictures.

  A week or two prior I had been sifting through a box of pictures. Mostly they were of Cam, only a few of us together. Tears soaked half of the stack. I didn’t need any more reminders of him diving off cliff faces or scaling rock walls, so I sent half of them to his mom. I kept the few I had of him lounging on the beach, smiling. Or the two of him eating a giant steak. I don’t know why, but I needed to remember that Cameron was normal sometimes. He wasn’t always just a character in some daredevil video.

  “You’re welcome. You deserve them,” I told Carin.

  She started to cry. “God, Laya, I miss him so much.”

  Her tears should have moved something inside of me, but I was out of sympathy at the moment. I was sad, angry, and full of questions. I had never confronted her before and I hated to do it, but I needed to know. “Carin, why did you let Cameron do it? Why’d you encourage him to quit school and pursue this life? Why do you still encourage Krista? You know what could happen. Letting her free-climb El Cap is crazy.”

  Looking around my living room, I noticed that the layer of dust on every piece of furniture had grown so much my entire apartment looked gray. There was a sheet over the couch because I never sat on it, a toppled-over lamp, a box of rotten doughnuts, and a few pairs of dirty socks . . . and that was just one room. I guessed that if I walked outside for a few minutes and then came back in, I would notice the smell of a decaying animal somewhere.

  I shuffled into my room while I listened to Carin cry on the other line. The right side of my bed had an indentation in it from where I spent many nights crying and drinking alone. In the kitchen, the sink was so full of dishes that I could see the stack spilling over the top lip from ten feet away. I had lost twenty pounds, so I estimated the stack had been built up over at least a month, probably since the last time I had talked to Carin.

  Carin’s cries started to subside. “Laya?” she asked.

  “I’m here.” My anger was quiet but still there. Carin and I had grown close in the short amount of time Cameron and I had been together, but because of the Facebook posts she had pulled away, told me I was delusional, that I was hurting everyone and needed to get help. I’d told her to stay off Facebook. I didn’t think it was fair. I still needed a way to talk to him. Why couldn’t she understand that?

  “You know as well as I do that Krista and Cameron are adults who make their own decisions,” she said. “I know what made Cameron feel most alive, Laya. How could I take that away from him?” She started sobbing again.

  Who’s delusional now? “Cameron was an adult. Do you want to say that about Krista, too?”

  “I thought you believed Cameron was out there somewhere, even though you and all his friends and family paddled out and spread his ashes in the ocean?”

  Not all of his ashes.

  “I have to go, Carin. I’m sorry I can’t talk about this anymore; I have things to do today.” What a colossal lie that was.

  “Laya, can you please call me back?”

  “I have a lot to do, I’m very busy . . .” I hesitated, trying to hold back my own tears. “Carin . . . I wanted to make Cameron feel most alive, okay?” I hit end before she could respond.

  I spent the better half of my morning staring at the same pictures of Cameron. I picked up his urn from the mantel, what was left of his ashes I couldn’t let go of, and then I went to my computer and posted on his page.

  LAYA BENNETT to CAMERON BENNETT

  I was thinking about taking the subway to Brooklyn, like we used to do when we’d vi
sit New York. I was thinking about the time you bought roses off the street vendor and all the petals fell off on the subway by the time we got to Brooklyn. There was a beautiful mess on the floor of the train. You’re my beautiful mess, Cameron. Three, two, one . . . see ya.

  Much later, on my way out to get some air, I paused halfway down the stairs and thought about that day. Cameron had stood on the very edge of the subway platform, past the yellow line. I had told him to step back, but he ignored me. It was like he was always missing the part of his brain that warned him of danger. Not only was he a daredevil, but he trusted everyone. He’d always say, “People are innately good and mean well.”

  When I reached the bottom of the steps going out to the street, I found six red roses and an envelope attached. The envelope had my name on it.

  I tore it open, revealing a MetroCard. It was official: I had a stalker who was exploiting my husband’s death to get close to me. I wasn’t sure what to do. Shoving the MetroCard into my pocket and leaving the flowers, I pulled my phone from my purse and posted on Facebook as I headed toward the subway.

  LAYA BENNETT

  Hey, lunatic. If your desired effect is to get arrested and charged with harassment, then keep doing what you’re doing. If you’re trying to help, you have a seriously fucked-up idea of helping someone.

  Still, I used the MetroCard to explore the city. I wondered if the person leaving things on my doorstep really was crazy, or if it was a friend trying to make me feel better. I regretted my post, but left it up in hopes that I’d find the answer eventually.

  After getting on the subway, walking a block, and getting back on until the twenty-dollar card ran out, I walked home exhausted and fell onto my bed, thinking about the day I took Cameron all over New York. It was a happy day. I estimated that he’d had only about 7 percent of his life left when he saw Times Square for the first time. I fished Cameron’s phone out of the bathroom wastebasket. The moment I glanced at it, the battery went dead.

  I plugged his phone in next to my bed and fell asleep, chanting in my head, Come back to me.

  8. Exposed Rafters

  MICAH

  I shaved the fucking beard and put on deodorant. Progress. It was a Friday, and before I headed into the office I had to check Facebook, of course.

  LAYA BENNETT to CAMERON BENNETT

  Cam, it’s Friday. I’m going dancing. I’m going to that club we used to go to when we’d visit New York. You know, the Top of The Standard? Maybe you’ll be there. I need to get out. Three, two, one . . . see ya.

  This time I was sure she would recognize me, so I needed backup. In the office Steve and Shelly were out for the day. Freedrick, the non-German, was being obnoxious, acting as though he was our interim boss. He did it because he’d been there the longest out of all the junior architects. I always went along with it. Devin didn’t. Devin had actually learned to pull off a pretty decent German accent.

  “Devin, what’s the progress on those sketches you’re working on?” Freedrick asked, while I eavesdropped from my cube.

  “Vell, Freeed-rick, I do vonder vye you’re asking me such tings, ven you’re not even my boss. Rrrrr-move yourself from my space.”

  “Why are you talking like that?” Freedrick asked.

  “Sheer boredom. Pure and simple,” Devin replied.

  Freedrick shuffled down the hall, mumbling something about respect. I stood and leaned over Devin’s cubicle partition. “You want to go to The Top of the Standard tonight?”

  He looked at me like I had two heads. Squinting, he said, “Micah, is that you? Did you come back to us?” His face scrunched up and he actually started fake crying. Why hadn’t he become an actor?

  “Shut up, man,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Dude, you shaved your beard, and it smells like you might have showered or at least put deodorant on. What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m just opening the blinds. I was in a rut,” I said.

  “Do you mean you might want to get laid after a year and a half?”

  It should have been concerning that Devin knew how long it had been for me, but I tried to ignore it. “Huh?” I said with mock confusion.

  He shook his head. “I’m shocked, Micah, honestly . . . in the way a person is shocked when they win the lottery. These are happy tears.”

  “Enough with the theatrics. Let’s meet at your apartment at ten, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  For the next two hours Devin sang that Michael Bublé song about it being a new day. I wondered if I had made a mistake.

  * * *

  WEARING MY WORK clothes sans tie, I headed to the Top the of Standard, where everyone was already drinking Manhattans and Old-Fashioneds, and Devin was blabbering about bottle service. I was just wondering how I would spot Laya. Again, in the back of my mind, I wondered if she would even be there. If I saw her, what would I say? Jeff was there with friends and a few guys they’d adopted since I’d stopped going out with them. They liked this spot.

  When I sat down at the booth, they made a crude toast about me using my dick again. I laughed it off, but the toast just reminded me of why I had stopped hanging out with them to begin with.

  After only being there for ten minutes, I spotted Laya standing next to the bar, alone and quiet. She was wearing a tight black dress. Her hair was pulled back. Nothing like the Laya I had seen before, but still beautiful. When she headed to the restroom, I got up and followed.

  “Hey!”

  She turned around and stared at me with no recognition. “Hello,” she said.

  “You’re Laya, right?”

  She stepped forward and squinted. “Why’d you say my name like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You said the a differently.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. “I didn’t notice . . . I’m Micah, from your dad’s firm.”

  “Oh yes, Micah, the golden boy. My dad always talks about you. Where’s Devin, your prodigy sidekick?”

  She didn’t have much makeup on, just red lipstick. What was she looking for? She seemed a bit tipsy. She stumbled back awkwardly, so I reached around her waist and caught her. I removed my arm when I realized she was staring at it in shock.

  “Devin is in a booth with some friends,” I said to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Ahh.” She raised her eyebrows and smirked. Her expression had changed to what the fuck do you want?

  “Who are you here with?” I asked.

  “I’m alone.”

  “Do you want to come and hang out with us?”

  The music got louder and more annoying. The unce-unce beat was giving me a headache.

  “Not particularly!” she yelled.

  “Well, Laya—”

  Her eyes widened. “There it is again. You say my name differently.” She grabbed my shirt and pulled me toward her.

  “What? What? What’s going on?” I said, genuinely confused.

  “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “In here.”

  She pulled me down the hall into a dark alcove, then kissed me. I was dumbstruck. Her lips were soft; she tasted like wine but smelled like beautiful things, like what I imagined the ocean under a sunset would smell like. She went for the buckle of my pants and I didn’t stop her even though in the back of my mind I knew it was wrong. I should have stopped her and asked her out on a date or for her number or for something normal, but I seemed to lose all self-control with her.

  She was a passionate kisser, passionate everything. When she pulled away, she said, “My father always wanted me to be an architect. And to be with someone like you.”

  I wished the “like you” statement sounded less spiteful. She undid my buckle and hiked up her skirt, wrapping a leg around me.

  “Whoa, Laya.”

  “Stop saying my name,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear.

  “We’re basically in public. What are you doing?”

  “No one comes bac
k here. Make me feel good. Please.”

  Her head fell back. She exposed her neck to me. I pressed my lips along her jawline. I cupped her breast, then kissed it through the fabric. Her hand was on me, touching me roughly. I groaned. She wasn’t gentle and it made me want her even more.

  Laya stopped kissing me and pressed her forehead against mine. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing hard, like me. That was all I could hear. I wondered if her senses were coming back to her, but my thoughts quickly stopped when I realized she’d moved aside her panties and was guiding me inside her. “I’m not wearing uh”—she knows that—“I don’t have a—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Was she losing her mind? She was willing to have unprotected sex with a relative stranger in the hallway of a club. I hated to think how that made me look. Was I taking advantage of her vulnerability, or was I losing my mind too?

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  I moved and she moved with me, nuzzling my neck. I was surrounded by her smell, her sound, her touch. I justified all of this by telling myself that some part of me cared about her even though I barely knew her. I was just trying to make a hurting person feel better, though I couldn’t deny how attracted I was to her.

  Laya arched against me. Her legs started to shake; she was coming undone.

  “You feel so good,” I said as I quickly followed her.

  She barely made a sound when I felt her trembling around me. Club music flooded my ears. We were back from our escape. Completely still and staring at the ceiling, she said, “Cameron.” The music was loud but we were close enough that I could hear her soft voice.

  I set her down and watched as she pulled her dress into place. She was crying. Again, her look was pure pain, longing, regret, and guilt. I was beginning to feel some of it. What we had done couldn’t have made her feel any better. If anything, it probably confused her even more.

  “Thank you,” she said, wiping her tears.