Totally and Completely Fine(6)

“I don’t actually,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “let’s change that right now.”

We exchanged phones and when he handed mine back, he gave me a devastating wink.

My heart went th-thump, th-thump. It purred.

It was nice, but also uncomfortable. Guilty. A part of me didn’t like that someone else could make me feel this way. As if it took something away from what I’d had with Spencer.

I wanted it but I didn’t.

“Just so you know,” Ben said, “I’ve always wanted to visit Montana.”

“Have you?” I asked.

“I have,” he said. “I love to travel.”

I bet he did.

Chapter 4

Now

Gabe had rented a little house about twenty minutes from the set. In the car over, Lena sat in the back, her attention totally focused on her phone, while Gabe and I made sibling small talk.

“How’s the store?” he asked.

“Good,” I said. “Mom wants to start selling banned books for half off.”

“That sounds like her.”

“Yep,” I said.

“She’s doing well?”

“Yep,” I said.

Gabe kept looking at me. I wanted to tell him to keep his eyes on the road, but I decided to ignore him instead. Because I knew what he was looking for.

He was looking for signs that I was okay.

That he didn’t need to worry.

Everyone treated me—and Lena—like we were unbearably fragile. Like the mere mention of Spencer, of our life before, of a future without him, would send us into hysterics.

I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t, but didn’t we all deserve a complete emotional collapse once in a while?

Not that I’d know.

We all avoided The Conversation. Even me.

And now, after three years, it almost seemed like the time had passed to talk about it. That bringing it up might actually cause something, or someone, to destruct.

We’d made it this far without discussing it. What was another twenty, thirty, forty years?

“I’m hungry,” Gabe said. “Are you guys hungry?”

Lena said nothing.

“I’m hungry,” I said.

“We should probably go to the store,” he said. “Ben wasn’t wrong about the lettuce and protein shakes.”

He was nearing the type of thin that looked better on camera but made him look a little like a bobblehead in real life. Not that I was going to tell him that. I’d save it for the right moment, like a wedding speech or something.

“I thought there weren’t going to be any shirtless scenes in this one,” I said.

I could see Lena grimacing in the back seat, even though her eyes were still fixated on her phone. It was awkward for all of us, but especially her, knowing that thousands of women （and men） around the world thought her uncle Gabe was, like, totally the hottest thing ever.

“Ollie is still deciding,” Gabe said. “Or he’s just torturing me for fun.”

“I’m going to guess it’s mostly for fun,” I said, even though it was probably a directive coming from the studio.

They were taking a risk on Gabe this time around, and no doubt they wanted to make sure they got their money’s worth.

“Did you tell all your friends what you’re doing this week?” Gabe asked the silent back seat passenger.

She didn’t look up from her screen.

“Lena,” I prompted.

She shrugged.

“I told all my friends,” I said.

“You don’t have any friends,” Lena said.

Still no eye contact.

“Ouch,” I said. “I have friends.”

Silence from the back seat.

“Who is she talking to?” Gabe asked, voice lowered.

“Probably Eve,” I said. “Best friend stuff.”

“We’re not best friends,” Lena said. “That’s for kids.”

“Right,” I said. “Sorry.”

I liked Eve. She’d appeared in our life last year, her family moving from Eastern Montana to Cooper. She was the sunshiny, show tune–singing, pink-wearing extroverted counterpart to the storm cloud quietly thundering in the back seat. She loved books and puppies and kitties, and she adored Lena.

They were as close as Jessica and I had been at that age. Closer, probably.

“And you?” Gabe asked. “How are you?”

Ah. The indirect version of The Conversation. I could tell he wasn’t even sure he should be asking from the way his voice went up after each word, like all of it was a question. “And? You? How? Are? You?”

At least he tried.

“Fine,” I said.

Because I knew he didn’t really want to know. Didn’t want to know that I hated sleeping alone, that I still couldn’t drive past the intersection where Spencer had been killed—which was kind of a problem in a town as small as Cooper—and that there were days when showering and eating and generally staying alive felt like too much effort.

That I suspected if someone were to cut me open, they’d find nothing but a cobweb-strewn cavern of emptiness and longing. The kind where if you called out, all you’d hear was echoes.

It had been three years and yet.