Final Girls(11)

Jeff finds me on the sofa with Lisa’s book in my lap and my eyes raw from an afternoon spent crying. When he drops his suitcase and sweeps me into his arms, I lay my head against his chest and weep some more. After two years of living together and two more of dating, he knows not to immediately ask what’s wrong. He simply lets me cry.

It’s only after I’ve soaked his shirt collar with tears that I say, “Lisa Milner killed herself.”

Jeff’s grip around me hardens. “The Lisa Milner?”

“The very one.”

That’s all he needs me to say. The rest he understands.

“Oh, Quinn. Hon, I’m so sorry. When? What happened?”

We settle back onto the sofa and I give Jeff the details. He listens with a heightened interest—a byproduct of his job, which requires him to absorb information before sifting through it.

“How do you feel?” he asks when I’m done talking.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m just shocked. And in mourning. Which is silly, I guess.”

“It’s not,” Jeff says. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I? It’s not like Lisa and I ever actually met.”

“That doesn’t matter. You two spoke a lot. She helped you. You were kindred spirits.”

“We were victims,” I say. “That’s the only thing we had in common.”

“You don’t need to trivialize it, Quinn. Not with me.”

That’s Jefferson Richards, the public defender, talking. He lapses into lawyer speak whenever he disagrees with me, which isn’t often. Usually, he’s simply Jeff, the boyfriend who doesn’t mind cuddling. Who’s a far better cook than I and whose ass looks amazing in the suits he wears to court.

“I can’t begin to understand what you went through that night,” he says. “No one can. No one but Lisa and that other girl.”

“Samantha.”

Jeff repeats the name absently, as if he knew it all along. “Samantha. I’m sure she feels the same way you do.”

“It’s just weird,” I say. “I can’t understand why Lisa would kill herself after everything she went through. It’s such a waste. I thought Lisa was better than that.”

Once again, I hear her voice in my head.

There’s nobility in being a survivor, she had once told me. Grace, too. Because we’ve suffered and lived, we have the power to inspire others who are suffering.

It was bullshit. All of it.

“Sorry for being such a mess,” I tell Jeff. “Lisa’s suicide. My reaction. All of it feels abnormal.”

“Of course it does. What happened to you was abnormal. But one of the things I love about you is how you haven’t let it define you. You’ve moved on.”

Jeff’s told me this before. Quite a few times, actually. After so many repetitions, I’ve actually started to believe it.

“I know,” I say. “I have.”

“Which is the only healthy thing you can do. That’s the past. This is the present. And I’d like to think that the present makes you happy.”

Jeff smiles just then. He has the smile of a movie star. CinemaScope wide and Technicolor bright. It’s what first drew me to him when we met at a work event so dull I felt the need to get tipsy and flirty.

Let me guess, I told him. You’re a toothpaste model.

Guilty as charged.

What brand? Maybe I’ll start using it.

Aquafresh. But I’m aiming for the big time—Crest.

I laughed, even though it wasn’t all that funny. There was something endearing about his eagerness to please. He reminded me of a golden retriever, soft and loyal and safe. Even though I didn’t yet know his name, I clasped his hand. I really haven’t let go of it since.

Between Pine Cottage and Jeff, my social life was quiet to the point of nonexistence. Once I was deemed well enough to return to school, I didn’t go back to my old college, where I knew I’d be haunted by memories of Janelle and the others. Instead, I transferred to a school slightly closer to home, spending three years living alone in a dorm room designed for two.

My reputation preceded me, of course. People knew exactly who I was and what I had gone through. But I kept my head down, stayed quiet, took my daily Xanax and grape soda. I was friendly but friendless. Approachable yet purposefully aloof. I saw no point in getting too close with anyone.

Once a week, I attended a group therapy session in which a grab bag of afflictions was dealt with. Those of us who attended became sort-of friends. Not close, exactly, but trusted enough to call when one of us was too anxious to go to the movies alone.

Even then, I had a hard time relating to these vulnerable girls who had endured rape, physical abuse, disfiguring car accidents. Their trauma was far different from my own. None of them knew what it felt like to have their closest friends snatched away in a single instant. They didn’t understand how awful it was to not remember the worst night of your life. I got the sense my lack of memories made them jealous. That they, too, only wanted to forget. As if forgetting was somehow easier than remembering.

While at school, I attracted an interchangeable string of skinny, sensitive boys who wanted to unlock the mysteries of the shy, quiet girl who kept everyone at arm’s length. I indulged them, to a degree. Awkward study dates. Coffeehouse chats where I amused myself by counting the ways they avoided bringing up Pine Cottage. Maybe a teasing kiss goodnight if I was feeling especially lonely.