Good for You: A Novel (42)

She nearly laughed, but then her face fell. That was the kind of joke that her brother would’ve made.

“What?” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” Wyatt was so hot and cold that she had no idea how he’d react if she told him the truth. She decided to anyway. “I . . . just wish Luke was here right now.”

“I know,” he said, sitting down beside her. “I do, too. Have you seen a therapist or anything?”

“No. Impossible to find one. Have you?” she said, certain he’d say no.

“Yeah. A couple times,” he said.

“You went to therapy?” she said, incredulous. “Why?”

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”

It was terrible to lose a good friend. She didn’t need to live through it to know that. Still, it wasn’t the same as losing your sibling, especially when that sibling was literally the only person who understood you—like, really understood, because they’d lived through it, too. But buzzed or not, she knew better than to say that.

Wyatt gazed into his glass, and Aly took this as a cue to empty her own. She had a sneaking suspicion that she would regret it—and probably sooner rather than later—but she still rose to pour more bourbon. When she got back to the sofa, Wyatt was staring at her curiously.

“What?” she said, looking at her tumbler. Admittedly, it was about twice as full as when he’d served her. But now she wouldn’t have to get up again to refill it.

“Nothing. Why don’t we go walk?” he said, already on his feet.

“Don’t plan to take no for an answer, huh?”

“I will, but not about this,” he said, taking her hand to help her up.

“Fine,” she said as she rose. “But I’m bringing my drink.”

His eyebrows shot up again. “You do that.”

“Stop judging me, Wyatt.”

“Oh, I’m not. Think of me as your friendly roommate, who just wants to make sure you don’t drink so much that you end your day hunched over a toilet bowl.”

“Friendly, huh?” she scoffed, but she couldn’t deny that she liked that he was still looking after her. It was a weakness on her part, wanting to be cared for. Once she got to the other side of this whole job debacle, she’d have to address that. Because she was now facing the rest of her life alone, and it was time to adjust accordingly.

Aly wobbled as they headed toward the lake. Wyatt must have noticed, because he looped his arm through hers to steady her as they descended the stairs. Arm in arm, they walked to the water’s edge, and once they’d reached the beach, they wordlessly sat down in the sand.

“Luke didn’t want it to be like this, you know,” said Wyatt after a moment. Their shoulders were touching—something that was only possible because he slouched over his long legs, which he’d folded like a pretzel. He was obviously intent on destroying every disk in his spine, but she wasn’t about to complain. It felt good, to feel someone else beside her.

“Like what?”

“He didn’t want you to suffer after he was gone.”

“How would you know?” Everything was a little blurry now, and the midafternoon day sun was blindingly bright, but she swore his cheeks pinkened when she said this.

“We talked about stuff like that,” said Wyatt. “Worst-case scenarios. That kind of thing.”

That was strange; Luke was a sunny-side-up kind of person. It must have been Wyatt’s gloomy influence that made him talk about such things.

“Well, I am suffering. He never should have gotten in that stupid sailboat, let alone gone out on his own.”

“I know. I think about that every single day. I never should have let it happen.”

Hearing him admit this—that it had been a terrible mistake—did not make it any better, nor did his wrecked expression. In fact, she felt even worse. She drained the rest of her drink.

“It wasn’t up to me, Aly,” he said after a moment. “I begged him not to go. I still don’t understand why he chose to go anyway.”

“You asked him not to sail? Why didn’t you tell me that?” She was slurring a bit. “I spent months hating you for not stopping him.”

“I know. You’re allowed to.”

“You were there. Why did he go when he knew better? Did he have some kind of death wish or something?” Aly never would’ve asked this if she were sober, but now the words came tumbling out.

Wyatt glanced out at the horizon. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

She didn’t believe him, but she’d have to press for details later. For now, she was in serious need of several bags of potato chips and maybe a liter or two of water. Why would her mother willingly choose to put herself in this state? Being drunk felt awful.

“I think I need to go back,” she said. “I’m tired.”

Now he eyed her skeptically. “You’re sloshed, huh?”

“Little bit.”

She stumbled slightly as she rose, and Wyatt quickly put his arm around her waist. “Let me help you.”

“And what if I say no?” she said. He was strong, and surprisingly solid for someone so lanky.

“Then I pretend I didn’t hear you and help you anyway,” he said.