One Last Thing ✅

thirty things

My grandmother's car is not in the driveway when I get home. Her shift at the library usually lasts until five. She probably won't be home until this late; often she'll take a book to a cafe and nibble on a croissant for an hour or so.  

Abbott puts his car into park and watches me scoop my backpack off the floor. "Do you want me to come in?" he asks, brow wrinkling in concern.

I feel like it would be rude to say that's the last thing I want right now, so I just shake my head. That's the worst... when you have all these things crawling around in your mind but you can't sort them out because you're pretending to have a lighthearted conversation with someone. No, I'll be better on my own tonight.

Just me and my trusty pocketknife, the only thing that can replace the guilt and pain I'm feeling right now with something more tangible, something I can put a band-aid on when I'm finished.

I'm halfway out the car when Abbott says my name. I turn and wait. His eyes are wide and green as the grass he crushed in his palm beside the lake. I never really noticed before.

"Really, Lil, I'd like to be here for you. If you'll let me."

The pocketknife is looming in the back of my head, but Abbott is in front of me and almost shining in his sincerity. It makes me want to crumble, the way he's looking at me, like he really sees me—not the me that killed Mrs. Edwards, but the me I've always been, the girl with the guitar and the notebook full of poetry, his friend and bandmate.

He wants to be here.

For me.

"Okay," I say, my voice soft, shy. "Come on in."

Abbott follows me into the house, carrying my guitar case.

I drop my backpack onto the floor in the front entryway and turn to face him. It occurs to me that Abbott's never really been in my house before, which is weird, considering how long we've known each other. "You want a pop or something? I think we've got some Mountain Dew."

"Sure," Abbott says. "Where do you want this?" he asks, lifting Betsy's case.

"Just in the living room is fine," I tell him, walking toward the kitchen. I grab us each a can of pop from the fridge and a bag of chips from the pantry before heading into the living room. Abbott has opened Betsy's case and is holding her in his lap. My heart lifts a little, remembering my fingers flying over her, making music, but then I remember my hand, and that happiness deflates like an three-day-old balloon.

I set the food down on the coffee table and sit beside Abbott.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing. Just..."

He gestures toward my band arm. "Your hand?"

"Yeah."

He nods, tapping his fingers lightly against Betsy. Then his face changes, becomes animated. "I know what will cheer you up." He starts awkwardly picking at the strings.

A song begins to take shape—"Outside."

It's always been a favorite of mine, especially with Riley's high, unexpectedly sweet voice singing about alienation and loneliness. For a moment, I sit there and let the music sink into me. I realize the muscles in my bad hand are tensing and releasing in time to the music, as if it were me playing and not Abbott. It is painful, but not altogether unpleasant.

He plays with the clumsiness of a drummer who's only messed around on the guitar a little, but he does well enough take me out of my own head. After a few moments, though, he stops.

"Keep playing," I say. "You were good."

"Only if you sing."

I snort.

Whenever we play the song, Riley takes the lead, and all eyes are fixed on her, heads swaying along with the beat. I usually sing backup, my low voice serving as a foil to her sweet, feminine one.

"Yeah, right. You sing," I tell him.

Abbott shakes his head. "Trust me. Do it."

We stare at each other.

Finally, I sigh and say, "Whatever. Just play."

He starts picking his way through the song again, and I join in, missing my cue by half a beat. I rush to catch up with him, and soon I'm singing the familiar words, first weakly, but that's okay because that's how the beginning of the song is. Abbott's eyes are closed. He plays by feel.

I close my eyes, too, when we get to the chorus, and I start to sing louder. It feels good, to get the pain out this way. The song is a bitter one, a strong one, and I release all the frustration that's been building up the past few days.

By the time we've finished the song, I am exhausted. I open my eyes to find Abbott watching me. "Why haven't you ever done that before?"

"Done what?"

"That was good."

"Shut up," I say.

"No, seriously. Why haven't we had you sing that one before?"

"Um, because Riley's the singer?"

"I know, but your voice... it's perfect for that song. So raw. It was awesome."

I wonder if Abbott is blowing smoke up my ass, but he doesn't really do that. He tells it how it is. When our biology teacher tried to make us dissect a pig fetus in the tenth grade, Abbott told the old guy to go screw himself. It was the first time Abbott's dad had to discipline his own son. The rest of us walked by the detention room over and over, making obscene gestures and trying to make him laugh.

This moment, with Abbott all intense and complimentary, is so incredibly uncomfortable that I feel compelled to ruin it. "So... um. I think it's almost time for dinner. I'd invite you to stay, but Grams is weird about that stuff."

"Oh, yeah," Abbott says, looking disappointed. "So... will I see you at school tomorrow?"

"Probably," I say rolling my eyes. There's no way Grams will let me stay at home. She'll say moping around doesn't do any good, and that will be that.

"Do you want a ride tomorrow?" Abbott tucks Betsy back into her case and gets to his feet.

"Um," I say, playing with my bandages. "Sure."

"Cool," Abbott says. He stands there for a moment. "You know, you might not be able to play right now, but that doesn't mean you never will again. Your hand will heal. You'll see."

I look at the floor. "Maybe."

"Seriously," he says. "I know you. If anyone can overcome this, it's you."

Then he leaves, and I just sit there for a while, considering his words.

Wondering if they could possibly be true.