The Last Thing He Told Me
Chapters (51)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- — Part 1 —
- If You Answer the Door for Strangers…
- Greene Street Before It Was Greene Street
- Don’t Ask a Question You Don’t Want the Answer To
- Think What You Want
- Twenty-Four Hours Earlier
- Follow the Money
- Help Is on the Way
- These Are Not Your Friends
- Don’t Hold This Against Me
- Six Weeks Ago
- Bailey’s No Good Very Bad Day
- What Don’t You Want to Remember?
- — Part 2 —
- Keep Austin Weird
- Who Needs a Tour Guide?
- Three Months Ago
- Little White Churches
- Not Everyone Is a Good Helper
- Eight Months Ago
- Sorry, We’re Open
- Two Can Play at That Game
- One Year Ago
- Delete All History
- It’s Science, Isn’t It?
- Some Students Are Better Than Others
- Fourteen Months Ago
- If You Marry the Prom King…
- The Never Dry
- Careful What You Wish For
- Eighteen Months Ago
- The Good Lawyer
- — Part 3 —
- When We Were Young
- Everyone Should Take Inventory
- The Never Dry, Part Two
- On the Lake
- Two Years Ago
- You Have to Do Some Things on Your Own
- The Devil Is in the Details
- Finding My Way Back to Her
- Two Years and Four Months Ago
- Sometimes You Can Go Home Again
- Five Years Later. Or Eight. Or Ten.
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Also by Laura Dave
Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
Title Page
Dedication
To Josh and Jacob, my sweetest miracles
and
Rochelle and Andrew Dave,
for every single thing
Epigraph
(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)
—e. e. cummings
Prologue
Owen used to like to tease me about how I lose everything, about how, in my own way, I have raised losing things to an art form. Sunglasses, keys, mittens, baseball hats, stamps, cameras, cell phones, Coke bottles, pens, shoelaces. Socks. Lightbulbs. Ice trays. He isn’t exactly wrong. I did used to have a tendency to misplace things. To get distracted. To forget.
On our second date, I lost the ticket stub for the parking garage where we’d left the cars during dinner. We’d each taken our own car. Owen would later joke about this—would love joking about how I insisted on driving myself to that second date. Even on our wedding night he joked about it. And I joked about how he’d grilled me that night, asking endless questions about my past—about the men I’d left behind, the men who had left me.
He’d called them the could-have-been boys. He raised a glass to them and said, wherever they were, he was grateful to them for not being what I needed, so he got to be the one sitting across from me.
You barely know me, I’d said.
He smiled. It doesn’t feel that way, does it?
He wasn’t wrong. It was overwhelming, what seemed to live between us, right from the start. I like to think that’s why I was distracted. Why I lost the parking ticket.
We parked in the Ritz-Carlton parking garage in downtown San Francisco. And the parking attendant shouted that it didn’t matter if I claimed I’d only been there for dinner.
The fee for a lost parking ticket was a hundred dollars. “You could have kept the car here for weeks,” the parking attendant said. “How do I know you’re not trying to pull a fast one? A hundred dollars plus tax for every lost stub. Read the sign.” A hundred dollars plus tax to go home.
“Are you sure that it’s lost?” Owen asked me. But he was smiling as he said it, as if this were the best piece of news about me that he’d gotten all night.