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The Last Thing He Told Me

Laura Dave
Chapters (51)
  1. Title Page
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Prologue
  5. — Part 1 —
  6. If You Answer the Door for Strangers…
  7. Greene Street Before It Was Greene Street
  8. Don’t Ask a Question You Don’t Want the Answer To
  9. Think What You Want
  10. Twenty-Four Hours Earlier
  11. Follow the Money
  12. Help Is on the Way
  13. These Are Not Your Friends
  14. Don’t Hold This Against Me
  15. Six Weeks Ago
  16. Bailey’s No Good Very Bad Day
  17. What Don’t You Want to Remember?
  18. — Part 2 —
  19. Keep Austin Weird
  20. Who Needs a Tour Guide?
  21. Three Months Ago
  22. Little White Churches
  23. Not Everyone Is a Good Helper
  24. Eight Months Ago
  25. Sorry, We’re Open
  26. Two Can Play at That Game
  27. One Year Ago
  28. Delete All History
  29. It’s Science, Isn’t It?
  30. Some Students Are Better Than Others
  31. Fourteen Months Ago
  32. If You Marry the Prom King…
  33. The Never Dry
  34. Careful What You Wish For
  35. Eighteen Months Ago
  36. The Good Lawyer
  37. — Part 3 —
  38. When We Were Young
  39. Everyone Should Take Inventory
  40. The Never Dry, Part Two
  41. On the Lake
  42. Two Years Ago
  43. You Have to Do Some Things on Your Own
  44. The Devil Is in the Details
  45. Finding My Way Back to Her
  46. Two Years and Four Months Ago
  47. Sometimes You Can Go Home Again
  48. Five Years Later. Or Eight. Or Ten.
  49. Acknowledgments
  50. About the Author
  51. Also by Laura Dave

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Title Page

The Last Thing He Told Me, by Laura Dave, Simon & Schuster

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.