The Last Good Day of the Year by Jessica Warman Page B

here?” His gaze flicks around the tiny room. “You’d better not be drinking my wine.”
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    Remy lifts his right hand to show me the six-pack of Rolling Rock he’s brought. “It feels like more of a beer night, anyway.” He sits cross-legged on the floor beside me, cracks open a can, and takes a few gulps. “So, as I was saying, this hot woman goes to the doctor. When he comes into the room, he’s stunned by how beautiful his patient is. The doctor considers himself a professional and a gentleman, but sometimes a person can’t help himself. He tries to do the exam as usual, but eventually he starts rubbing her thighs.”
    â€œI’ve already heard this one.”
    â€œI know.” He offers me one of the beers. “But it’s a good one.”
    â€œMaybe if you’re twelve years old.” It’s the same joke we overheard Remy’s dad tell that New Year’s Eve.
    â€œOh, I think it’s universally funny. When she tells the doctor she’s there to be tested for herpes, but they’ve already had sex? What’s not funny about that?”
    â€œRight. Because the best jokes are the ones you have to explain.”
    â€œNo, the best jokes are about naked women.”
    I close my eyes for a few seconds, hoping that he’ll be gone when I open them. It doesn’t work. “Why are you out here?”
    â€œDon’t you want this?” He means the beer.
    â€œNo.” I could cry. Now that he knows I’ve been coming here, it’s ruined. “Why are you here, Remy? What do you want?”
    â€œI told you, it’s my yard. I can come out here whenever I want. You, on the other hand, cannot.”
    â€œWhy do you get to decide that? This place isn’t yours, either, not technically. You didn’t build it.”
    â€œBut it’s on my property.”
    â€œIt’s
barely
on your property. Ed built it for all of us. He only used your yard because the tree was the right size.”
    â€œEd’s not in charge of much around here, Sam. Not lately.”
    â€œYour parents wouldn’t care, either.”
    He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But I care.” He glances down at all the pictures. “Were those my grandma’s? Did you steal them?”
    â€œI didn’t
steal
them. Your mom told me to throw them away, but I kept them instead.”
    â€œSo you stole them.”
    â€œNo! I told you, I only—”
    â€œRelax, Sam. I’m kidding.”
    â€œOh.”
    He picks up a stack of photos and brings them closer to his faceas he looks through them. “Are you sure my mom meant for you to throw away all of these? Some of them look like ones she’d want to keep.”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWow, these are crazy. I forgot they existed.” His eyes flash with nostalgia as he takes in each picture, and for a moment I think I see the Remy I remember.
    Looking at the photos makes me self-conscious about the fact that Remy and I used to spend so much time together. There are only a handful of shots of him that don’t include me. “Did we do
anything
without each other?” He flips through a few shots of us naked in the tub together, our lower bodies obscured by a thick layer of bubbles. The date scribbled on the back reads 8/25/79; we weren’t even two years old. In another—this one from October ’85—we’re standing shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk in Halloween costumes. Remy’s a cowboy; I’m an Indian princess. Gretchen is in the background, posing like an aspiring model in her witch costume. Her black skirt is too short for a sixteen-year-old, and her legs seem unsteady as she balances on five-inch stilettos. Turtle stands on the periphery of the scene, her form blurred as she twirls gleefully in a pink ballerina costume. It is Halloween night, exactly two months before she disappeared, and the fact