Free London Is the Best City in America by Laura Dave

looked at Josh. He was avoiding looking back. What did I know about him? All I could think was that he had this whole other life that he hadn’t told me about until now. What else didn’t I know about this person I really thought I knew everything about?
    I had done all sorts of research on weddings in preparation for a toast. I had read a good half-dozen books on what different wedding rituals meant, where the traditions came from. I’d planned on incorporating all sorts of the bizarre trivia into whatever speech I ultimately made. But it didn’t matter. For the life of me then, I couldn’t think of one single thing to say.
    “Come on, Em,” my dad said. “Say something.”
    Josh smiled at me, winked. “She doesn’t have to, Dad. Just drop it.”
    I tried to smile back at him, feeling awful. Then I felt Berringer’s hand on my back.
    “You know what?” he said. “She was just telling me she’s still doing some work on it. She’s not wasting it on you guys.”
    I looked over at him gratefully—so gratefully, that it surprised me. It surprised both of us.
    “She’s saving it for the wedding,” he said.

The Everett boys were drunk enough that we had to split them up for the car ride home: Josh slept in the back of Berringer’s car, and I followed them, slowly, in our dad’s. My dad was asleep as soon as he hit the passenger seat, before I even pulled out of the parking lot. Sneaking a peek at him, his mouth open—lightly snoring—I wished I’d sat tonight out, that he was in Berringer’s car right now, and I had stayed at home to try to make some headway on the documentary. That I had stayed home and gone to sleep—so all of the things Josh had said would already be slipping away.
    Behind me, someone honked. I looked in my rearview, the driver shining his brights at me, his red-right arrow. Which might be why instead of taking the requisite turn onto Heathcote Road—eventually leading to my parents’ home on Drake—I headed straight toward Mamaroneck Road. No one behind me on the road, no one in front. I drove past the big church and the junior high, the run-down tennis courts. All the lights were out on the left except for one lone streetlamp, blipping on and off as if it were its only job.
    I told myself I didn’t know where I was going, but I did know. I knew as soon as I got to Cushman Road and took the familiar right, making the second turn onto Willow, pulling into the little cul-de-sac I knew by heart, circling the car around until I was facing the right backyard. It all looked the same from the back: three levels of colonial windows, the small attic perched on top, a rectangular backyard filled with swing sets and a slide and broken toys, all belonging to Matt’s little brother.
    I killed the ignition and sat back, taking a breath. There weren’t any lights on in the house, not even the back porch light. And it occurred to me that Matt’s parents were probably away for the Fourth—probably up at their home in Maine. It was possible that someone was home, and just sleeping. But I didn’t think so. They were probably gone. And down the hall, Matt’s room was probably empty.
    We had spent so many afternoons in that bedroom. I had spent so many afternoons there even without him, on the days he couldn’t make it out to Scarsdale or I couldn’t go into the city. It had made me calmer to be there among his things, doing my homework or wasting time. It was like he was there with me. Every Tuesday night my last year in high school, he’d come home and I’d stay there with him. That was our tradition—weekends together in the city, Tuesdays in Scarsdale. We’d get up at five in the morning, so we’d have a couple of hours together before I had to be at school: Matt bringing up a thin thermos of coffee from the kitchen, that morning’s paper, getting back into bed with me.
    Part of me wanted to ring the bell now, or sneak in through the window, and just head back up to that room for a