London Is the Best City in America

“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 while. Not because it would make me feel any differently afterward, but because I wanted to feel again, for a few minutes, what it had been like. To belong to something bigger than myself.

He had had these thick sheets, this soft blue comforter. Why did the color matter to me? Why did I remember that? You can’t really feel a color. You can’t really feel anything entirely unless part of you doesn’t know it’s happening.

I shook my head, turning the ignition back on. I didn’t need to be here. I didn’t need to be anywhere but in my own bed, sleeping. Or knocking on the bedroom wall, seeing if Josh was awake and could hear me. If he wanted to talk.

My dad opened his eyes, abruptly, and turned toward me. But by then I was already pulling away.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine, Dad.”

“Where are we?”

“Matt’s,” I said.

“Matt’s?” He was confused, but his eyes were closing again. In a minute, I knew he’d be out.

“Well,” I said. “Not anymore.”

When we got back to the house, Berringer’s car was still in the driveway. I carried my bags inside—fishermen’s wives tapes included—and got a glass of ice water and left it on the floor by my father, who was passed out on the couch. Then I peeked in on Josh, just for a second, who was lying on top of his bedcovers, fully dressed, sleeping.

“This house is a mess,” I said out loud, even though no one seemed to be sober enough to hear me.

I filled up another glass of water and went outside. I found Berringer out on the back steps, facing the yard. The tent was up for tomorrow already, these four six-foot-tall wooden lanterns firmly planted into the ground on every side. Berringer was looking out at all of it, an empty cereal bowl next to him.

I handed the water over. He smiled a thank-you at me, taking a huge sip, downing most of the glass, before he started speaking again. “I fear that the Everett men are going to be struggling a bit tomorrow,” he said. “I left your dad a note on the kitchen table, telling him to have another beer in the morning. Hangover cure. A hair of the dog that bit you.”

I moved the bowl over, took a seat. It was still incredibly warm outside, the air thick and sticking to my skin.

I swirled the spoon around in the leftover milk. “What kind were they?” I said, motioning toward his cereal bowl.

“Honey Nut Cheerios.” He said. “It’s usually Honey Nut Cheerios at night.”

“What about the morning?”

“Sometimes Special K. But mostly on Sundays.”

I smiled at him, putting down the spoon. I could feel my heart beating in my head, my eyes starting to get heavy. “I‘m not sure I should have been driving,” I said. “Now that I’m sitting still.”

“Yeah, well,” he said. “I’m definitely walking home from here.”

“In this heat?”

“It’s going to be worse tomorrow.”

“True,” I said. “Isn’t that a weird thing, though? That you can walk home. That our homes are still here? All this time after we left?”