E. Lockhart

aunties hug one another not because they are freed of the weight of Clairmont house and all it symbolized, but out of tragedy and empathy. Not because we freed them, but because we wrecked them, and they clung to one another in the face of horror.

Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, you would have been a light in the dark for so many people.

You have been one. You have.

He wanted to stop evil. He wanted to express his anger. He lived big, my brave Gat. He didn’t shut up when people wanted him to, he made them listen—and then he listened in return. He refused to take things lightly, though he was always quick to laugh.

have lost you, Gat, because of how desperately, desperately I fell in love.

Me, Gat, Johnny, and Mirren.

Mirren, Gat, Johnny, and me.

We have been here, this summer.

And we have not been here.

They have said they love me.

I have felt it in Gat’s kiss.

In Johnny’s laugh.

Mirren shouted it across the sea, even.

I love you in spite of my grief. Even though you are crazy.

I love you in spite of what I suspect you have done.

“Not your fault,” says Johnny. “I mean, we all did it, we all went crazy, we have to take responsibility. You shouldn’t carry the weight of it,” he says. “Be sad, be sorry—but don’t shoulder it.”

And then they dive—

or something—

or something—

and they are gone.

I am left, there on the southern tip of Beechwood Island. I am on the tiny beach, alone.

Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.