Jill Smolinski: The Next Thing on My List

We eventually wound our way back to where we’d started, a short distance from my car. “I’m parked right here,” I said.

He walked me the rest of the way. I had my keys in one hand, my other reaching for the door handle, when he said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Rats. So close, and yet.

“Of course not.”

“It’s just that you were the last person with Marissa.”

Alarms sounded in my head as he continued, “My parents and I have the details on the accident, but the one thing we can’t figure out is why wasn’t she buckled? She always wore her seat belt. It didn’t make any sense. I hate to bother you with it, but it’s been driving us crazy.”

There you had it. I was going to have to reveal her final moments. Granted, I could say I didn’t know, but that seemed crueler than the truth.

“She was getting a recipe for me from her purse.”

“A recipe?”

“For a taco soup.”

“A recipe.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “That’d be my sister.”

His expression was so disappointed that I added, “It sounded quite tasty.”

“I’m sure it did.”

Oh, why didn’t I lie? Tell him that she’d been telling me how she adored her family-especially that brother of hers?

“Sorry it wasn’t something better,” I said lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not sure what I was expecting. It’s only that ‘” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaning against my car. “There’s so much I don’t know-that I never will. That’s what keeps you up at night. It’s not only that you miss them. It’s the regret that you didn’t ask the big questions while they were still here.”

He looked over toward where her grave sat and then continued. “A few weeks before she died, Marissa and I were at my parents’ house for dinner. We were outside, goofing around, playing a little one-on-one. I asked her how her life was different since she’d lost the weight-besides the fact that she could now whup my ass at basketball. She told me she had so many things she wanted to do. And she sounded so excited that I’d asked her what kinds of things. But then my mom called us for dinner, one thing led to another, and I never got around to following up. I mean, what was the big hurry, you know? We had all the time in the world.”

Oh God. My insides bubbled and frothed as he spoke.

Returning the list wouldn’t have been unkind. It was wrong to keep it, especially now that this perfectly nice guy standing in front of me had been grieving all the more because of my selfishness.

“Um actually,” I ventured, not sure what to say, but feeling I had to say something. “There was one more thing. She had a list.” When he didn’t respond right away, I blurted, “Your sister had written a list of things she wanted to do by her twenty-fifth birthday. I have it.”

His eyes shifted to meet mine, and-brrrr-did the temperature just drop fifty degrees? Because the look in them was icier than I could have ever imagined. “You kept it? There was a list and you kept it?”

Well, when he put it that way

“I had to,” I said defensively.

“Why?”

Why indeed? Panic was setting in when, luckily, I thought of a lie so brilliant that it felt as if it were the truth.

“Because I’m completing the list for her.”

The change in his face was like one of those square puzzles where you can move the pieces around to form a picture-it hadn’t settled yet, and since I didn’t know what it was going to be, I kept talking. “I figured since Marissa couldn’t do it for herself, well& it’s only right that it be me. I was the one driving when the accident happened. I feel responsible.”

And there it was: The coldness had melted and was replaced with an expression I couldn’t quite read but I knew that I liked. It lifted me up and floated me skyward. I was no longer June Parker, accidental murderess and borderline slacker. I was the sort of woman who’d find a list of uncompleted dreams and take it upon herself to get the job done. I fucking rocked.

“That’s so amazing,” he managed to say, and then to my horror he added, “Do you have the list with you? Can you show it to me?”

“It’s at home,” I replied hurriedly. “And I’m afraid you’d be disappointed to see it. There’s not much crossed off what with her birthday still being months away.” July 12, I remembered from her tombstone. Less than six months left to go. “In fact, if we could not make a big deal out of this, I’d be grateful. I’m nervous enough about it. I’d rather keep things to myself right now, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand.” He nodded. “No problem.”

I made a show of glancing at my watch and then said, “I’d better get going.”

“Sure.”

As I got into my car, he pulled out his wallet and fished through it. He handed me a business card. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”

It occurred to me there was something he could do. “It’d probably be helpful for me to know more about Marissa. I don’t want to bother you too much. Maybe you could send me her old yearbooks or photo albums? Anything that might shed light on what might have motivated her to write the things on the list that she did.”

He agreed without hesitation, and I gave him my business card before driving away, the blood pumping through my veins so wildly that I suspected I must be visibly throbbing.

I was going to do this. I was going to complete the items on Marissa Jones’s list. If I couldn’t make something out of my own life, at least I’d make something out of hers.

For the first time in a long time-since the accident and even before-I felt a surge of an emotion so unfamiliar, it took me the entire drive home to figure out what it was.

Hope.

I felt hope.

WHICH BROUGHT ME to where I was: at a bar, realizing there was no way I was going to kiss this jerk, no matter how bad I wanted to cross something off a list.

“So,” he said, flashing a gleaming white grin as he handed me back my paper (and, may I add, there is such a thing as too much whitening), “what kind of kiss?”

His friend Frank filled him in: “Mouth tongue optional.”

“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll just-“

Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, his tongue thrust between my lips. It wasn’t awful. My first attempts with Grant Smith back in high school were certainly a whole lot sloppier. But I’d experienced significantly more zing with Grant. This kiss, frankly, left me feeling as if I might as well be paralyzed from the waist down.

As he pulled away, he said a glib, “You’re welcome.”

Oh, please. I wish he’d said it while he was kissing me, because then I could have thrown up in his mouth.

“Unfortunately,” I said, feigning regret, “the list specifically states that I have to do this kissing-you know, be the kisser, not the kissee. I’m afraid this doesn’t qualify. But hey-“ I winked at the guys at the table before turning to go- “I appreciate the effort.”

On my way, I nearly bumped into a busboy. Hmm. He appeared to be about seventeen years old and was conveniently just my height. “Mind indulging me?” I asked. I took hold of his collar to pull him closer and-pausing for a few seconds to give him a chance to run for the hills if he wanted-planted a kiss on his mouth. No tongue, but plenty warm and moist, and-yes!-there was that zing I was talking about.

Then, over the sound of the guys at the table having quite a guffaw about the whole thing, I grabbed Susan. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. After all, I still had plenty more things I needed to cross off the list. And as my grandma used to say, there’s no rest for the wicked.