The Last Romantics

by Tara Conklin

“You are always taking advantage, always using me,” Caroline continued. “Using us, me and Renee, for money or meals at fancy restaurants or help with whatever. And Joe. You used Joe, too. Why don’t you have your own life? Why are you never in a relationship? Why do you always say you hate your job but never look for another one? You’re the youngest, sure, Fiona, but you’re thirty years old! Nothing is serious for you. Everything is a game. And why did you pretend you knew what was going on with Joe? Why did you lie to me that day before his party? Why did you say he was okay? That he didn’t need help? Maybe Renee and I . . . maybe we could have helped him. Maybe—” Caroline stopped speaking. She shook her head and looked at me through the rain. “Caro, I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought—” “What did you think, Fiona? What? That the detective was cute? That he might fuck you?” “No.” I knew that Caroline was upset; she was angry, she didn’t know what she was saying. “I thought he could help us.”