The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  It’s hard for Wes to deny Nico’s offer. He wants to, badly. But he doesn’t. Besides, Ella drove. The walk back to the loft isn’t long, but there’s no good lighting around here, and he’s wearing a navy blue hoodie with dark jeans. It’s not ideal for strolling alone at night near the Pacific Coast Highway.

  He concedes with a soft, “Okay.”

  As the group begins to shuffle toward the manmade dirt path to the beach, Cooper hops in front. “Wait!” He holds his phone high. “We have to get a groupie to commemorate tonight.”

  “Nice SAT word, dude,” Zay says through a laugh.

  “Thanks.”

  “What did he just call me?” hisses Ella.

  Wes snorts, elbowing her back. Before he knows it, they’re all crowded around him and Zay, the tallest of their group. Cooper, sans selfie stick, tries to angle his phone to capture everyone in the frame. But Cooper’s arms, like him, are short. Anna intervenes. She snaps off a few shots that are all awful.

  “No, turn off the flash,” Kyra instructs.

  “Everyone shift to your left,” Cooper shouts.

  “Oh my god, I look like a vampire,” Ella groans.

  “Accurate.” Wes receives a hard elbow below his ribs.

  “Over here.” Anna swings the phone around. Their heads follow like a hawk tracking its prey. “With the moon in the background.”

  “Yessss. Natural lighting,” Kyra cheers, head resting on Anna’s shoulder.

  “Here.” Nico reaches up, cold fingers holding Wes’s chin. “Tilt that way.”

  Nico’s wedged into Wes’s side. Unconsciously, Wes’s left arm hangs limp across Nico’s shoulders. Then, their warm cheeks are pressed together. All Wes can hear is the wind and Nico breathing near his ear and Anna’s manic countdown.

  It’s an out-of-body experience when he looks at the final photos.

  Cooper’s in front, giving a peace sign. Half of Zay’s curly ‘fro is cut from the frame. Kyra’s laughing in Anna’s neck. Ella is all scowl and frown. And Nico’s beaming, face pressed to Wes’s who looks… so happy.

  “No filters,” Kyra warns as Cooper begins messing with his phone. “Don’t you dare whitewash me.”

  Anna gleefully drags her away from Cooper, arm in arm.

  “I need a bath in holy water after standing next to you too long,” Ella grunts, marching down the path. “And a lot of alcohol.”

  Wes pats his jeans. Thankfully, he has Ella’s car keys.

  Nico and Zay briskly follow Ella.

  “And posted.” Cooper flashes his phone for Wes to view.

  He’s right. In the photo, they look like the perfect car wreck.

  Ella appears out of nowhere. “Here. Drink.”

  Wes has been casually monitoring the party from the edge of the crowd. With the ocean to his back, everything in his view is cast in orange and red. There are people of all ages at The Howls: teens with acne and too much energy; college kids with their big words and booze; even a few who look older than Leo, talking about jobs and sharing whiskey, lamenting about their glory days.

  Ella shakes a bottle of hard lemonade in his face. She knows Wes hates beer.

  “Is there an alternative?”

  “No.” She presses the cold, wet bottle to his palm. “You need it. You have that whole Stressed Wes face. I know you’re overthinking this bookstore thing.”

  “I’m not.” At least, not in the panicked way he was a few weeks ago. But it’s created its own residence in his mind next to the future and Nico. He’s excited about their ideas. It’s just hard for him to trust the others to want it as bad as he does, no matter how enthusiastic their words might be.

  “I’m fine,” he says, gripping the bottle’s neck.

  “This is what you always do.” Ella shakes her head. “This is why I hate telling you things.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ella doesn’t explain. She chugs a beer; amber liquid slips from the corners of her mouth. She belches, head tilted to stare at the sky. “Just take a night off from being all Stressed Wes, okay? We could all use a break.”

  She drifts away, intercepting a crowd of teens wearing all black and too much eyeliner.

  Wes twists the cap off the bottle. He contemplates drinking. Why not, right? But Cooper and Zay are somewhere, blitzed out their minds. He can’t find Anna or Kyra. Nico hates driving at night, especially without his glasses. And Ella’s only mission is to get trashed. He’ll be the only sober driver.

  Two girls with matching lime green hair pass him. “Hey.” He stretches out the bottle toward one. “Cheers.”

  “Thanks,” one slurs, winking at him.

  As they walk away, Wes hears the other girl say, “Cute. Kid’s juice.”

  Whatever.

  Small groups break out around The Howls. Wes can pick out Zay’s heavy laugh in the noise, though he can’t see him. A cluster of college kids stands closer to the rocks. Kyra’s big curls and Anna’s wind-tossed blonde hair are outlined by the fire’s dancing orange flames. Wes considers joining their troupe, but then realizes he’d probably have nothing to add to their conversations.

  Cal Guy sings another song. The Pixie’s “Where Is My Mind?” Wes wants this tool to get swept away by the tide.

  Down the shore, Wes spots Nico talking with people he doesn’t recognize. Red Solo cup in hand, he looks so at ease. He’s a social multitasker, laughing at something one person says while nodding at someone else.

  Nico won’t have any problems meeting new friends at Stanford. He’ll fit in. Over time, someone new will replace Wes.

  Breath caught in his throat, Wes turns away.

  Maybe he should have a drink. Mellow out. Think of anything other than the fact that he’s on a beach and not executing his plan because the timing’s off. Again.

  A colossal, giggling monster stumbles past him. Well, not a monster. The heavy shadows make it difficult for Wes to identify that it’s two people, one piggybacking on another. Cooper’s perched on a tall Asian girl’s back as she trudges through the sand. Her face, soft with a round nose and a thick lower lip, is familiar, as if Wes has seen it more than once.

  Then it clicks: Devon. Cooper’s BFF. Manu’s cousin.

  They carry on: Cooper shouting, Devon galloping. They manage a few more feet before eating sand. Wes laughs into the crook of his elbow. Then he pulls out his phone.

  Is it kind of creepish to log on to Instagram to see if Manu’s posted any photo evidence or maybe a live story of himself at The Howls?

  As of last week, he and Manu are online mutuals.

  Wes is formally allowed to casually scroll through Manu’s Insta while standing in the middle of the beach at night with the smallest morsel of hope that he’s here.

  They’ve spent the past week liking each other’s old posts. Some mornings, Wes wakes up to four different notifications—all from @manus808. They leave single-word comments under each other’s captions. “Love.” “Sweet.” “Wow.” Occasionally, Manu drops an emoji, like a palm tree or the blushing face.

  Once, Wes tapped the red heart emoji, then quickly deleted it. What was he thinking? Everyone knows full commitment is required when using that emoji. Things haven’t escalated to that level.

  Manu’s last post was two days ago.

  Wes slides his phone into his back pocket. If he’s here, maybe Wes will stumble into him the way he did on the pier. It’ll happen organically. Then they can talk, face-to-face, like adults. Except, with no Manu or Nico or Ella, Wes realizes he’s all alone.

  Is that what being adult is? Making all these mature executive decisions that result in loneliness?

  Wes staggers down the beach.

  “You look lost.”

  Planted on the sand closer to the shore, Wes watches the water slither up to his feet. He’s not sure how lo
ng he’s been sitting when Zay plops down next to him. Ten minutes? Thirty? His whole life?

  Wes shrugs lazily. “I’m cool.”

  “Brooding,” Zay says.

  “Placid.” Wes groans. He hates that word. He doesn’t know why he said it.

  But Zay laughs, then coughs into his fist. “Tranquil.”

  Wes likes this game. He likes that Zay, despite all the fun and noise and bad singing, is willing to play along. He whispers, “Desolate,” to the ocean.

  Zay’s elbow touches his. “That’s heavy.”

  Without looking, Wes slowly nods.

  “Where’s your sidekick?”

  “Who?” Wes knows who Zay’s referring to, but he’s willing to act ignorant if Zay obliges.

  A rolling grin pushes Zay’s cheeks upward. “Okay.” And Wes has never been more thankful for the way Zay changes the subject. “I’m meeting with the school’s academic advisor.”

  “What? When? Tomorrow?”

  “No. The first day of school.”

  Wes’s eyebrows feel permanently stuck at the top of his forehead.

  “My momma emailed a bunch of people. I don’t know.” Zay runs a hand through his hair. It’s so thick, his fingers disappear, and all Wes can see is his wrist. “Since UCLA doesn’t have an early admissions option, we’re going to discuss ways for me to jump headfirst into things. Maybe extra course loads.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I mean,” Zay pauses, pulling at a few tangled curls. “I want to go to UCLA. And I want to be ready.”

  “But?”

  Zay tips his head back. Closer to the shore, the moon stretches a soft paw over them. Wes always forgets Zay’s the younger one. He’s so mature. In extreme situations, Zay’s the friend Wes wants around. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t curl up into a weak, mewling ball. Zay simply handles shit.

  “No buts,” he finally says. “Not yet, at least.”

  “You’re gonna kill it.”

  “You are too.” Zay elbows Wes’s bicep. “You were made for blue and gold.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Wes studies him. His eyes are droopy from smoking up with Cooper. There’s a faint, dark line across his upper lip from not shaving. Legs pulled to his chest and arms on his knees make his orange hoodie bunch up around his throat. Though they’re around the same height, Zay seems smaller—a reminder that despite being mentally prepared for his future, Zay’s physically seventeen.

  “Do you ever feel… not ready for the future?” Wes lowers his eyes, blinking. “Or you’re always changing your mind about it?”

  Zay’s quiet. The waves roll and crash. Gulls shriek. Cal Guy has launched into the Killers’ greatest hits. Wes can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

  Thudthudthumpthump.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Why are we even doing it? College, I mean.”

  “Because some of us don’t have the option,” Zay whispers.

  Wes lifts his eyes.

  Zay rubs a hand down his face. “For some of us, college isn’t going to swing the job opportunity door wide open but it’s going to crack it just enough for us to stick a hand in. To remind people that just because we’re not white doesn’t mean we’re not smart. Or capable. That we’re just as qualified as that person who dicked around during school, got drunk, and made a lot of bad choices that money made go away.”

  He tugs up his sleeve and jabs at the back of his left hand with his index finger. “This is what people see.”

  Wes knows he’s talking about his skin color.

  “Mom’s an executive at a nonprofit. Momma has two degrees and travels all over the west coast giving TED talks about the power of being who you are. About standing in the strength of standing out. It’s exclusively speaking to people of color.” Zay scowls at the sand. “I haven’t had a new phone in almost two years. My shoes? I pick them up at after-market sales. Both of my moms are smart as hell and still only get so far up the ladder before someone reaches down to pull up another person without any melanin in their system.”

  “Yeah,” whispers Wes.

  “We,” says Zay, wiggling a finger between them, “have to fight twice as hard.”

  Wes appreciates that just because he’s often seen as passing and people don’t always connect him to Calvin, Zay makes it a point to include him in discussions of race and privilege. He doesn’t lay any guilt on Wes because there are some prejudices they won’t share. They’re still united.

  “I have no clue what’s gonna happen in the future,” Zay says. “But having a degree gives me more of a chance. It’s not a guarantee. Nothing is. It’s just a backup.”

  “Are you doing it because of your moms?” Wes asks.

  “A little bit.” Zay’s nose wiggles like he’s fighting off a sneeze. “You?”

  “Yup.”

  “I wonder if all kids feel that way?” Zay smiles sadly. “Especially POC kids. Like we owe our parents for putting up with this fucked up world so we can have a future.”

  “It’s in our DNA.”

  “The struggle continues.”

  Wes sighs at his shoes.

  “Damn, Wes. Why are you so deep?” Zay pulls back, face scrunched.

  Wes squawks, almost falling over.

  “I came over here for a laugh.” And Zay does laugh, hoarsely. “Your mad sad vibes are killing my high.”

  Wes shoves him. “Welcome to adulting, my dude. Everything kills your high as an adult.”

  “Slow down. You’re only eighteen, not Mrs. Rossi’s age,” Zay says, standing. He shakes sand off his jeans and hoodie, then scrubs it out of his hair. “I’m gonna head back. You staying?”

  Nodding, Wes turns back to the water. Alone again. This time, Wes doesn’t mind. He just wants to empty out his brain and let the tide drag all his jumbled thoughts into the dark waters.

  But that’s not happening. Someone’s standing over him.

  “Wesley?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Wesley Crusher,” Nico says, beaming.

  He’s replaced Zay next to Wes on the sand. His legs stretched out in front of him, one hand braced behind for support, Nico leans against Wes. He doesn’t smell like Zay did—smoky sweet mixed a mustiness from the weed. Nico’s scent is sweat and citrus and the sugariness of rum. Long strands of Nico’s flat hair lie across his forehead.

  Wes’s heart beats like a summer storm—wild and unpredictable. He’s simultaneously cold from the breeze but warm from Nico’s proximity. It’s too much and just enough.

  Nico whispers, “Missssssed you.” He’s tipsy, but not incoherent.

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” Wes chokes out.

  “You did,” Nico argues, then chuckles. “Stupid Italy. Gone, gone, gone.”

  Voice breaking, Wes says, “I’m here now.”

  “You are.” Nico rests his temple on Wes’s collarbone. The breeze carries the sigh he expels into the night.

  Cautiously, as if the wrong move could disrupt this, Wes curls an arm around Nico’s lower back. Nico’s body tenses, then relaxes. Wes’s chin is perched on the top of Nico’s head. He revels in the fact that Nico’s hair isn’t stiff and gross with sand.

  It takes Wes a second to identify the song Nico’s humming.

  “Frank Ocean?”

  “My boy Frank,” Nico confirms with a smile in his voice.

  The breeze sweeps over them. Nico shivers. Reflexively, Wes tightens his arm. Nico’s warm breath skims the side of his neck. If he turned slightly, he could press a kiss there. And Wes knows exactly why he’s thinking about that.

  This is the perfect place to tell Nico. But the vibe isn’t right. Nico’s intoxicated. And Wes doesn’t want this thing he’s been holding inside for so long to slip out when Nico can barely hold his head upright.

&
nbsp; Nico. Nico. Nico.

  He mumbles something in Spanish into the collar of Wes’s hoodie.

  “What?”

  Nico jolts a little, jarring Wes. “Nothing.” He shifts back, staring up at Wes. His lips are shiny, as if he’s just licked them. There’s a similar sheen across his eyes. “No es nada. I think I’m drunk.”

  Wes’s eyebrows draw inward. “What did you say, Nico?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nico…”

  “You’re my best friend. Bestest friend.” Nico squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks them open. “I want… you’re my friend.”

  Friend.

  Wes hears that word loud and clear. It’s been attached to him for years and years, but it’s never stung like it does now. In his mind, Wes can see his list in perfect, hi-def quality.

  Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!

  3. If your crush constantly refers to you as a friend, THEY MEAN IT!

  4. If you always ask, “Does my crush like me?”, FALL BACK!

  “Is that what you—”

  “No, no. It’s not.” Nico hiccups, then shakes his head. “I’m drunk. I’m messed up. No es nada.” He grabs the hem of his red sweatshirt, uses it to wipe his face. There are no tears there, only sweat.

  Wes curls his fingers around Nico’s wrist. Under his fingertips, Nico’s pulse is a slow thump.

  “Wesley.” Nico swallows. Wes studies his Adam’s apple, then the way his lips move as he whispers, “I’m tired.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe I should go.”

  Maybe you should. Wes’s breaths are shallow. He’s checked off two more items on his list. It’s a huge, screaming, blood-red sign. But something deep in his marrow keeps dragging him in another direction. Closer to Nico.

  “We’ll go,” he says, pulling. “Me and you. I’ll walk you home.” It’s not that far from The Howls to the Alvarez house off Palisades Beach Road.

  “No, no. You should stay. Chill,” insists Nico. He pushes to his feet. He’s just coordinated enough to straighten his sweatshirt and dust sand from his shorts.

  “I’ll go with you.” Wes stands too. He wants to let Nico piggyback him, like Devon and Cooper, all the way to his house. Then he wants to crawl into Nico’s bed and hug him. Nothing else. He wants to protect Nico from whatever he can’t say to Wes.