The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  Screw Stanford. Screw UCLA. Screw the future. Just Wes and Nico and their protective bubble. But that’s not possible. Nothing Wes wants is possible, except maybe saving the bookstore. At least he has that.

  At least he still has Nico’s friendship.

  “Come on.” Wes links their fingers together.

  The slightest glint of hesitation registers in Nico’s eyes, but he doesn’t yank away. “What about the others?”

  “Here.” Wes tugs out his phone. One-handed, he unlocks it, taps on his messages, and types. “I’ll let Kyra know. Anna too. We can call Ella on the way. She’ll take care of Zay and Cooper.”

  “She won’t take care of Cooper.”

  “You’re right. But Zay will,” assures Wes, leading Nico up the soft sand. The wind is heavy against their backs. That’s why Wes is shivering. That’s why his eyes sting. He’s not going to cry.

  I can’t tell him. We’re just friends. This is what’s best.

  That’s what he repeats to himself the entire walk back to Nico’s house.

  Hands behind his head, Oz stared at the crow-black sky. Blades of wet grass tickled the nape of his neck. Avoiding his mother had become his new specialty. Moms, though nurturing, never understood teenage boys.

  “Life’s right there, Oz,” whispered Sarina.

  It was. Beyond the big, ominous stars that hung overhead. Too far away to touch with his fingertips. That’s how Oz viewed his whole life before Sarina—too far away.

  He was only seventeen when she died.

  He was eighteen when she returned.

  “Life’s right there.”

  He loved the way Sarina talked with her entire face. Once ivy-green eyes and a button nose and a mouth softer than a peach’s skin.

  Oz’s mother believed teenagers, especially boys, only wanted three things: control, the future, and sex.

  Not Oz.

  He didn’t want the world. He only wanted to cradle it in his palm for a little while. He only wanted to bring Sarina back…

  But not as a zombie. Oz never meant for that to happen.

  Maybe his mother was right. Maybe Oz wanted to control one thing: the future. His future. With Sarina.

  But maybe that’s what all teenagers wanted.

  —Savannah Kirk, The Language of Dead Hearts

  Chapter Sixteen

  Summer weekends inside Once Upon a Page are always a strange mix of a traffic pileup and a graveyard. Mornings can be a quiet, serene landscape, mostly due to the Third Street Promenade Farmer’s Market, with random customers popping in to browse but never buy. Afternoons are a hellscape of people fleeing the heat or in search of their next beach read.

  Luckily, Wes has at least an hour before that crowd clogs up the aisles.

  He eyes all the comic books in his favorite corner as Lucas practices arranging them.

  “What about this?” asks Lucas.

  Wes taps his chin, then squints for a long moment. He knows Lucas is dying for his validation. But he also knows it’s hilarious making Lucas sweat.

  “It’s okay.”

  Lucas squeaks. “What?”

  “Nah,” Wes says teasingly. “It’s great.”

  A hearty shade of red paints their cheeks as Lucas crumples. There’s a peal of laughter from behind them. Lucas stands on their toes to get a better view. “What’s that about?”

  Wes peeks over his shoulder. Cooper and Kyra lean suspiciously close over the counter. “Nothing.” Wes turns back to Lucas. “They’re planning an open mic night for the bookstore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. We’re trying to do a few things to up sales. You know, bring in a bigger crowd.”

  “That’s so cool,” says Lucas, eyes twinkling. “Can anyone come?”

  “What? You got some sweet vocal skills you’re keeping hidden?” Wes nudges Lucas’s shoulder. “I bet you rock out hard to Bon Iver.”

  “Yuck.” Lucas sticks out their tongue, shivering. “I’m big on synth-pop. Stuff influenced by the ‘80s.”

  “That’s a mood,” says Wes, chuckling. “I can get behind that.”

  “Can you? I’ve heard the garbage you listen to,” Lucas says. “Weezer? Ugh.”

  Wes points an accusing finger at Lucas’s nose. “Don’t disrespect the power of Rivers Cuomo.”

  Lucas makes a sour face.

  “You’re not invited to the open mic night,” Wes says, chin tipped up. “You’re not qualified to hang with the big dogs.”

  “All I see is a puppy,” Lucas jokes.

  Wes likes this side of Lucas, less restrained and small. He likes the way their blond hair still falls into their eyes when they laugh too hard. He likes that Lucas is wearing a white Henley with an old-school MTV logo in the middle. In fact, this is the first time Wes hasn’t seen Lucas in their green hoodie. Everything about Lucas is… free.

  “Hang on.” Wes holds up a finger. He almost forgot. “Don’t move.”

  Lucas blinks at him a few times, but Wes merely shoots them a surreptitious smile before trekking to the front counter.

  “Shut up. Shut up. He’s here,” Kyra chokes out while giggling.

  Wes negotiates his way around them to get behind the counter, then kneels to rummage through his backpack. He tugs out a graphic novel. When he stands, they’re still chortling. He pauses, eyebrows so high they’re making out with his hairline.

  Kyra turns her head, wheezing.

  “What are…” Wes narrows his eyes. “…you two…” He motions his index finger between them. “…doing?”

  “Working on open mic night!” shouts Cooper, which sends Kyra over the edge, collapsing on the counter, face mashed to the woodgrain as she howls.

  “A likely story.” Wes crosses his arms.

  “Fine, fine.” Kyra lifts her head. She wipes at the tears hanging on her long eyelashes, then clears her throat. “Because of this dork…” She stabs a finger in Cooper’s direction. “…we might’ve been brainstorming ship names.”

  “Ship names?”

  Wes knows what shipping is. Being quite fond of certain LGBTQIA characters in the X-Men comics—Wes’s only Marvel weakness—has led to many searches for alternative romantic storylines between his favorite queer characters when the writers either kill one off or dissolve the relationship for no apparent reason.

  Anyway, he’s read his share of fanfiction: good, bad, and weirdly sexy. The internet is a strange, magical place.

  “Yes. Ship names,” Cooper confirms. “For you and Nico.”

  Time-out. Pause the game. Pump the brakes.

  “Me and Nico?” Wes feels embarrassment’s vise-grip on his vocal cords. “Me. And. Nico?”

  Cooper’s eyebrows furrow. “It’s obvious—”

  “Obvious?” This is where Wes will die, behind the front counter at Once Upon a Page. At least he’ll go out in his favorite place in the world—with the voice of a thirteen-year-old who’s been caught by their mom looking at inappropriate Google searches.

  “Wes, come on,” Kyra implores. “We’ve all seen the heart-eyes you’ve been tossing Nico since day one. You’re like that Patrick from SpongeBob GIF where he’s kicking his feet back and forth. Big, gooey eyes with that sweet smile. It’s gross.”

  No. Wes most certainly is not that GIF. He has supreme levels of chill about Nico in public. No one knows his dark secret, except Ella, with whom Wes shares an airtight friendship. She’s not a narc.

  “It’s not true,” he replies firmly.

  Kyra puckers her mouth, clearly unconvinced. “Anna knows. Zay knows. Ella knows. Anderson Cooper and I know.” She lists every name on a finger. She lifts her other hand, flexing another index finger. “Gemma, the pink-haired girl who only works weekends over at Aerial knows.”

  Wes glares at her. He can’t believe this. Be
trayed by his own kind.

  “I know!” shouts Lucas.

  “You know nothing,” Wes yells, his pre-puberty voice reinstating itself with a vengeance.

  Kyra’s moved onto her second ring finger. “Mrs. Rossi knows.”

  No. That’s impossible. Not Mrs. Rossi. N-O.

  A sharp pang hits Wes’s chest. His spine locks.

  “It’s not as if you treat it like privileged info.” Kyra shrugs. Her cardinal and gold USC sweatshirt has been shredded into an off-the-shoulder crop top. It smells of dark roasted coffee. The overpowering scent is the only thing keeping him conscious.

  “You two looked kind of cozy the other night,” Cooper comments. “At The Howls.”

  They didn’t. They were only talking.

  “And you disappeared,” Kyra points out.

  Yeah, so Wes could walk Nico home. They held hands, but only to balance Nico. That’s it. No kiss goodnight. Only a long, silent hug before Nico stumbled inside.

  “We’re just friends,” Wes says, his voice as deflated as it was in his head that night.

  “Hear me out.” Cooper clasps his hands together. “I think I have the perfect ship name. Nesley.”

  “Like the chocolate company?” Lucas asks, suddenly right next to Wes.

  “Almost. The first letter of Nico’s name and then the end of Wes’s name. N-E-S-L-E-Y.”

  “I like it,” Lucas says, way too into this very unfunny game.

  “I liked Weco,” Kyra huffs.

  “It sounds like a gas station,” Cooper argues gently. He pivots toward Wes. “How do you feel about it?”

  Wes feels the same way he feels about Oasis’s music—absolutely nothing. A knot forms behind his skull. His right eye twitches. His fingers curl inward, squeezing to manage the shaking spreading from his shoulders to his forearms. He’s only blocked from releasing his wrath upon Cooper by a raised voice escaping one of the aisles.

  “Just tell me what book you want? Pick one. Any of them.”

  It’s a man with a blond beard and thinning hair wrecked by his large hands. He’s a giant compared to the young girl beside him, whose face is splotchy with wet, round cheeks. She’s biting the black polish off her thumbnail while he paces. They have the same pair of downturned brown eyes; his are rimmed red while hers are glassy.

  The rest of the store quiets under the weight of their tug-of-war.

  “Cassie.” He rubs his forehead. “It’s not that hard. Grab any book you want.”

  “I don’t know which one I want!” She hiccups. The threat of more tears is imminent.

  “Just…” He waves a hand around. “There are so many. Grab whatever you want. We’re going to be late for lunch.”

  Cassie sighs wetly at the ceiling. “I’ve read most of them.”

  “I know,” he grumbles.

  “Why are you rushing me?”

  “I have—”

  “You just don’t want to miss golf with Mr. Leeson,” she snaps.

  “Cassie, sweetheart, he’s a very important client,” the man says through his white-strips-bright teeth.

  “They’re all important,” whispers Cassie, dejectedly. She sniffs hard.

  A thick vein throbs along the man’s forehead. He sucks in his cheeks, looking ready to unleash another complaint, but someone in the doorway cuts him off.

  “Hey!” Ella yanks off a pair of big, dark sunglasses. Hair knotted into one long braid she flicks off her shoulder, she strolls into the bookstore. She stops in front of Cassie. The man, whom Wes presumes is her dad, glares at Ella. Cassie looks at her Doc Martens, then scans Ella. Her eyes bulge when she realizes Ella’s wearing the same boots.

  “Excuse me, miss, but—”

  Without looking, Ella holds up a finger to cut off Cassie’s dad. “Sorry, Pops, but it sounds like this badass future rock star needs my assistance.” She smirks at Cassie.

  Cassie’s mouth twitches up nervously before blooming into a full smile.

  “I’m Ella,” Ella says, up-nodding.

  Cassie sniffles again. “I’m Cassie.”

  “Okay, Cassie. This is pretty simple,” says Ella, pushing at the sleeves of her black leather jacket. “We’re gonna play a little game.” Behind Ella, Cassie’s dad huffs, arms folded. Ella ignores him.

  Wes parks it on the countertop. He loves when this happens. Ella might be an undeniable slacker, but when it comes to customers—especially teens—and books, she’s a fairy godmother. Her bibliophile skills know no end.

  “What do you like to read?”

  “Uh.” Cassie mashes her left foot onto her right. “Fantasy.” She peeks over Ella’s shoulder at her dad. He’s still scowling, but it’s starting to soften around the edges.

  Quietly, Cassie adds, “Dark fantasy.”

  “Favorite author?”

  “Leigh Bardugo.”

  “Favorite book?”

  Mouth open, Cassie pauses as if considering the question. Then she says, “A Darker Shade of Magic.”

  Ella nods, an eyebrow ticking upward. Her approval’s showing. “Strong choices.” She points behind Cassie, two shelves down. “Let me introduce you to a friend of mine named Holly Black.”

  “Okay,” Cassie whispers, trailing behind Ella with her father in tow.

  The magic of Ella Graham is limitless.

  Cassie and her dad return to the front counter with four books and a handful of buttons. Cassie’s face is luminous as a halo of gold. Her dad drops one of those heavy, black credit cards on the woodgrain and shakes his head. But, on the way out, he circles his long arm around her wide shoulders, pulling her close to kiss the top of her head.

  Ella replaces Wes on the counter. “Another hard day’s work.”

  “You just got here,” Cooper says while flipping through the CD collection.

  Before Ella can eviscerate Cooper with her comeback, Kyra says, “El. You act tough, but you love this place.”

  “I do not,” Ella replies flatly.

  “You do. You love these customers. You love changing people’s lives,” Kyra says.

  “Shut up.” Ella pushes her bangs back, which only highlights the tiny curl at the corners of her mouth. “I have a rep to maintain.”

  “Besides…” Ella’s mouth finally succumbs to a soft smile as she stares at the empty doorway. “Us big girls have to stick together.”

  Wes considers calling out Ella’s nonchalant façade but doesn’t. Maybe she sees a bit of herself in Cassie. Maybe that strain between father and daughter is relatable in ways she doesn’t talk about often. Ella can pretend her heart’s made of goth rock music rejects all she wants.

  When it comes to Once Upon a Page, she’s a softy. She loves it here as much as Wes does.

  Maybe more.

  Cooper thumps a hand on the counter.

  “I’m telling you—Pop-Tarts are the superior any-meal pastry.”

  Lucas wrinkles their nose. “Incorrect. Evidence shows that Toaster Strudels are exceptionally better in taste and overall effect.”

  “What? You’re bananas.”

  “It’s true.”

  Cooper psshs, waving a dramatic hand at Lucas. “False statement. Toaster Strudel requires too much prep and practiced execution to be an any-meal, on-the-go snack. From perfected frozen-to-hot completion, in which the middle is cooked to the same heat as the outer edges, to the flawless crosshatch application of the icing. It’s too complicated. A five-year-old could create the perfect Pop-Tart. It’s just facts.”

  “Which lowers the Pop-Tart’s overall approval rating,” Lucas counters. “Simplicity doesn’t always equal quality.”

  Cooper smacks a hand over his eyes, groaning.

  They’ve been at it for, according to the time on Wes’s phone, no less than thirty minutes. That’s enough time for Anna to come in for
her shift, Kyra to pop into Brews and Views to grab a tea for Wes and a chocolate croissant for Anna, and Ella to take two breaks from helping Wes reshelve books.

  It’s been chill since Cassie and her dad exited. The handful of shoppers, Cooper’s been able to manage while breaking down the science of Pop-Tarts for Lucas. Mrs. Rossi’s office door is ajar, but she’s not there. She called it quits an hour ago. But it’s not as though she’s been on the floor interacting with customers anyway. Mostly, Wes’s caught her looking over paperwork, occasionally pinching the bridge of her nose or rubbing her temples.

  It’s left a mucky feeling in his stomach.

  We need to raise money for this place ASAP.

  Wes’s phone buzzes. He has five notifications staring him down: a calendar reminder about checking out potential floral shops with Leeann, a text from Leo he hasn’t bothered to read, two texts from Calvin he’s definitely avoiding. Honestly, Wes doesn’t know how to reply to him anymore. All these suggestions about college stress him the hell out.

  Then there’s an Instagram notification from @manus808. He commented on Wes’s last post. Wes is saving it for his break, which he hopes is soon, because he could kill at least two carnitas tacos and a MexiCoke from Taco Libre right now.

  “I’ve got news from Zay.” Ella’s perched on the counter with her phone raised.

  Wes pauses, a small book stack in his arms.

  “He’s possibly lined up an author to do an event here.”

  A wave of excited nausea hits Wes’s stomach. He rearranges the books under one arm. “Who?”

  Ella’s mouth puckers, a move Wes recognizes as hesitation. Then she says, “Morgan Weatherford.”

  Wes’s arm goes slack. He falters, almost dropping the books but catches himself.

  Morgan Weatherford? Hell. No.

  “Who?” Cooper asks, head tilted.

  “You know. The Morgan Weatherford.” Ella flaps a hand around. “He wrote Heir of Dragons.”

  “Oh.” Cooper drags out the “H” forever, rubbing his chin. “Dude’s ancient. Didn’t that book come out like eight years ago?”