The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  “Wait!”

  Manu spins around, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders stiff. His mouth’s a thin, nondescript line. But hurt and disappointment shadow his eyes.

  “Please,” Wes heaves. “Wait.”

  Obnoxiously thick, gray clouds hang low in the sky. The air’s already dense with the metallic, earthy smell of rain. Headlights from passing cars pop on, briefly blinding Wes. The first few drops dot the pavement outside the parking garage they’re standing in front of.

  “Wait for what?” Manu asks, eyebrows furrowed.

  Wes gasps. If he’d had three more minutes, he could’ve pulled out his phone and typed up a quick list before running all the way here:

  Top 5 Reasons Manuia Is the One.

  But he didn’t have time. Honestly, he doesn’t know if there are five reasons. More importantly, does he need more than one?

  You’re not Nico.

  At a certain age, crushes stop being fun. They stop being these things that people secretly write about in diaries or online journals or in their next great fanfic story. Crushes become this damning thing: the ultimate hill one must climb. Because once someone gets over a crush, they can see what’s on the other side.

  Thing is, maybe there’s nothing there. Maybe life truly is just a Choose Your Own Adventure and picking the wrong next step is the only way to get somewhere. Anywhere.

  Wes is stuck between an amazing guy in front of him and an old crush behind him.

  “I get it,” Manu says, sighing. He brushes a hand over his hair again. “No hard feelings. It’s cool.”

  “It’s not,” Wes finally wobbles out.

  “But it is,” Manu says, smiling sadly. “Not to lay on the inspirational quote of the day from a Zen IG account or anything, but: ‘The heart wants what it wants.’ Hashtag Emily Dickinson.”

  For a second, Wes imagines Nico liking that quote on Pinterest. Then he hates himself.

  Manu steps forward. “Listen,” he says, sincere.

  Wes tries to. Rain splats on his cheek, his eyelashes. It tags his costume as if the sky is playing a game of paintball and winning. Wes’s chest heaves, betraying him, as Manu’s hand touches his cheek.

  “At some point, you get over someone.” That sadness edging Manu’s mouth almost reaches his eyes. “But I hope you don’t miss out on the rest of the world waiting for that to happen.”

  Wes shivers. Manu’s thumb brushes rain from just under his right eye. Except, Wes isn’t certain that precipitation is what’s wetting his cheeks.

  “Call me, if—” Manu pauses, shaking his head. “Wait, we didn’t exchange numbers.”

  It’s a depressing reality Wes hadn’t realized. He never bothered to ask for Manu’s number so they could communicate like real people instead of two online entities sharing metadata and likes. This was never going anywhere.

  “DM me if things change,” Manu finally says.

  “Okay,” Wes says, hoarsely, fighting off that tremble in his voice. He inhales the scent of summer’s first storm.

  Manu leans closer, then hesitates. He searches Wes’s face for permission.

  Wes nods.

  Manu’s lips taste like coffee and powdered doughnuts and finality. He pulls away first. Wes tries to memorize the moment, eyes closed. His first kiss with a boy in the middle of the afternoon where anyone could see. A cooling, wet thumb strokes the apple of his cheek, then Manu’s gone.

  And Wes lets the rain soak him through.

  Standing just inside the bookstore’s entrance, Wes drips a puddle onto the beat-up carpet. A handful of eyes are on him. He notices Ella has joined the others.

  “What happened?” she demands.

  Wes shrugs, incapable of making his throat work.

  “You just let him go?”

  He nods, biting his lip. The sour flavor of rain tickles his tongue.

  “Why?”

  Wes sniffles. He uses the back of his wrist to wipe water from the end of his nose. His shoes are squishy. He didn’t jog back to the bookstore. He walked. Slowly, shakily, without caring about how soaked his costume would be by the end.

  “Wes,” she says, shaking her head. She’s disappointed in him, which is one hell of an ironic moment coming from Ella Graham. “You’re ruining your life waiting for—”

  He cuts her off. “It’s already ruined, El.”

  It’s pouring outside. The rain splattering on the pavement is marginally louder than Wes’s voice. It’s louder than Zay as he reads to the children still gathered around the carpet. It’s louder than the murmuring from the parents who are now staring at Wes, hands over their mouths as they whisper to each other.

  He’s too much of a mess to give a shit.

  “This…” Wes waves a hand around the bookstore, then smacks it against his own chest. “…isn’t something you can fix with a half-assed effort. You can’t just roll over whenever you want and decide to deal with reality. It’s here. It’s always been here.”

  “I don’t—”

  He interrupts her again. “You do. Don’t feel like dealing with the reality that the bookstore is closing? Show up late. Don’t want to deal with the possibility of heartbreak by having feelings for someone? Hook up, then ghost them.”

  He’s seething, chest inflating too quickly. “Can’t handle the pressure that maybe, just maybe, there are some issues with your parents you have to face head-on or they’ll never be fixed? Camp out at your best friend’s spot for the summer, then pack up for college in the fall. Boom. Mic drop. Peace out, life-givers; it’s been real.”

  Okay, Wes is a certified, dog-faced asshole for that one. Raging against the machine comes with casualties. Unfortunately, that includes one of his closest friends.

  Ella blinks and blinks at him. She doesn’t say anything. Maybe she’s mentally plotting where to hide his body.

  “Ella. Wesley.” Nico wedges between them, his voice a low warning. “Let’s not fight.”

  Two of the parents have their phones pointed at them. Great. Wes’s meltdown will probably be a viral hit in a few hours. Another set of parents are already escorting their children from the story time circle toward the front door. Before they can escape, Cooper yells, “Have a page-turning day!” with as much charm as a guy dressed as Dogman can spare.

  Nico turns to Wes. “¿Estás bien?”

  Something is stuck to Wes’s shoe. He shakes it off. It’s a semi-glossy cardstock flyer for next week’s Speed Booking. Ella and Kyra are supposed to pass them out near the pier tomorrow.

  Reality hits Wes like a runaway train. Next week’s too late. Next month, there won’t be a Once Upon a Page. It’s over. Leo called the time of death a week ago, and Wes has steadily ignored the fact that the cold, lifeless shell that once housed his teen dreams is all but buried.

  “No. I’m not okay.” Wes stumbles back from Nico. “Things aren’t okay; thanks for noticing.” After a deep, unsteady breath, he chokes out, “And we’re not okay either.”

  Nico’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “¿Que?”

  “We’re not okay,” Wes repeats, anger crawling into his voice. He squints to stop anything from leaking out his eyes. “I’ve been trying to…” He doesn’t finish.

  “Trying to what?”

  “Never mind.”

  Wes almost says it. But he’s become such a pro at giving up, the words are like cotton candy in his mouth, dissolving instantly. And the one time he fights, the one time he demands the universe give him what he wants, he fails.

  He failed Once Upon a Page. He failed Mrs. Rossi. The truth is like swallowing glass.

  “Wesley,” Nico repeats, firmer.

  Who was Wes kidding? He can’t save the bookstore. He can’t make Nico see him a certain way. Life isn’t a shortened-for-content, perfectly cast, movie version of his favorite book.

  “I�
��m leaving,” he finally whispers.

  There’s no waiting for protests from Nico or Cooper. He doesn’t make eye contact with Ella. He pretends Anna isn’t standing next to Lucas, wearing a banana costume, looking like a real-life sad-face emoji. Shoes squishing, he slams out the bookstore’s front door.

  No one follows him.

  Wes makes it as far as the stairwell leading up to the loft before falling to his knees, dry-heaving and crying at once.

  He’s so done.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wes has broken rule number one.

  For three days, he’s called out sick for his shifts. In reality, he’s perfectly healthy, but he can’t be inside the bookstore. Not after his Tony Award-winning breakdown.

  “I have a cold,” he says groggily to Mrs. Rossi’s voicemail every morning. She always calls back an hour later. He never answers. She’s texted. He doesn’t check the texts. Yesterday, at eleven a.m., there was a knock at the door and Wes, the burgeoning adult he is, hid in the kitchen with a blanket over his head as if it were an invisibility cloak.

  Mrs. Rossi left him a Tupperware of homemade chicken soup, a gallon of cold-pressed orange juice, and a handwritten note on cartoon kitty stationary:

  Eat. Drink. Feel better! Love, the Rossi family X.

  Wes follows her first two instructions, but it doesn’t cure anything. He’s never missed a shift. He’s never lied to Mrs. Rossi. Guilt eats him alive at three o’clock every day. He’s been sunk into the green sofa’s cushions while Nico’s downstairs, probably holding a cup of tea, anticipating Wes’s appearance behind the front counter.

  But, for seventy-two hours, Nico doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t update his Pinterest. And Wes feels less and less horrible about it all.

  Is this what the fall will be like? No communication? One of us at Stanford, the other… who knows?

  Wes is waiting for his Survival Guide to Being an Adult handbook to show up, but it never does.

  For her part, Ella continues her day-to-day routine without saying a word to him. He was expecting her to pack her bags and leave, but she didn’t. She also didn’t set his bed on fire while he showered the other day, for which Wes is also grateful. Ella just… keeps going.

  He doesn’t FaceTime with his mom, though he texts. Calvin texts, too, but Wes only replies with single-word responses. He hasn’t decided on a field of study. He hasn’t figured out any of the mysteries of the universe.

  It takes twelve DMs on multiple social media apps and a Facebook friend request to Wes’s prehistoric account before he finally agrees to speak to anyone.

  @coopsarrow is hard to ignore.

  “So, what you’re telling me is…” Cooper’s hands are raised, palms out. Moon-sized eyes stare at Wes. “… no one making this movie caught the absurd illogic in this plot?”

  “Nope.”

  “And they tried to explain it away by saying time travel isn’t like Back to the Future, but they did this?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you ignore science?”

  Wes guffaws, tipping back on the green sofa. He hasn’t laughed in days. It’s this strange rumble from his chest, shaking off all the mucous and exhaustion built up from emo-crying over his life. Damn, he’s missed it. “This is why DC is the superior brand,” he says smugly.

  “Whoa.” Cooper shakes his head as if his brain is fried. The end credits of the last Avengers movie are rolling across the screen. “Mind blown.”

  They’ve been marathoning Wes’s definitive list of must-see Marvel films for most of the morning. Cooper, the novice, had only seen Infinity War because of Devon. But, due to length and continual explanations from Wes about plot points, they’ve only made it through two films. Wes doesn’t mind. He’s slumming it in a Shazam onesie with a sauce stain on his chest from yesterday’s microwavable burrito. He hasn’t showered in approximately twenty-six hours. His jaw is itchy with stubble. There’s cheese puff grime in his cuticles.

  Yeah, this is adulting at eighteen.

  At least he remembered to brush his teeth this morning.

  Cooper cracks a yellow can of Red Bull and chugs. The kid’s got a lead stomach. He burps, then says, “So, for continuity purposes… are we going to talk about it?”

  Wes tosses one of his mom’s throw pillows at Cooper. He catches it one-handed. He’s got major hand-eye coordination skills too.

  “No,” Wes yells at the ceiling.

  “But you don’t even know what ‘it’ is.”

  Wes guesses it’s either what happened at the bookstore or Nico or Ella. Maybe it’s Manu. He’s done a daily check to see if Manu’s unfollowed his Insta account. He hasn’t. Wes is sad and grateful about that. At the end of the day, he wants to be Manu’s friend. But the idea of initiating that conversation with Manu makes him nauseous.

  Cooper stares at Wes expectantly.

  He takes a slug of his own Red Bull before whispering, “Fire away.”

  “Well,” Cooper says, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs from the bag. “What’s the deal with school?”

  “What do you mean?” Wes can’t knock the surprise out of his voice.

  Cooper shrugs one shoulder before stuffing the cheese puffs into his mouth. The dust paints his lips orange. “Everyone else is talking about it except for you.” He chews and chews before downing the rest with a gulp of Red Bull. “Anna’s going to be finishing up her degree. Ella plans to brainwash the next generation of kids into being steampunk, ultra-goth, black coffee drinking, rage-against-the-system leaders, which I’m totally not against.”

  Wes snorts before stealing back the bag.

  “Nico’s all Stanford trees that and med school prodigy this.”

  It’s impossible to prevent the flinch that wracks Wes’s entire body. If Cooper notices, he doesn’t mention it.

  “Even Zay’s on some graduate early so he can conquer the music industry gnarliness,” Cooper continues, dusting cheesy crumbs all over his sweats. “Again, I’m not opposed. Have you heard his stuff? It’s wicked.”

  Admittedly, Wes hasn’t heard any of Zay’s latest tunes. Another tidal wave of guilt takes him under. How many pieces of his friends’ lives has he missed in two months of stress and anxiety?

  “But not you,” Cooper says softly, his expression puzzled.

  “I’m… Uh.” The stutter is unavoidable. “I’m going. You know that. UCLA, next month.”

  It’s the only part of Wes’s outline, his entire five-year-adult-plan that’s always been there. But the more Wes thinks about it… Is he the one who scripted that agenda for himself?

  “Yeah, yeah. Go Bruins.” Cooper fists pumps the air with zero enthusiasm. “But, like. You don’t talk about it.”

  “I don’t talk about—”

  “Yes, you do,” Cooper says empathically. “Your obsession with Weezer? You talk about that. Your utter disdain for Oasis and all things Peter Gallagher? You discuss that too. You talk about your love of tea, your favorite comic books, the worst pizza toppings, how you’d direct a Green Lantern movie to erase that CGI, trashcan fire, Ryan Reynolds version from the annals of history.”

  “It was complete shit,” Wes moans. “Ugh.”

  “Geoff Johns, Nirvana’s musical impact on alternative rock greatness, the revolution Dr. Dre created in hip-hop,” Cooper lists every topic on a different finger. “And forgive me if this one burns, but even how you feel about Nico—you whisper to Ella about it when you think none of us are paying attention.”

  Wes stares at his lap. His left foot wiggles anxiously.

  “The things you hate, care about, or are madly in love with, you talk about,” Cooper says quietly, curving forward enough that he appears in Wes’s peripheral vision. Fuzzy, goofy Cooper reminding him that he’s avoiding life like a hypochondriac avoids a person who sneezes.

 
; “I…” The lie can’t make it past Wes’s tongue.

  He doesn’t talk about college.

  “Do you want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He does, right? Does it matter if he’s having second, third, or fourth thoughts about it? All the paperwork is done. He’s been assigned a roommate—it’s in his email. His parents return next week, which means it’ll be a mad dash to get supplies, clothes, boxes, maybe a new laptop.

  He’s going. Right?

  Wes scratches his scruffy chin. “I mean, I’m doing it.”

  Cooper rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got up this morning at six a.m. to walk the dog. Doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

  “But that’s different,” Wes argues.

  “Is it?”

  “It’s optional,” Wes chokes out.

  “So, is college.”

  Well, duh. Wes knows that. There’s such a thing as a gap year. Or not going at all. Wes thinks saving himself and his parents thousands and thousands of dollars in tuition would be the most selfless win ever. But… is that an option for him?

  Keys jiggle in the front door. Wes can hear laughter. And then Ella and Anna walk into the loft. They’re the perfect counterparts: Anna in an off-the-shoulder peasant dress as pale yellow as her hair; Ella in a black T-shirt and jeans, her dark nails cradling a cup of black iced coffee.

  Wes tries to remain perfectly still, as if they’re dinosaurs who can only visually track their prey with movement. It doesn’t work.

  “Sup, Scott Pilgrim and Brutus,” says Ella, dropping her keys on the coffee table before crossing over to sit next to Cooper. Anna follows, waving.

  “Wait. Which one am I?” Cooper asks.

  But, despite the Michael Cera reference, Wes already knows he’s Brutus. He’s a traitor.

  “Hi,” he says quietly to Anna. Then he waves at Ella.

  She slurps her iced coffee loudly, eyes narrowed.

  He deserves her frosty glare. Neither of them have extended an olive branch, but Wes knows he should be the one apologizing. He hasn’t quite figured out the opening act for his Wes Is a Screwup world tour. First stop: Ellaville, California.