“Yup,” says Calvin, holding the cup higher, almost dropping his phone. The joy in his voice collapses the light-years of distance between them, as if Calvin’s right here in Santa Monica with Wes, both of them stretched lazily across the green sofa with twin cups. “Thai ginger. Do you remember drinking this?”
Wes nods, eyes wet. A sleeping, curled memory stretches in his chest. Its blissful light overtakes Wes’s cells. Calvin’s drinking herbal tea. He’s thinking of Wes.
I can do this.
“So, uh.” Wes clears his throat. “Can we talk about college?”
* * *
On Thursday morning, before the ivory imprint of the moon disappears, Wes jogs down the stairwell to Colorado Avenue. From the sidewalk, he can view the unlit blue-white arch welcoming tourists to Santa Monica Yacht Harbor. The air’s slightly damp and cool. Eugene’s already inside Brews and Views, setting up the espresso machines for the seven a.m. crowd. A soundtrack of birds and rolling waves from the beach whispers into the streets.
It’s like every other morning Wes has been here, in front of Once Upon a Page, before the bookstore opens.
But today it’s different. There’s a weight on his shoulders he’s ready to remove. There’s a hollowness in his chest that needs to be filled.
When Wes opens the door, he inhales the scent of new books and old carpet. In a few hours, the bookstore will smell like sand and ocean. In a month, the bookstore will probably reek of new paint and retail commercialism. Anna forgot to turn off the neon BOOKS sign in the window last night. The pink letters aren’t the only lights glowing in Wes’s vision.
In the back corner, the office shines like a beacon.
Wes’s fingers drag along the shelves as he navigates the aisles. What happens to the books when a bookstore closes? Are they donated to charity? Given to schools? Put in a storage locker, where their stories grow old and lifeless in the dark?
The void in Wes’s chest expands, but he carries on.
Mrs. Rossi is hunched at her desk. Her hair’s more gray than pink now. Sitting on a messy stack of papers is a used copy of The Heart of the Lone Wolf. Mrs. Rossi’s mumbling to herself; her left hand trembles as she attempts to hold a pen. “Heaven help me!”
Wes frowns, then clears his throat. “Hey?”
“Good morning,” Mrs. Rossi croaks, lifting her head. She’s pale; her face is clean of any makeup. It amplifies the sadness in her brown eyes, the wrinkles at her mouth. Her right hand crosses over to grip the left. After a moment, the shakes subside. “It’s fine.”
Wes nods. They both know she’s lying.
The office chair squeaks loudly as she reclines. “You’re here early.”
“I wanted to—” His voice breaks. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“I was wondering when you were going to finally ask.”
“Ask?” Wes’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Mmhmm.” She brushes hair off her forehead, her hand shaking again. “I’ve known you for a lifetime, Wes. I knew it’d take you ages to come to me about what’s happening with this place. I’m sure it’s been eating you alive.”
“You knew I knew?”
Mrs. Rossi tuts. “Of course I did.” Her eyes close; her inhalations are long, and she exhales noisily. “You’re all a hot mess. You’ve been running around here, having events after hours and shuffling my store around, and doing everything under the sun to save it.”
“You knew?” Wes can’t control the volume in his voice.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I’m old, but I’m not naïve.” She snorts. “Hell, half the time, you forgot to rearrange the bookshelves to the right places.”
A tactical error. Wes shouldn’t have trusted Cooper and Zay with those tasks. But his eyes narrow, and he hisses, “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you just let us—” He sucks in a loud breath. “You let us fight for this place while you just disappeared. What the hell?”
“I let you try to save this bookstore for many reasons,” Mrs. Rossi says firmly.
Wes allows the silence to surround them. Then, voice shaky, he says, “Why?”
She shuts her eyes again. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve told all of you, but,” she pauses, her throat bobbing. Wes waits. Nose wrinkled, she says, “Part of me wanted to believe that you could do it. Bring back the customers. Keep this place afloat just a little longer.”
Her hands grip the chair’s armrests. White knuckles. Blue veins. Age and wear and unsteadiness.
“That’s not fair of me. To expect so much of everyone else.” She blinks her eyes open. They’re shiny brown moons. “To expect so much of you.”
Wes leans against the doorframe. He tries to control his expression. He failed the bookstore. He failed her. But Mrs. Rossi failed him too. And that’s the hardest part to digest. Ella’s right—she’s the closest thing to a second mom for all of them.
“I also didn’t say anything because I know you. This is your home,” she squeaks. The tremble in her voice is almost too much for him. “It’s my home too. Decades, Wes. I’ve given this place decades, but I can’t keep it going. I can’t keep going.”
Wes crosses his arms. His expression hardens. “But someone else could’ve.”
Mrs. Rossi shakes her head.
It’s selfish. If she’s too tired to keep going, then retire. Give the reins to someone like Anna. Or one of the local bookstore managers that have been ousted by online retailers destroying the lifeline of independent bookstores.
Maybe… him. Wes doesn’t know all the ways Once Upon a Page operates, but he knows enough.
“You’re just giving up on something that means a lot to this community,” he snaps. “You can retire. But you can’t just let this place go.”
“I can,” she bites back. “It’s mine.”
“No, it’s the property of some bullshit, commercialized coffeehouse now.”
“You don’t understand.”
Those three words strike the flame over the kerosene in his chest. “How am I supposed to? I’m eighteen. Everyone expects me to just wake up and have my shit together. I’m supposed to have a plan.” His chest heaves, his brain on fire. “But everything I come up with isn’t good enough. I’m adult enough for expectations, but not adult enough to know what I want.”
“Wes, sweetheart, it’s not—”
“You gave me my first and only job at sixteen.” Wes hates how pathetic his voice sounds. It’s whiny. It’s filled with ache. “You were the one person that believed in me. But even you didn’t believe I was adult enough to handle any of this.”
There’s a thick pause. A few pieces of gray-pink hair fall over Mrs. Rossi’s forehead. She inhales, but it looks as though it takes so much effort. Then she says, “Wes, I’m sick,” in a voice that he swears comes from somewhere else.
“What?”
“I’m sick,” she repeats. Before he can ask, she tells him, “Brain tumor,” and follows with “I found out earlier this year,” and finally “They think I have a fighting chance, but the statistics say otherwise. I’ve tried avoiding added stress. Taking more time to relax. I gave it my all but, if I hold on to this place, I’ll be living the time I have left worried I did the wrong thing by not letting it go.”
Wes isn’t sure he’s breathing or standing.
She’s sick. Doctors say Mrs. Rossi’s dying. Wes blinks repeatedly. Tiny black holes form throughout his body, devouring every nerve. He’s numb.
“There’s too much debt, sweetheart,” she says weakly. “Do you honestly think I could afford to keep all of you on staff with no customers? I did it because I know how much all of you, even Ella, love this place. But I can’t put that burden on someone else.”
Words try to climb into his mouth, but they keep slipping on the bile coating his throat.
“I want what time I have left spent not stressing ov
er what could be,” she says, eyes wet. “I want to spend it with my husband. I want all of us to move on. And I’m sorry I didn’t convey that in the right way.”
Wes finally inhales.
“They promised me they’d keep a corner of the coffeehouse dedicated to books.” She taps the spine of Savannah Kirk’s novel. “I spent decades trying to make sure people found the stories they needed to go on. To live. To heal and to love. To fight. The least I could do is make sure there’s still a piece of me in this damn space.”
Tears latch onto Wes’s eyelashes.
“It’s just a place,” she says, waving a trembling hand around her head. “It’s just a bookstore. A thing.”
“It’s not,” he tries to argue.
“It is. Just a possession.” Her grin is an unshakable force. “It’s filled with amazing memories, but we don’t get to take our possessions with us everywhere. We leave those behind. But the memories—damn it, Wes, we get to take the memories with us to wherever our next road may lead.”
There’s a coffee mug at the edge of her desk. She reaches for it, but her hand shudders too much to grab. Wes steps into the office. He passes it to her, hands cupped around hers.
“I tried so hard,” he says, choked. “I wanted to fix this for you.”
Now he’s the selfish one. Poor Wes Hudson, incapable of adulting.
“I tried,” he repeats. “I’m not an adult. I can’t make an impact.”
Mrs. Rossi takes a long, slow sip of coffee. Then she says, “Excuse me, but are you smoking? Are you high?”
Wes lurches back, stunned. Then he cracks up.
“An impact? Have you not seen the change in Lucas?” she asks.
He’s noticed the small things—Lucas’s giant smile every time they walk through the door. The way they’re more talkative. Their change in clothes. But that’s not because of him, right?
“Lucas’s always loved it here. But since they’ve started hanging out with you, they’re more themselves than I’ve ever seen.” Mrs. Rossi proudly lifts her chin. “Their mom called the other day to thank me. I assured her it was all you. Lucas might not ever have it easy, but every teen should have the right to be their true selves. We should give that to them. Always.”
Wes bites the inside of his cheek, waiting for her to finish.
“I always knew you were great. After all, no average kid hangs around a bookstore.”
Wes chuckles. “It was the comics.”
“Whatever.” Mrs. Rossi tuts again. “Stop trying to make an impact, Wes. Be the impact. For teens like Lucas. But also, for yourself.”
Their silence is filled with inevitable sniffling. “We’re holding onto old, broken things, sweetheart.” Her warm hands grab his. Her eyes are soft, but Wes can still see the doubt edging her pupils. “I don’t know what’ll happen in six months. Or tomorrow. But I can’t change the past. Neither can you. And we can’t stay here hoping the world will make things happen for us. It’s time to let go. Move on.”
Wes nods slowly.
That’s the thing. Some people are chained to their pasts. Some only have tunnel vision for the present. And some are so terrified by their future that they won’t just let it happen. It’s all real. It’s all suffocating.
Mrs. Rossi is right. At some point, everyone has to move forward.
So, Wes does. He presses his store key to her desk. Then he eases his arms around her for a hug. It lasts too long. But that’s okay. Sometimes, it’s appropriate to hold on longer than necessary.
Neither one of them mentions how wet Mrs. Rossi’s shoulder is when he pulls away. They don’t comment on their damp cheeks, or the way they keep sniffling.
They just… move on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“You have one new voicemail.”
“Buenos días, Wesley. ¿Cómo estás? It’s Nico’s mom. Oh, you know that already, don’t you? Duh! Today’s Nico’s father’s birthday. We’re getting together, as a family, down by the beach to watch the sunset and have a small memorial for him. Please come. Around 6:00 p.m. I’m cooking dinner after. You still love my cooking, yes? Te amo.”
“End of message.”
The sun over Santa Monica Beach has begun its lethargic dip behind the horizon. Wes haphazardly rolls his white shirtsleeves to his elbows. He presses down the shirt’s collar. Then, discreetly, he lifts one arm, sniffing. Still fresh. He didn’t have a chance to shower after his shift.
Behind him, an ivory house trimmed in blue looks over the soft sand. Wes spent half of his high school years in that house. He knows the legs of the table on the patio are uneven. He knows there’s a spare key under one of the potted spider plants. He knows the open window on the second floor is Nico’s.
Wes knows Mrs. Alvarez’s scent—mangoes and light roast coffee—when she finds him. She tugs him into a long hug. He holds her tightly as evening joggers and cyclists maneuver around them.
“Te extrañé,” she says into his ear.
Wes knows this, too—I missed you. It’s what she always says, no matter if it’s been months or hours since they were last around each other. She steps back, auditing him. He rubs a damp hand across the back of his curls.
“You look great,” she finally says.
Embarrassed, Wes stammers, “Thank you Mrs. Alva—” but she cuts him off.
“Guadalupe,” she insists, just like Mr. Alvarez would. “Just Lupe, you know that.”
He can’t fix his lips to say Lupe. “It’s good to see you,” he replies instead.
“You too.” She fires off a series of questions. How was Italy? How are his parents? How is Leo? She’s heard about the wedding and wants all the necessary details. After Wes has rambled about how Leeann’s checklists make his look inferior, Lupe talks about her daughters with this unnamable glow. She mentions Nico and Stanford, and Wes dutifully forces out a grin that his lips barely hold.
“I bet you’re excited about school,” says Lupe.
“So hyped.”
Lupe hums. Wes suspects she notices the flatness in his tone, but she says, “Just like that Nico. Undecided,” without any explanation.
“Uh. Sure.”
“Come.” She links her arm with his, gently pulling. “Walk with me.”
They follow the bike path. She leads him onto the sand, closer to the pier and roaring Pacific Ocean. The water drifts so far up the shore, it shreds someone’s forgotten sandcastle. Wes loves the way the sun looks against Lupe’s already warm face.
“Martín loved this hour,” she says to the ocean. “He loved the sunset. He’d talk about how this is when you knew it was okay to let whatever was troubling you go. Because the day was ending. “Don’t carry today into tomorrow,” he’d tell our children.”
Her mouth falters, almost frowning.
She’s inches shorter than Wes, just like Nico. Carefully, he leans close. A reminder. If she needs comfort, he’s here.
“It doesn’t hurt as much to miss him now. Not for me.” She tilts her chin up; her eyes blink shut. “But I know it’s still hard for Nico.”
Wes is expecting tears when her eyes flutter open, but there are none.
“God, I’d never wish to lose that wonderful man, but if I had a choice, it’d be for it to happen later. When Nico was away, doing things for himself.” Her mouth twitches. “He doesn’t have to tell me he misses Martín. He doesn’t have to explain why he’s going to school over three hundred miles away to simultaneously fix something that wasn’t his fault and to get away from the painful memories of it all. But I wish he was doing this for himself; not for me or Martín.”
Wes can’t find a place to rest his eyes. The sunset. The gold-green water. A group of teens down the shore, taking a selfie. Lupe’s indifferent expression, the battle between her curled mouth and frowning eyebrows.
“Why don’t you try
to talk him out of it?”
Lupe laughs, both short and defeated. “You think I could?”
Probably not. Nico’s too stubborn.
“When I look at him, I still see mi pequeño sol, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t let him make decisions for himself,” she explains. “I’ve always encouraged my children to be themselves. I’m not here to dictate. I’m here to listen, support, love, and interfere when they do stupid things.”
“Like chugging milkshakes while smashing an entire extra jalapeño-pepperoni pizza?” A smile teases Wes’s lips.
“I don’t understand you boys.” She pretends to gag. “Jesus, the smell coming from Nico’s bathroom that day. It was so offensive.”
Wes tips his head back, guffawing at the sky.
The wind off the ocean sways the hem of Lupe’s white dress. Her hair’s dark, like a sky emptied of a moon and stars. It continuously dances into her face. “I just want Nico to figure himself out,” she says. “He can be a doctor. Or a skater. He can be bisexual or pan or whatever feels right. He can be here or Palo Alto.”
Her bottom lip trembles. One of them is three seconds from crying. Probably him.
“I just want him to do it for himself.”
“I want the same for you, Wesley,” she adds, pinching his wrist. “You two are so different, but so alike. It’s like I have two sons.”
Wes chuckles. It’s easier to laugh than for him to confront the sting in his eyes and the way his sinuses are ready to explode. Honestly, he’s been stuck on the top of an emotional rollercoaster for an entire summer and, at some point soon, he’s going to crash.
“He loves you,” she says. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah, sure. We’re friends—”
“No.” She shakes hair out of her face. “Loves you. In love.”
The way she says it, so confident and pure and amazed—Wes’s chest aches. He doesn’t need Google to tell him what’s coming.
“How do you know?” he asks, choked.
“Please. Nico’s definitely Martín’s son.” Lupe smirks, eyebrows climbing her forehead. “Do you think I don’t recognize the way Martín would stare at me doing the most ordinary things is the same way my son looks at you reading a comic book or shoveling food in your mouth? Ha.”
The Summer of Everything Page 24
