Summer Girl: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Happily Forever)

by A. S. Green

  “Tits and ass,” Natalie explains.

  “Oh.” I look down at myself. I’ve always liked my curves but, compared to Alli, my “t and a” are definitely of the lowercase variety.

  “So?” Natalie asks, her question prodding. “Quit your worrying and give me the goods.”

  I look at her with confusion then glance nervously toward the football game when a peal of laughter carries across the sand. “The goods?”

  “You guys want a marshmallow?” Rachel calls out.

  Natalie waves her off then folds her arms. She torques the corner of her mouth, and her expression is a strange mix of accusation and sympathy. She leans into my ear in case Rachel can still hear her us. “Did you kiss him, or did he kiss you?”

  I sigh and lie the ugliest lie I’ve ever told. “What makes you think that? I have no interest in kissing him.”

  “Because you’ve settled for that guy back home?” Natalie asks.

  My stomach plummets, remembering my telephone conversation with Andrew. There’s nothing settled between the two of us. Everything I’ve been working toward seems to have been built on shifting sand.

  “What is it with everyone and this ‘settled’ thing?” I ask, maybe a little too loudly, because Bennet turns his head toward me, then runs for the goal line—all while dragging a laughing Alli behind him.

  A gust of air catches my ponytail, whipping it across my face. I’m barely able to see Bennet as he tucks the football under his arm and jogs toward me. Natalie moves quickly away, but not before shooting me a knowing look.

  “What’s going on?” he asks. “You look upset.” His fingers graze subtly against mine. I don’t pull my hand away, which surprises me. Maybe him, too, since right now we are so obviously on display.

  “Everything’s fine.” I shiver and return to the bonfire, pulling his buffalo blanket even closer to the flames.

  “Sit by us?” Alli asks Bennet as she finds her place by Rachel, but he doesn’t seem to hear her. He sits beside me while Natalie discreetly takes the ball from him and tosses it back to Bruce and Ryan.

  “Well, that’s good,” Bennet says, whispering, his lips brushing the curve of my ear, “because after that kiss I’ve been thinking more about our conversation the other day, about what a sensual person you are.”

  “Not that again,” I whisper back, hyperconscious of the fact that while Natalie, Rachel, and Alli might not be able to hear us, they are certainly watching us a little too closely. Bennet doesn’t seem to care.

  “Yep. And I’ve got some surprises in store for you.”

  My eyebrows fly up. “Um…didn’t I tell you I wasn’t a big fan of surprises?”

  “You’ll like mine. Call them my ‘lessons in the senses.’ We’ll start slow.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Alli asks.

  “Nothing,” Bennet says. “Only that I brought my guitar, if anyone likes to sing.”

  “Ooo, campfire songs,” Rachel says. “Seriously. I’ve got an impressive repertoire of old TV theme songs busting to get out.”

  At which point she and Alli burst into the theme song to “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.”

  I hadn’t noticed Bennet’s guitar before. It’s in a black case tucked under a scrub tree and nearly invisible in the darkness. I’m glad Rachel’s up for singing because I don’t want Bennet to hear my voice. I was moved from Soprano I to Alto II and back up again before the ninth-grade choir director decided there wasn’t a category for me. Have you thought about band? she’d asked, and that had been the end of my pop-star ambitions.

  If Bennet means to give me lessons in the senses, I’m hoping music isn’t one of them. I can only imagine how entertaining he’d find that.

  “Here’s one you don’t know,” he says.

  “Yet,” I say, assuming it’s going to be one of his original compositions.

  “Yet,” he says, pointing at me, and I melt a little bit more when he starts plucking out the sweetest melody. “It’s not quite done, but it’s called ‘Callisto.’”

  The lyrics are already like a favorite blanket, soft and warm and intimate, and his velvet voice covers me.

  Do you know her name? Callisto.

  Can you find her in the stars? Callisto.

  She’s hunting for that man who got past her.

  A lifelong disaster

  chasing the skies, chasing the skies.

  How do you fight against a dream, Callisto?

  When all you are is just a girl, Callisto?

  They’ll turn you into something new

  against the blue

  skies, chasing the skies, Callisto.

  And that’s where I find you,

  Among the misaligning stars,

  fighting wars that aren’t your making

  and my heart is nearly breaking.

  Do you know her name? Callisto.

  Can you find her in the stars? Callisto.

  She’s hunting for that man who got past her.

  A lifelong disaster

  chasing the skies, chasing the forever skies.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  BENNET

  When I’m done, the last chord hangs on the air, and I sit in stunned silence. Without knowing what I was doing, I finished the song. I look up at Katherine, and the firelight flickers across her face. A satisfied smile plays at her lips like she knows what just happened.

  She can’t know. There’s no way she can know what she’s doing to me.

  I wish we were alone. Then maybe I’d tell her. Maybe.

  But we’re not alone.

  Everyone is watching me, watching her, and it’s like everything I should say to her privately is being broadcast in the starry sky above our heads.

  “Well, that was the shit!” Alli exclaims, and her voice fractures the perfect silence of the moment.

  Katherine closes her eyes and lets out a withering sigh.

  Natalie says, “Jesus, Alli.”

  “Well, it was,” Alli says. “Bennet. Seriously. That was beautiful. You should really do something with your music. Why are you wasting your time driving a ferry?”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Katherine whispers. Her eyes are intent on my face.

  I don’t take my eyes off Katherine, but I answer Alli. “If I didn’t have a job on the ferry, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Right now.” And here and now is exactly where I want to be.

  “I should thank your boss,” Katherine says with a sly smile. “Make him cookies or something. Win him over.”

  I tip my head back and laugh because that’s about the funniest thing I ever heard. “Win over Doyle? You can try,” I say, and she says, “Yeah. I want to try.”

  There’s meaning there. Meaning I want to grab on to. Once more I wish we were alone. The taste of her lips is still on my tongue. It wouldn’t surprise me if I could still taste her there tomorrow. And then what?

  Is tonight a one-off, or are we building something? Short-term, but definitely genuine?

  Natalie and Rachel are talking now. Bruce and Ryan are chiming in. Their voices blend in my ears, but I’m not following the actual words. Katherine is staring into my eyes, and she’s answering all my questions. This is not a one-off. For the first time in a long time, this is something solid. This is something real.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  KATHERINE

  Some people read tea leaves. I read bedding. When I wake up with the blankets fluffed but still flat across the bed, the edge still securely tucked under my chin, both pillows still in place and cool from the morning air, I know the day will be perfect.

  My premonition is off to a good start when, after four days of not seeing or hearing from him at all (four days of wondering if he’s had second thoughts about me), Bennet knocks once and walks into the kitchen. “Are you ready?”

  I look up from my cereal, and my heart goes into overdrive. Milk drips from my chin. My mouth is full, but I answer anyway. “Weady fo’ wha?” I am already over being sur
prised by his spontaneous appearances.

  “Mass. It starts in half an hour.” He leans casually in the doorframe, silhouetted by the early morning light behind him. His hair looks like it might actually be combed, though his shirt and pants are as rumpled as always.

  “I’m not Catholic,” I say, dismissing him with my hand.

  He slips his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. He’s not even properly dressed for church. I can’t imagine Andrew in anything that wasn’t pressed and tucked. “Dress for the success you seek,” Andrew always says. Bennet dresses as if he’s already found it.

  “I’m not Catholic, either,” he responds.

  I’m lucky I’d swallowed or I would have been in danger of shooting milk out my nose. “Then why are we going?”

  “Your first lesson in awakening the senses. Trust me. You won’t be disappointed.”

  He’s taking me to church to teach me about being sensual? Good God. “I’m not dressed yet.”

  He frowns at my resistance, but he isn’t easily discouraged. “So get dressed.” An odd expression spreads across his face. “You have a hat, don’t you? Women have to wear hats in a Catholic church.”

  I groan. “One. But it’s a huge, floppy beach hat. I wouldn’t exactly call it church appropriate.” I consider what that would look like and shake my head. “I’m not going.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sit in the back.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”

  “Just get dressed, will you?”

  I stare at him. He’s not going to let up. “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. I get up and throw my dishes into the sink without rinsing them. He is irritatingly persuasive. Actually, it doesn’t take much skill. Despite my best efforts, I am happy to spend time with him regardless of how ridiculously that time might be spent. “But you’ll see. I’m going to look like a joke.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. Remember, I’ve seen you in your Sponge Bob nightie.”

  I roll my eyes, retreat to my bedroom, and throw on a short-sleeved white blouse and the one good skirt I brought with me—a green and a white floral with a green belt. I find the wide, floppy-brimmed straw hat that Andrew sent. It’s enormous, twenty inches across. As a final thought, I throw on some dark sunglasses. Maybe no one will recognize me.

  When I emerge, Bennet is by the kitchen table. His mouth twitches at the corners as he looks me over. “Yeah. We’ll definitely have to sit in the back. You look like you’re trying to avoid the paparazzi.”

  “Oh, come on,” I whine, pulling back in resistance. “You can’t still be serious? They won’t let me in the door like this.”

  “Yes, they will.” He grabs my hand, and electricity pulses up my arm. “Come on. My truck’s running.”

  “Fine,” I retort, and I stomp out ahead of him, leading the way.

  St. Francis of Assisi church is on the opposite side of the island, near Paddy’s and overlooking the lake. Its foundation is made of large blocks of brownstone. The architecture is Romanesque: simple lines, and rounded archways adorned with primitive representations of wild rice painted in ocher and blue. There are only twenty rows of pews with a center aisle. Even sitting in the back we won’t be able to escape notice.

  I take my seat, and already, two little girls are turned around in their pew, pointing and giggling at me. I glance around the church and realize I’m the only one wearing a hat. I shoot Bennet an accusatory look. His shoulders are bouncing with silent laughter.

  I whip the hat off my head and hit him with it—twice—before sinking low in my seat. “You are so going to pay for this.”

  “Sorry,” he says, still laughing. “I couldn’t resist.”

  I glare at him.

  “Sorry,” he says again, with his hand over his mouth. “Really.”

  “Jerk.” I spot Natalie sitting across the aisle and several rows ahead of us. She is with a gray-haired man. Probably her father, the postmaster. Mr. and Mrs. Tremblay from the grocery store are here, too. Actually, most of the town seems to be in attendance.

  The familiar yearning tugs at my stomach. My parents and I were never regular churchgoers, only Christmas and Easter, but at least on those two days we sat together. I fidget.

  “Relax,” Bennet says. “We’re here to tantalize your need for sensual stimulation.”

  “How?” I seethe through my teeth. “I don’t think this is appropriate.” Andrew would definitely not approve.

  He smiles smugly and whispers again. “Prepare for sensory overload. The first is sight. Look around you.”

  The lighting in the church is dim, but the early morning sun streams through stained-glass windows. At the front of the church, an enormous crucifix is suspended from the ceiling by invisible cables. It appears to be levitating above the altar. Below it and to its right, small votive candles are flickering in blue glass beneath a carving of a beautiful woman wearing a rose-colored mantle and standing on a globe. Stars are painted around her. I admire the confident look on her face; it isn’t smug, exactly, but more knowing. It is the look of being in on a secret.

  At the back of the church stands a young priest. He is dressed elaborately in a green robe embroidered in gold and white. White cut-lace cuffs peek from beneath the robe’s green sleeves. The only hint of a secular life are his black shoes, scuffed on the toes. He is hovering at the back of the church, his head bowed, waiting for some signal.

  “He’s beautiful,” I murmur.

  “That’s what I hear,” Bennet says. “The ladies in town call him Father What-a-Waste. Okay now, close your eyes.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him.

  “The rest of your senses will be more focused if your eyes are closed. The next is sound.”

  I comply, and a second later, as if sensing an unspoken cue, the people burst into song, singing a cappella. The women’s voices are louder, more confident than the men’s. There is no sound of books being pulled out or pages being turned. They are singing from memory, a song they have probably been singing since infancy. It’s Latin and unfamiliar to me.

  The words blend and blur, flowing into one continuous sound. It’s intoxicating. The music pulses and sways. Stops then starts. There are no harmonies, only the simplest of melodies that sound medieval in a romantic sort of way. Visions of brown-cloaked monks on windy cliffs fill my thoughts—rugged and fearless and devout. The chanting continues, but now there is a new sound: rhythmic, high, and metallic. It reminds me of the halyards clanking against the masts in the marina.

  Bennet’s fingers draw careless designs against my leg. He’s going to have to stop doing that if he doesn’t want me to make an even bigger scene than I did with the hat, like maybe straddling him right here in the pew.

  He whispers, “Now comes smell.”

  He’s right. Perfume. Smoke. Incense is filling my nose and tickling my throat. The fragrance drifts and sifts through the air, rising into what I imagine is a blue cloud on the ceiling. I want to see where it’s coming from. I shift, and Bennet recognizes my intent.

  “Keep ’em closed,” he orders. “Now we feel.” Butterflies circle through my stomach as he says, “Remember that bit of water on your forehead? You can start with that.”

  I focus there, remembering when we entered the church. I had dipped my finger in the holy water font and, copying the others who were coming in, crossed myself, touching the water to my forehead. Now that I am focusing on it, even though the water has dried by now, I can still feel the way its coolness fizzed against my skin.

  “Okay, you can open your eyes now.” Bennet touches my elbow and, as a single unit and without any obvious cue, the people stand, then sit, then stand again, only to sit, then lower to their knees. The benches groan with the shifting weight.

  Bennet and I follow along. The kneelers are covered in an ineffective cushion, and in a few minutes my legs are tingling and pain is shooting, searing, through my kneecaps.

  “It’s a shared pain,” Bennet whisper
s, but whatever pain we’re feeling is eclipsed by the agony played out on the crucifix at the front of the church.

  Standing behind the altar, the priest raises a white circle. High-pitched bells ring out. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound reverberates in my head even after the altar server had laid them down.

  It is clearly an important moment. The solemnity of the people is so intense it is palpable. It raises the hair on my arms. The people rise and slowly file to the front. I know there is only one of my five senses that will go unsatisfied.

  “The body of Christ,” announces the young man, over and over.

  “Amen.” The response repeats. Bennet takes my hand, and we slip out of the pew and exit the back of the church. The door is propped open with the wooden statue of a saint. Its paint is chipped. Outside, the sun is painfully bright, and I blink.

  “So what did you think?” Bennet asks, watching my face.

  “It was…beautiful. Very…sensory. I totally see what you mean.” I close my eyes, letting the last strains of the music sift out the door and right through my body.

  “Yeah, I know.” He exhales. “This priest says Mass like it’s a full-contact sport.”

  “Do you come every Sunday?” I ask.

  “No. But I like to have new experiences, and thought you might, too.” He looks at me with an expression of pure satisfaction. “I’ve got to work this afternoon, but don’t worry. I’ve got more lessons in store for you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  He smiles, his grin stretching across his whole face, his teeth white in the mid-morning light. He cups my jaw with his hand and strokes his thumb across my lips. “I suspect you still haven’t opened the paints you bought.”

  “I was waiting for—”

  “The perfect moment,” he says, finishing my thought. “Yeah. I figured. Which is why I’m going to take you to Turtle Island tomorrow.”

  My stomach muscles clench as his fingers skim the sides of my ribs. His eyes lock on mine, and I’m trapped by his stare. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.

  “Turtle Island?” I ask through dry lips. My tongue darts out to wet them. The tendon in his jaw flexes as his gaze drops to my mouth.