“Mike!” I hear one of the boys scream from the family room. “Jake is hogging all the corncobs!”
“Share!” I call back, and then disappear into my room and close the door, temporarily blocking out the sound of the Metzler Twins’ Last Stand.
I slip off my flip-flops and collapse onto my bed. Between a full-day shift maintaining the endless grounds at the club and the clambake, I’m totally beat and my feet are killing me.
I get exactly ninety seconds of peace before someone knocks.
“Come in!” I say.
I expect the boys to come barging in to tell me the dog swallowed a clamshell or something, but instead it’s my dad who steps inside. “You think maybe you can keep them quiet? I’m trying to sleep.”
I snort out a laugh, and he flashes his typical goading grin as he hobbles into my room favoring one foot and sits next to me on the bed. I notice he’s not using his crutches. I would bring it up if I thought it would do any good.
“You think maybe I could spike their milk with cough syrup tonight?” I joke back.
“Already tried that,” he deadpans. “The villains are immune.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a phase.”
Dad cracks up. It’s a little private joke between my parents and me. We’ve been saying it since the twins were six weeks old and wouldn’t stop crying all night. “It’s just a phase.” When they turned two and were throwing dual temper tantrums in the middle of the grocery store, that was just a phase too. And when they were five and first learned the word “sex,” they thought it was hilarious to say it to every person they met. That was one of the more awkward phases.
I bet when they’re forty-five and still running through life like it’s a giant playground, my dad and I will be giving each other the exact same empty reassurances.
“Mom home yet?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “She took an extra shift.”
I hate thinking about my mom working so hard at a job that’s so labor-intensive, but I admit we could really use the money. And she won’t have to clean houses forever. As soon as Harper and I move to New York at the end of the summer and I can get a job that pays a decent salary, I’ll be able to send money home.
The thought of Harper instantly makes my stomach twist, but I quickly push it away, reminding myself that our most recent separation is just a short-term thing. Like all of our separations. She’ll come around. She always does. These “breathers” of hers never last long.
Harper just likes to know that she can run when she needs to. That I’m not an anchor weighing her down. I just wish I didn’t have to keep proving that to her. I wish she’d realize that even when we’re together, I would never hold her back. Her ability to fly is what I love most about her.
Part of the problem is this town. This island. It’s suffocating. But things will be different when we move to New York and start our life together. I mean, our real life. We’ve been planning this move since we were fourteen. Harper is going to star on Broadway, and I . . . Well, I haven’t quite worked out what I’m going to do yet. But I’m not worried. I’m sure the right opportunity will smack me across the face as soon I step off the train.
“So,” Dad begins with a grimace, and I know he’s about to ask me something I won’t like and definitely won’t agree to. “My buddy Dave gave me a heads-up about a big roofing job starting soon. Good money. Two months minimum. It’s one of those rich mainlander mansions on the beach. I thought maybe I’d pick up the job. The mortgage payment is coming up, and—”
“Are you crazy?” I interrupt. “You can barely walk on solid ground, and you want to go traipsing around a poorly shingled roof?”
“It’s not so bad. I’m pretty much healed.”
“The doctor said you’re supposed to stay off that leg for another month.”
Dad swats this away like it’s an annoying fly. “Eh, what do doctors know?”
“A lot, actually. They know a lot. That’s why they’re doctors.”
“Maybe I could just—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“No. Absolutely not. We don’t need you messing up your other leg too. Besides, someone has to stay here with the twins. We can’t afford to put them in the kids’ camp at the club. They’re charging a fortune this year.”
“But—” he starts to argue.
“I’ll take the roofing job,” I tell him. “I’ve helped you with enough of them through the years. I can move some shifts around at the club so I can do both.”
I know it’s what has to be done. Dad’s right. The mortgage payment is coming up, and we need the money. But this is my last summer on the Locks with Grayson and Ian. And I can feel it slipping away by the minute.
“Mike,” Dad says, and I can hear the break in his voice. He hates that I have to pick up the slack around here since his accident, but I don’t care. That’s what families do. They pick up slack.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I glimpse at the screen. It’s a text from Harper.
I’m back. Can we talk? Meet me at the Cove?
I hide a knowing smile and slip the phone back into my pocket.
Like I said, the breathers never last long.
Standing up, I slide my feet back into my sandals and tell Dad, “I’ll call Dave first thing on Monday and work it out. Can you hold down the fort for another hour or so? I’m going down to the beach. The boys are fed. So is Walter.”
Dad frowns back at me in confusion.
“The dog,” I clarify.
“I thought his name was Frank.”
“That was yesterday.”
Dad nods, struggling to get up from the bed. I reach out a hand to help him, but he ignores it and pushes himself up with a grunt.
I head into the family room. Jasper and Jake have already polished off the leftovers and are now lying in a food coma on the couch, staring dazedly at some Disney movie playing on the TV.
Wow. That worked even better than cough syrup.
I clearly need to feed them clams more often.
The quiet alcove tucked away from Coral Bay’s main beach, hidden by a large clump of tall grass and uninviting brush, is my best-kept secret on the island. It has the perfect view of the water, and it’s far enough away to stay clear of the surf but close enough that you can still hear the music of every wave.
Hardly anyone knows about it, including the locals.
It’s been Harper’s and my place for as long as we’ve been together.
When I arrive, she’s already there, standing barefoot in the sand, staring out at the ocean, holding her sandals in one hand. She looks like a scene from a movie, her yellow sundress billowing in the breeze, her hair windswept and wild from the ferry.
“Hey,” I say quietly so I don’t scare her, but she startles anyway.
She laughs to cover up her surprise. “Hey.”
I walk up to her, leaning in to kiss her. She hesitates and then ducks away at the last minute.
And that’s when I know.
She’s not ready.
She still needs more time.
I take a step back. “What’d you want to talk about?” My voice is light. Easy. Unattached.
“I . . . ,” she begins, but then obviously thinks better of whatever she was going to say. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” She turns back to the water. “I’ve always loved the first waves of summer.”
I nod and angle my body toward the surf, keeping one eye on her. “Yes.”
The memories of a half dozen summers flash through my mind at once. Lazy, moon-drenched nights with Harper and me sitting in this very alcove. Her leaning back against my chest. Me kissing her bare shoulder. Her twisting her head to meet my lips.
“Mikey,” she says remorsefully, and I feel my heart sink. She only calls me Mikey when she’s apologizing or breaking bad news.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “We can wait it out. We don’t need to decide anything tonight.”
She bites her lip, looking li
ke she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Her voice shatters.
I pull her into me. That’s when her tears break loose. Her sobs shake her entire body. I try to absorb them with my arms. “It’s okay,” I whisper into her hair. “You need more time. I get it.”
She pulls away and rubs a finger under her nose. “No. It’s not that. I don’t need more time.”
I’m not following. She must see it in my face, because she starts crying again. I reach for her, but this time she takes a step back. “I can’t keep doing this to you. These breathers. These in-betweens. They’re not fair. To either of us.”
I stand, speechless, comprehension starting to trickle into the corners of my brain. “What are you saying?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know.
She sniffles. “I’m saying it needs to be over. For good.”
My head settles into a thick fog. I try to shake it clear. “You don’t mean that,” I say with the same conviction I feel every time she talks like this. “You’re just nervous because of New York. It’s getting close and everything is feeling too real. I get it. I’m nervous too. But this is what I’ve always wanted.”
“No,” she says quietly. “It’s not. You don’t want to go to New York. It’s never been your dream. It’s always been mine. You’d just be following me there, and I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you make that mistake.”
I feel my teeth clench in frustration. “I’m a big boy, Harper,” I snap. “I can make my own mistakes.” I tug my fingers through my hair, trying to calm myself down. Why is she doing this again? Why can’t she just accept the fact that I love her and I want to be with her?
“And you’re wrong, anyway,” I go on, my throat thick. “It’s not a mistake. I want to go. I want to—”
“Mike,” she interrupts brusquely, her tears put on pause long enough for her to say, “I don’t want you to go.”
I fall silent, feeling like a meteor has just crashed into my chest. I recognize the certainty in her voice and know it doesn’t matter what I say now. Harper has made up her mind. At least for today. And nothing I do or say is going to change it now.
But tomorrow is always another story.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, and I can tell from her voice that she really does mean it. She always means it. “You’re my best friend. And I love you too much to watch you do something you’ll regret.” She’s crying again now.
“I won’t regret it!” I say, my voice rising rapidly. “Why do you keep trying to tell me how I feel?”
“I’m not!” she shouts back, sobbing so hard that the tears swallow up her words. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”
She sniffles, struggling to catch her breath. “I just . . . ,” she begins. “I just . . . I think this is for the best.”
I feel my hands clench into fists at my sides, my ears ringing inside my brain. I can’t stand here any longer. I can’t watch her cry over something that doesn’t have to be this way.
I push past her and stride over to the fallen log where I keep my surfboard.
“Whatever you want, Harper,” I mutter, tucking the board under my arm.
It’s what I always say. It’s what I always mean. I’ve just never walked away from her as I said it.
CHAPTER 3
IAN
Coral Bay’s main beach is so crammed with people, they should call it a “human bake.” It’s the same old, same old party with the same old, same old contradictions. Red-checkered tablecloths offset by crystal champagne glasses. Corny plastic lobster bibs protecting designer dresses that cost more than some people’s rent. Beach club employees in pristinely pressed uniforms serving seafood and corncobs from banged-up metal pots.
Welcome to a Winlock Harbor clambake.
The quintessential summer event. The mainlanders all want an authentic island experience. They just don’t want to give up their Veuve Clicquot to get it.
“Tourists,” I mutter to myself as I take a sip from my beer and gaze out at the sea of human crustaceans.
This little island shindig was supposed to cheer me up. Grayson and Mike seemed to be counting on that. Not that either one of them would admit it directly. But Grayson left an hour ago with some pop tart with a shell in her hair, and Mike had to scurry away to deliver dinner to his little brothers. It’s probably for the best, anyway. I’d started to zone them both out. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Zoning out. I’ve become a real pro at it. In school, at home, in my therapist’s office. Which I find ironic, since the zoning out is what landed me in the therapist’s office to begin with.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. Not only at this lame party but also on Winlock Harbor. Does my mother really think that coming here will make everything okay? That we can just sail back to Fantasy Island, where life used to be good, and forget about everything that’s happened in the past year?
Surrounding yourself with memories of happier days doesn’t automatically make you happier. It just reminds you of how drastically unhappy you’ve become, how life can go from pretty okay to pretty shitty in less than six months.
A minute later my mother is beside me. As if she can actually feel me brooding. She downs the final sip from her glass of red wine—which I swear was full only a minute ago—and smiles into the bonfire.
“Isn’t this great?” she asks whimsically. “Your father always loved these clambakes. He was such a joiner.”
Yeah, he joined the army, and look where that got him.
I roll my eyes and finish off the rest of my beer.
“Are you drinking?” she asks, scandalized.
She should talk.
“Yes, Mom. I’m drinking. I drink. I’m an eighteen-year-old alcoholic.”
She shoots me a disapproving look. “Don’t take that tone with me, Ian.”
“This is the only tone I have, Mom.”
“Your grandparents are standing right over there,” she hisses. “I don’t think they’d appreciate seeing you drink.”
I glance over at Nana and Papa, dressed in their matching khaki shorts and tropical-print shirts. They’re sharing a plate of clams. Papa catches my eye and grins at me, toasting me with an empty clamshell.
I force a smile and avert my gaze. I can’t look at him. I don’t even see him anymore. All I see is my dad. His eyes, his nose, his crooked smile. The way he would look if he’d been able to grow old here, just like his parents. Just like he always wanted.
We’ve only been here a few days, and already the island is suffocating me.
A waiter walks by with a tray of drinks, and my mom trades her empty glass for a full one. I can’t watch this. If she’s had as many as I think she’s had, things are about to get not pretty.
And she doesn’t want my grandparents to see me drink?
I turn to walk away, but she grabs me by the wrist. For a woman who barely passes the five-foot-one mark, she’s impressively strong. Being an army wife will do that to you. “Where are you going?”
“Home. Down the beach. To the lighthouse. I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”
She releases me. “But the party just started. We haven’t even roasted marshmallows yet!”
Marshmallows? Seriously?
This is her solution to recently being widowed? What’s her solution to war? Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?
I dump my empty beer cup into the trash. “Roast two for me,” I tell her. “I’m going back to the house to get my guitar.”
“Ian,” she warns, keeping her voice low enough to not attract attention from the rest of the dancing shellfish. “Hiding in your room writing sappy ballads isn’t going to help you get through this.”
“Actually, Mom,” I say, “that’s about the only thing that’s going to help me get through this.”
She sighs and places a gentle hand on my arm. “Your therapist says—”
“My therapist isn’t here,” I reply tightly, feeling the end of my rope steadily slipping through my grasp. �
�And you are not his replacement.”
I shake her loose and stride off down the beach, not bothering to say good-bye to anyone. The only people I cared about saying good-bye to are already gone.
I can hear the laughter and music grow more and more distant with every step I take, and my body slowly starts to uncoil.
How many more of those things will I be expected to suffer through?
It’s not like no one around here knows what happened. Winlock Harbor is as close-knit and gossip-infested as a church. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and they love to talk about it. Just not to your face.
The island has an interesting assortment of people. There are the locals—like Mike—who live here year-round and somehow manage not to go stir-crazy. Then there are the vacationers—like Grayson—who come during the summer months and fill the place with an air of smugness. And then there’s me. I fall somewhere in between. We certainly aren’t rich enough to own a summer house here like the Cartwrights. The measly death benefits we got from the military are barely enough to cover the rent on our two-bedroom apartment in Philly, let alone a vacation home.
My grandparents built here long before it became a hot spot for wealthy tourists. And despite the many offers they’ve received over the years, they refuse to sell. Their beachfront property is probably worth a fortune by now. All the developers are just dying for my grandparents to tear down the unpretentious beach bungalow and build something worth putting on the front of a brochure.
We’ve been coming here and staying with my dad’s parents since I was six years old. It used to be something I looked forward to. A breezy getaway from the hot and stuffy army base, a place where my mom wasn’t so stressed out all the time. But now I can barely stand to look at the house.
Boys of Summer Page 2
