When I reach the front steps a few minutes later, I bypass the door and scale the ivy-covered trellis running up the side of the house like a green virus that’s been left unchecked for too long. I squeeze through my bedroom window that I left open and roll adeptly onto my bed.
Sure, the front door is logistically easier, but it requires walking through a minefield of other dangers. Hazards of the emotional variety. Framed photographs of my dad as a kid. Knitted afghans on the couch that we used to fall asleep under. A medal of honor that’s supposed to make death feel less like death and more like a carnival game.
If it were up to me, I would have taken all that shit down the moment we got the phone call.
But very little is up to me these days.
I grab my guitar and sit on my bed, strumming a few bars of the new song I’ve been working on. But my hands fumble awkwardly over the strings, and my fat fingers can’t seem to form a single chord. It’s these walls. They’re prison walls in a cell that gets smaller by the second. I haven’t been able to get through a full song since we arrived.
Frustrated and claustrophobic, I stuff the guitar back into the case and strap it to my back. I throw a few items into an overnight bag and toss it over my shoulder. Then I wedge myself back out the window and shuffle carefully to the edge of the roof before crouching down, swinging my legs over the side, and climbing down the trellis.
As soon as my feet hit the sand, I start to move, putting as much distance between me and those walls as I can. There’s really only one place to go. A place where the furniture isn’t infested with ghosts and the walls are too far apart to ever suffocate you.
Grayson Cartwright’s house is one of the largest on the island. It’s about a ten-minute walk down the beach. I make it in seven, my guitar case and overnight bag banging uncomfortably against my hip the whole way.
The lights are out. Grayson is most likely still on his boat with the pop tart from the clambake, undoubtedly doing what Grayson does best. But I know my way to one of the spare bedrooms that’s always empty. It used to belong to Grayson’s little sister, Whitney, but she stopped coming to the island a few years ago, after she realized that Winlock Harbor didn’t have a Barneys.
This is probably the only moment in my entire life when I actually envy the infamously shallow and materialistic Whitney Cartwright.
At least she gets to choose where she spends her summers.
Whitney’s bedroom is on the first floor. I’m grateful for that, since I already scuffed up my palms and knees in my last wall-scaling escapade.
I try the window. It lifts easily. Hardly anyone ever locks anything on Winlock Harbor. What’s the point? Unless you have a private boat, there’s only one way on or off this island, and that’s by ferry. Chances are, someone will catch you before you make it out with a flat-screen television.
I push the window all the way open and hoist myself onto the sill. With one more boost, I’m able to shove my way into the pitch-dark room, and tumble onto the unforgiving hardwood floor.
And then someone screams bloody murder.
CHAPTER 4
GRAYSON
By the time the footsteps retreat down the dock, I’m already imagining the rumors the girl will spread.
Grayson Cartwright can’t get it up.
Grayson Cartwright is gay.
Grayson Cartwright broke more than just his throwing arm in that car accident.
Regardless of which lie she chooses, it will reach the other end of the island by daybreak. That’s inevitable. Winlock Harbor is too small a place, and the tourists are too desperate for gossip.
It certainly won’t be the biggest scandal of the summer, but it will be the first. And that counts for something.
I want to care. I really do. The old Grayson Cartwright would care big-time.
But ironically, I just can’t get it up.
I collapse onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The air-conditioning on the boat hums to life, trying desperately to compete with the humidity outside. My arm is killing me and the frigid air on my bare chest makes me shiver, but I can’t muster the energy to sit up and find my shirt. So I simply grab a handful of comforter and yank it across my body.
I can hear my phone ringing somewhere on the floor, but I make no move to reach for it. I don’t want to take the risk that it might be my mother calling again. Trying to apologize for ruining my life. Trying to relieve her own guilty conscience.
I haven’t answered since she left.
She doesn’t get to do that. She doesn’t get to just walk out on us, send my entire existence into a tailspin, and then call and make nice.
I turn over and punch the mattress. Hard. I keep punching and punching until my arm is throbbing and I cry out in agony. Tears stream down my face.
If only my teammates could see me now. If only the head coach at Vanderbilt could see me now. Crying like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
I bury my face in the pillow. The scent of Nicole’s hair is still heavy on the fabric. Coconuts mixed with something. Mint? Cream?
Who the hell cares?
The point is, I tried. I tried to be the guy that everyone on this island expects me to be. I tried to show them all that I’m fine. That people leave and cars crash and arms break, but I—Grayson Cartwright—am fine.
Nicole was exactly what I needed. Cute. Sexy. Eager. She was cut and pasted from every other summer I’ve spent here. An exact replica of every other girl I’ve brought back to this boat. Even the smell of her hair was an echo. As if the island only sells one brand of shampoo.
Which means the problem isn’t her.
It’s me.
Any other summer this night would have turned out differently.
Any other summer she wouldn’t have left here with her shoes in her hands and a colorful variety of curse words on her lips.
But it’s not any other summer.
It’s this summer.
And I’m no longer the guy who left Winlock Harbor nine months ago with a bagged future and a cocky smile. I’m someone else. Someone I barely recognize. Someone I’m desperate to get away from.
Which is why I eventually shove off the comforter, slide my feet into my shoes, step onto the dock, and start running. I bow my head to hide my face, and cradle my throbbing arm in my hand.
As I pass the familiar landmarks, the memories of a thousand summers come racing back to me. The Coral Bay Beach Club, where my friends and I first met when we were six years old and I (semi-purposefully) trampled through a sand castle that Mike and Ian had spent hours constructing. Ian’s grandparents’ house, where Ian’s dad used to play army base with us when we were kids. The small Winlock Harbor Inn, where Mike lifeguarded last summer and used to sneak beers for us from the bar. The garden shed where I had my first kiss. The small marshland where Cherry Tree Creek empties into the sea and where my mom and I found the nest of baby birds and nursed them until they were old enough to fly. The rental cottages that have housed a hundred girls who walk and talk and smell just like Nicole.
I probably could run forever. I could circle this island five times before daybreak and not even feel winded.
But I don’t.
I barely even make it a full lap around.
Because somewhere just past the lighthouse, I trip over Harper Jennings.
CHAPTER 5
MIKE
The moon always looks bigger when you’re floating in the middle of the ocean. As though you’re closer to the stars out here.
I know it’s an illusion. I read about it once. The moon, in fact, never changes size, no matter where you are on the planet, no matter what is happening in your life. It’s your perspective that changes.
And right now my perspective is completely warped.
I lie on my back and let the swells of the tide gently rock my board. Normally I love coming out here and just floating aimlessly in the ocean, letting the waves take me wherever they want. This is where I can be alone. Where I can be me. Harper
never liked the water much. She says it makes her seasick. Ironic, given that she grew up on an island. Maybe that’s why she always feels so trapped.
As I drift, the usual post-Harper-breakup feelings flood through me. Frustration, disbelief, anger, before finally settling where I always settle. Somewhere near acceptance. It’s like a routine now. A sick ritual.
This is who Harper is. This is what Harper does.
I know this. I’ve always known this. She didn’t mean what she said. It’s not the first time she’s said it’s over for good. I just really hope it’ll be the last.
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.
She called out my name as I stormed off from the Cove. At least there was that. But I didn’t stop. I kept going until I was halfway around the island, until the moon looked different. That was when I could finally believe that I had gotten far enough away.
Although that’s an illusion too.
I know it’s the same damn moon.
It’s the same damn island.
And until I get her off it, she’s going to be reacting the same damn way. It’s a vicious cycle. She feels stuck, and I’m the easiest thing to break free of.
But what if I don’t want to be so disposable anymore? What if this time, after she realizes that freedom isn’t what she wants after all, I refuse to take her back?
The thought makes me laugh aloud.
Who am I kidding? I’ve been in love with Harper Jennings since the second grade, when she asked if I would split my cupcake with her. I handed over the whole thing without even batting an eye. Because I can’t say no to her. I’ve never been able to.
I think about just leaving now. Jumping off this board, swimming to shore, banging on her door, and convincing her to go with me right this second. Don’t pack any bags, don’t say good-bye to anyone, let’s just catch the first morning ferry, hop on a train, and go to New York. Let’s get as far away as we can from this place and this moon and these vicious cycles.
Of course I know I can’t do that. I can’t leave my family to fend for themselves. My dad’s still too injured to work, and my mother can’t handle that burden alone.
Three more months, I tell myself. Work hard, save as much money as you can, and then we can go. Assuming Harper has gotten over whatever fear is plaguing her this time. Maybe I should have stuck around longer. Asked her more questions, so I could figure out how to change her mind. How to fix it.
No. Let her fix it herself. I’ll leave her to enjoy her precious space, and then I’ll wait for the signs that she’s ready to come back. There are always signs. Reminiscing about the past, gentle touches on my arm that are supposed to look accidental, laughing too hard at everything I say. No matter how many times she leaves or how many different excuses she gives me for going, the way she comes back never changes.
And when that moment comes, I’ll be here ready and waiting to whisk her off to New York. Leaving the island—the only home I’ve ever known—may make my stomach twist, but the thought of living a life without Harper makes it downright rip in half.
I can feel the tide picking up, the swells getting bigger beneath my board. Maybe the moon really is shifting.
I flip onto my stomach and paddle along the coastline. I wait patiently, biding my time until the right wave comes along to bring me to shore. Surfing is all about patience. Clearly I have an abundance of that.
Just like in life, the longer you wait, the bigger your reward.
Finding the perfect wave isn’t about logic or calculations or studying the patterns of the tides; it’s just something you feel in your gut.
I can see my perfect wave a few feet away, gently rolling toward me. With the help of the moonlight, I track it, feeling the buildup, letting the fiery anticipation spread through my arms and legs, like I’m a jungle cat stalking its prey, waiting for the precise moment to charge.
The moment comes fast.
I paddle hard, my arms aching in protest. I align myself with the oncoming swell. When it’s almost beneath me, I pop up, and land in a crouch. I lean left, angling my body into the wave, joining its energy, becoming a part of it.
The surf lifts my board up, and I start to fly.
It’s the most exhilarating feeling in the world.
This is my payoff. This is the reward for all my patience and diligence and hard work.
The wave shifts, and I lean to the left to compensate. But I misread the swell. The tip of my board catches on the water, and the board shoots out from under me. I stumble and try to hold on, but it’s a lost cause. I go tumbling into the water, my side hitting first. Pain explodes in my ribs as the colossal wave washes over my head.
I hold my breath and swim frantically away from the shore to escape the undertow. Water rushes into my ears as the current tugs at my feet.
I kick toward the surface. When my head breaks through, I glance around for my surfboard, but it’s nowhere to be found. I don’t panic, though. It’s not the first time I’ve lost my board. It’s hard to keep track of at night, with the limited light, and it always washes ashore eventually.
I tread water to keep myself afloat as I peer toward the coastline. I’m not too far out. I could easily swim back now, but I decide to search for my board first. It couldn’t have gone far.
I paddle to my left, in the direction of the cluster of small rental cottages on the western tip of the island. Fortunately, I spot my board only a few yards away. Unfortunately, before I can reach it, I feel something in the water with me. My heart races as I try to kick away, but it moves fast. Too fast. And within seconds I feel myself being pulled under the surface.
CHAPTER 6
IAN
I stumble through the darkness, trying to find the light switch and stop the ringing in my ears.
Who is screaming?
The light comes on before I even find the wall, and I’m standing face-to-face with Whitney Cartwright as I’ve never seen her before. Tattered T-shirt, messy pulled-back hair, glasses, and no makeup. She’s wielding a straightening iron like it’s a butcher knife.
Since she turned thirteen, I’ve never seen Grayson’s sister in anything but short shorts, miniskirts, or tight-fitting dresses. And I’ve never seen her in glasses. Did she always wear those?
“Ian!” she says breathlessly, wilting in relief. Then she starts smacking me with the straightening iron. Thankfully, it’s not on. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry!” I say, cowering and protecting my face with my hands. The girl is stronger than she looks. “I didn’t know anyone was in here!”
“And you forgot what a front door was?”
“I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”
She guffaws and mercifully sets the flat iron on the dresser. “How’d that work out for you?”
Just then the door flies open and Mr. Cartwright comes in with a much scarier baseball bat. I instinctively duck and cover again. He looks from his daughter to me and then lowers the weapon. “What is going on in here?”
Whitney groans. “Relax, Daddy. Go back to bed. It’s just Ian. He climbed through the window.”
Mr. Cartwright casts another curious look between the two of us. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what he missed. “Are you two . . .” His voice trails off.
“NO!” We both respond at once. I instinctively back away from her until I’m practically shoved against the wall. I brave a glance at Whitney, who happens to look my way at the exact same moment. Our eyes meet for a second, and we both shudder in revulsion and repeat the word. “No.”
“Then why the hell are you climbing through my daughter’s window in the middle of the night?” Mr. Cartwright asks.
“It’s Ian,” Whitney answers for me with a hint of disdain. “Why the hell does Ian do anything?”
I sneer back at her. “Shut up.”
Mr. Cartwright sighs, clearly not wanting to get in the middle. “I’m going back to sleep . . . if that’s even possible at this point. Ian, use the front door
next time. That’s what it’s for.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry. Won’t happen again, sir.”
He shakes his head and leaves.
“Yes, sir,” Whitney mocks in an obnoxious voice as soon as her father’s out of earshot. “What, are you in the army now too?”
It suddenly feels like the floor has been knocked out from under me. Or that someone took Mr. Cartwright’s bat right to my knees. Whitney’s hand flies to her mouth as soon as she realizes what she’s said.
“I—I,” she stammers.
“It’s fine,” I say immediately, not wanting to get into this with her. Or anyone. But least of all her. How could rich, spoiled, has-everything-she’s-ever-wanted Whitney Cartwright possibly understand what it’s like to lose something you love? “I’ll go find another room to crash in.”
I head down the hallway, into the kitchen, praying that Whitney doesn’t follow after me.
She does.
“Ian, I’m so sorry. I forgot. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“I said it’s fine,” I snap.
This shuts her up. At least for a minute. She is Whitney Cartwright, after all. The longest I’ve ever seen her keep her mouth shut was five summers ago when Grayson, Mike, and I dared her to hold her breath for a minute. It was the most blissful sixty seconds I can remember.
“Do you want some tea?” she asks, holding up a stainless steel kettle. “I could boil some water.”
It certainly wasn’t what I was expecting her to say, but the softness of her voice is right on par. It’s the same tone everyone uses around me. Like they’re tiptoeing with their words. Let’s all be nice to the guy with the dead dad. It makes me want to scream.
I never thought I’d prefer Whitney’s annoying holier-than-thou demeanor, but right now, looking at that disgusting pity in her eyes, I’d do anything to get it back.
Boys of Summer Page 3
