Boys of Summer

by Jessica Brody

  I head into the kitchen to make some coffee. I pour the grinds into the filter, fill the reservoir with water, and flip the switch. I watch the slow drip, drip, drip of the coffeemaker as it fills the pot. It starts to lull me into a trance, until the spell is shattered by the sound of the landline phone ringing. I look around for someone to answer it. Even though I’ve been living here for more than a week, it’s not really my place to answer the phone.

  It stops ringing. Then immediately starts again.

  With a sigh I pick it up. “Hello? Cartwright residence.”

  “Ian.”

  My whole body freezes as all of the light and energy immediately gets sucked out of the house.

  I consider hanging up. I consider throwing the phone into the pool. But I know I can’t do that.

  “Mom,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “Good morning, my love. How are you?”

  I search her voice for signs of intoxication. Would she really start drinking this early? Who knows? Thankfully, she sounds relatively sober.

  “Why are you calling here?” I ask, keeping my tone formal and impervious.

  “Because you haven’t been answering your cell. Or returning any of my texts.”

  I feel my hand grip tighter around the receiver. She’s right. I haven’t. And for a very good reason. I’ve been trying to avoid this very conversation and this very feeling that’s knotting up my stomach.

  “How’s Grayson’s?” she asks cheerfully, and I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to butter me up before she drops the bomb. Before she starts talking about him. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes,” I reply tightly.

  “Your grandparents and I miss you.” She lets out a laugh. “They’ve started watching some horrific show. Battle of Kings or something. It’s so violent. I can hear the bloody battles from my room! But they seem to enjoy it. It’s all they can talk about.”

  A faint smile spreads across my lips at the thought of Nana and Papa sitting through one of those episodes. Can their hearts even survive all that brutality?

  “It’s Crusade of Kings, Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Did you need something?”

  She sighs. “Yes, actually. I could really use your help with something.”

  I plop down onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter and run my finger over the flawless marble countertop. “With what?”

  “I was hoping you could come by today and help me clean out some boxes in the garage.”

  My spine stiffens.

  Clean out boxes.

  That’s code for “dig up the past and reminisce about better days,” when my father was alive and we were a real family. Not these broken pieces that once made up something whole.

  It feels like my family used to travel the world on this happy, colorful merry-go-round, bobbing up and down on beautifully painted porcelain horses, throwing our heads back in laughter. But then my dad’s death cranked the lever up to full speed, spinning us faster and faster until we could no longer hold on. Until we were both flung off the ride in different directions. My mom landed in a bottle of chardonnay. And I landed here. At Grayson’s house. With nothing to keep me company but my guitar and a collection of Crusade of Kings reruns on demand.

  “Your grandparents are too old to be moving all of that stuff, and—”

  “I can’t,” I tell her hastily. “I’m busy today.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “I’m busy tomorrow, too.”

  She falls quiet. I hope that means she got the message. I’m not interested in going down memory lane with my sobbing three-sheets-to-the-wind mother. I’m not interested in unpacking the past. The past is better off staying sealed in boxes.

  “Fine,” comes her terse response a few seconds later. “I’ll do it myself.”

  I grip the phone more tightly, feeling the familiar guilt and tension settle atop my shoulders, weighing me down like a ton of bricks.

  I should help her.

  I shouldn’t be so hard on her.

  She lost someone too.

  But just as I’m about to change my mind and tell her I’ll stop by, she says, “You know, Ian, you shouldn’t be avoiding your feelings like this. It’s not healthy.”

  And then I remember why I left. Why I’m staying here. It’s to avoid statements like that.

  I have a burning desire to fling the accusation back at her, asking if I should just get smashed off my face every night like she does. Is that the best way to own up to my feelings? And she thinks I’m the unhealthy one? At least I’m not making a fool of myself in front of the entire island every night. At least I’m dealing with my pain in an artistic, creative way.

  She’s just a walking cliché.

  But I know I can’t say any of that. No matter how angry I am, she’s still my mother. And I know she’s in mourning. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit in the front row and watch as she self-destructs.

  “Okay,” I say into the phone. “Well, thanks for the call. This has been pleasant, as always. Good-bye.”

  Frustrated, I hang up and slam the phone back into the charger.

  Just then Whitney comes striding into the kitchen wearing shorts and a tank top. She freezes when she sees me, and then turns her back to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot I just made. She suddenly becomes super-interested in a pile of mail on the counter.

  I roll my eyes and push past her, grab a mug from the cabinet, and fill it.

  “You’re still here,” she intones, flipping open a clothing catalog.

  I sneer and take a sip from my mug, but it’s way too hot, and the damn coffee burns a hole in my tongue. “Shit!” I swear, and spit it out into the sink.

  Whitney does little to hide her smirk. “That’s the thing about coffee,” she says breezily. “It’s best served hot.”

  I fight back a bitter retort and stick my mouth under the faucet, letting the cold water run over my tongue. Whitney watches me with a disturbed expression. “Oh, Ian. When did you get to be so classy?”

  I shut off the faucet and try my coffee again, this time making sure to blow on it first.

  My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text message from my mom. I delete it without reading it and stuff the phone back into my pocket with a huff.

  Whitney cocks an eyebrow at me as she flips another page of her catalog. “Girl trouble?” she asks.

  I snort. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  She grabs her coffee and takes a sip. “Why don’t you try me?”

  “Why don’t we talk about last night instead?”

  She flips another page. “You mean your face? It looks pretty bad. Did you fall out of bed?”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “That!” I say, growing impatient. “Don’t pretend like nothing happened.”

  “Nothing did happen,” she snaps, shutting the catalog. “Not to mention the fact that it’s none of your goddamn business, so just stay out of it.”

  “Fine,” I agree tightly. “I’ll stay out of yours if you stay out of mine.”

  “Gladly.” She pours her untouched coffee down the drain, drops the mug into the sink with a clank, and storms down the hallway to her room.

  Agitated and all riled up, I trudge out the back door to the patio and stare at the magnificent view, hoping it will help steady my erratic breathing. The crystal-blue water of the infinity pool sparkling in the morning sun. The ocean glistening just a few feet beyond. The sound of seagulls fishing for breakfast echoing in the breeze.

  And yet I can’t bring myself to see it. All I see is a pool that will no longer feel soothing to swim in. An ocean that will never again wash away my troubles as easily as it once did. A beach that my dad will never set foot on again.

  My father’s death has ruined this island. Ruined everything that I used to love.

  The wind picks up, and I hear a bizarre slapping soun
d. Curious, I walk around the side of the house. Whitney’s bedroom window is wide open, and the curtains are blowing wildly, smacking against the wall.

  I feel my teeth gnash together as I lean into the open window and glance around the empty bedroom. The bed is unmade, there are heaps of clothes on the floor, and Whitney is nowhere to be found.

  As someone who’s made a habit of sneaking in and out of windows, I immediately recognize the signs of a hasty exit.

  CHAPTER 16

  GRAYSON

  I dream about the accident. It’s been a common dream lately. Except instead of stumbling dazedly out of the wrecked car, holding my shattered, throbbing arm in my hand, the door is stuck. I can’t open it. Then the car catches fire. It flares up all around me, stinging my eyes and burning my skin.

  I wake up sweaty and breathless, with an ache in my arm that feels like my flesh really is on fire.

  I get up and scrounge around in the bathroom for some Advil. The bottle says to take two. I pop six into my mouth and swallow them dry. They burn going down. Like a lump in my throat that will never go away. A mistake that I’ll never be able to forget.

  My head hasn’t stopped pounding since last night. It started shortly after Harper stuck her tongue in my mouth. I’ve tried to tell myself that it was all her fault. That she’s completely to blame. That this is the very reason I’ve never liked Harper Jennings—because she sticks her tongue in other guys’ mouths while her on-again, off-again boyfriend (my best friend!) nurses a broken heart less than a mile away.

  I continually try to delude myself into thinking I’m blameless in this whole thing.

  But then, without fail, the full memory—the truth—comes barreling into my mind like a high-definition freight train.

  I kissed her back.

  Then I just kissed her.

  Who does that? Who kisses their best friend’s ex-girlfriend? Who is that shitty a person?

  Unfortunately, the answer is obvious.

  I’m on a real roll this year.

  I hear my phone vibrate, and it takes me a good five minutes to locate it in my room. It’s buried under a pile of clothes. I check the screen to see I missed a call from my mother.

  Good, I think bitterly. I wouldn’t have answered anyway.

  Then I notice I have four unread text messages. All from Harper. My pulse kicks it up a notch as I open the app and read them one by one.

  I think we should talk.

  I’m kind of freaking out.

  Grayson! Text me back!

  Fine. I’m coming over.

  My gaze darts to the time stamps. The last one was sent more than fifteen minutes ago. I start to panic. She can’t come over. She can’t be in this house. Ian is still crashing in the guest room. What if he sees her? What if she starts yelling at me and he overhears? What if he pieces it together and tells Mike?

  I hastily tap out a reply.

  Don’t come over. I’ll meet you somewhere.

  A few seconds later, she texts back.

  Too late. I’m already here.

  The doorbell rings, and I nearly jump out of my boxers. I scramble to throw on a T-shirt and shorts and run for the door, just barely managing to beat Ian, who, for some reason, looks like he’s been in the boxing ring with a rabid kangaroo.

  I stop just short of the door, momentarily forgetting about the disaster that’s waiting outside. “Dude, what happened to your face?”

  He reaches up to touch his purple cheek, and winces, his gaze darting irritably in the direction of the bedrooms and then back to me. “I fell out of bed,” he mutters.

  I scowl. “Were you sleeping on the roof? Jeez, that looks bad.”

  “It’s no big deal.” He ducks his head and reaches for the doorknob.

  “I’ve got it!” I say, gently nudging him aside. I try to sound cheery and not at all as frantic as I feel, but Ian gives me a strange look, letting me know how miserably I’ve failed.

  “Fine,” he says, holding his hands up like a caught criminal. “What is with everyone today?” He backs away, mumbling something about going to watch TV.

  I open the door a sliver, slip through the crack, and yank the door closed behind me.

  Much to my dismay, Harper looks incredible. Again. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and some sort of strapless tube top thing. Her golden hair is loose, falling around her shoulders in glossy waves. If she’s going to just show up here with barely any notice, the least she could do is look like crap.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss. I take her by the hand and lead her around to the pool in the back of the house.

  “We need to talk,” she says, looking down. That’s when I notice I’m still holding her hand.

  I quickly release it.

  “Ian’s here,” I tell her sharply.

  “So?”

  I glance over her shoulder and immediately realize that the pool was a mistake. The windows in the living room look right out at us. I can see Ian carrying a bowl of cereal from the kitchen to the couch. He flips on the TV and sits down, propping his feet on the coffee table.

  I grab her hand again and lead her around to the other side of the house, behind one of the landscaped hedges. “So,” I repeat, flustered. “It’s Ian. If he sees us together, he might suspect things.”

  “You’re acting kind of crazy,” she points out.

  “You think? I kissed my best friend’s girlfriend. Of course I’m acting crazy!”

  “Ex-girlfriend.”

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “So you agree it was wrong?”

  “Uh, yeah, it was wrong.”

  She sighs in relief. “Good. Me too. I was up all night thinking about it. I feel horrible. I wanted to come by and tell you that it can’t happen again.”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Never again. Absolutely.”

  She nods. “Good. And also, we can’t tell Mike.”

  Just his name on her lips makes my stomach convulse.

  “Agreed.”

  She sighs again. This time her breath hits my face, and I smell cherries. It immediately brings me back to that garden shed, when Harper’s flashlight landed on me. Does she wear the same lip gloss she wore when she was twelve?

  “I’m so glad we’re on the same page about this,” she says.

  “Me too.” I feel the knot in my chest start to unwind. Maybe this doesn’t spell complete disaster. Maybe this was just a simple mistake that both of us can own up to and agree to never repeat. Then we can move on with our lives.

  “Hug?” Harper asks, already stepping toward me with her arms outstretched.

  I’m not sure it’s such a good idea—being that close to her—but I don’t really have time to react. Harper’s arms are suddenly around me. Her body is suddenly pressed into me. She’s not wearing a bra.

  And that smell. What is that? It’s like she bottled everything I love about summer and rolled in it.

  But I can’t just stand here with my arms hanging down like a chump. I have to hug her back.

  She moves her head ever so slightly, and I can feel her breath on my ear. It’s having a serious effect on me. The kind of effect a girl can feel when she’s pressed this tightly against you.

  I need to pull away. This needs to not be happening.

  “Oh shit,” Harper says, her body tensing.

  Damn it. It’s too late. She’s already felt it. She already knows.

  “Mike,” she whispers into my ear, which totally confuses me, not to mention, completely solves the little problem I was having.

  I pull back and hold her by the shoulders. “Okay, whispering his name into my ear is not making this any less awkward.”

  “No,” she says quietly through clenched teeth. “I mean Mike. He’s here.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MIKE

  During the whole drive to Grayson’s house, I tried to figure out what to say once I arrived.

  Surprise! I’m going to be hanging out here every da
y.

  Surprise! I’m now just another hired hand at the Cartwright house.

  Surprise! I need your dad’s money to pay my dad’s mortgage.

  I assured myself repeatedly that Grayson won’t mind. He’s never let money be an issue with us. One summer a few years back, the cleaning service that my mother works for assigned her to clean the Cartwrights’ house. Grayson never let it get weird, though. He was always extra polite and respectful. He treated my mom like his own mom.

  I was grateful, however, when the house got assigned to another employee the next summer.

  By the time I park my dad’s truck in the driveway, I decide it would be best to clear the air with Grayson first. Before I climb up a ladder and start banging around on his roof.

  I stand nervously on the front porch and ring the doorbell. Then I stuff my hands into my pockets. Ian answers a few seconds later with a hell of a shiner. He looks genuinely confused to see me.

  “I thought you were Grayson,” he says.

  “What the hell happened to you? Did you stumble into a bar fight on your way home from the party or something?”

  “Or something,” he mumbles.

  I take a step closer to examine his face. “Did you put ice on it?”

  “Yes,” he says dismissively, moving away from me. Whatever happened, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so I let it drop. “So, Grayson’s not here?”

  I admit I feel somewhat relieved. Maybe it would be easier to just start working and explain myself later.

  “Dunno,” Ian says. “Someone rang the bell, and before I could answer it, he disappeared out the front door and hasn’t come back since.”

  “Probably another random girl he hooked up with,” I say with a laugh, hoping it will raise Ian’s spirits a bit. He’s obviously in a miserable mood.

  He barely cracks a smile. “Probably. Although he was acting really cagey. It was weird. So, are you coming to hang out?” His spirits seem to lift at the question, which makes mine shatter into a million pieces. “I haven’t watched the newest Crusade of Kings yet. I mean, I only watched the first five minutes of it. We could put it on.”

  I feel a stab of guilt in my chest. Crusade of Kings has been one of our summertime staples for the past three years. The new season always starts in mid-June and goes through the end of August, ceremoniously marking the start and end of each summer. We always used to watch the new episodes together when they aired Sunday nights or first thing Monday mornings, commiserating over the loss of our favorite characters, cringing at the gratuitously violent battle scenes, and drinking at every single appearance of female genitalia. Needless to say, we were always pretty wasted by the end of the sixty minutes. It’s hard to imagine a summer in the Locks without that tradition. But things happen and things change.