He brought on a rattling. My body vibrated. Muscles shimmied against bone. My skin jumped. It was unstoppable. It was wrong, wasn’t it, to come here and be flooded with emotions about my mom only to have them replaced almost instantly by this?
Ryan Landry. I had always wanted him. I wanted him when Eliza had him and I couldn’t have him. For three years, I’d thought of him, but only a little, like I could outgrow him. But now, here I was, and after two seconds of eye contact, I was a mess.
I was already in my running shoes. I clattered down the stairs and out the front door, running past Ryan’s truck, head down in case he could see me from the house. Exertion was the only thing that would still me.
I’d probably see Ryan every day.
It was going to be a long summer.
CHAPTER TWO
FIVE MILES LATER, I felt like a normal person again. A dripping-with-sweat person, but a normal one. After a shower, I would even be capable of carrying on a conversation with my new employer.
This summer, I’d be working for one of my favorite writers, Grace Campbell. The whole thing had happened totally at random. I tweeted to her one night that I loved her latest book and how it had made me look forward to my Harborville summer. She must have read my profile line, in which I described myself as a writer (even though I hadn’t published anything of course, I just wrote stories for fun). She’d messaged me to ask where I stayed in Harborville. I told her, and mentioned that I’d be looking for a summer job. In my craziest dreams, I hoped that she’d offer something, but I was still shocked when she asked if I wanted to assist her with a few projects over the next few months. I’d really thought it was a joke or a prank, but we’d messaged back and forth, and it had all proven real.
I was supposed to meet her at Clark’s Coffee, a local spot in the bottom story of a house about a mile from Morning Beach. Even though our car was in the driveway, I decided to take a bike. The little garage next to the house held a handful of beach cruisers. My turquoise one must have been kept in shape by renters over the years because the tires had plenty of air and it wasn’t covered in cobwebs like some of the stuff in the garage. My mom and dad’s bikes, a yellow and a red, leaned against one another in a far corner. The bright, cheery spot of yellow brought a pain to my chest.
Clark’s Coffee wasn’t somewhere I’d gone often when I was younger, but it was a favorite of my mom’s. Some of her paintings and charcoals were even framed behind the diner’s counter. She’d always claimed Clark’s blueberry scone replenished the artistic brain. Then she’d chide herself for saying something so pretentious.
The corner booth where Grace Campbell told me to meet her was empty, just like she promised it would be. I let the waitress fill my mug with coffee, even though I was too nervous to drink it, and I ordered a fruit plate even though I had butterflies in my stomach. Then I pulled my Moleskine out of my purse, flipping through the notes and story ideas I’d recorded there, hoping to look like a real writer. There were a lot of ideas but nothing I was in love with. I’d heard the advice to write what I knew, but I didn’t want to write about a girl whose mom had died and, beyond that, not much had happened to me yet. I went to a suburban high school, ran cross-country, and made the honor roll, hardly the stuff of great stories. So my ideas were always about things that didn’t happen to anyone, at least that I knew of. I’d jotted notes for a short story about a cartographer who learned there was nothing left to map. I had another idea for a novel about a world where people were literally born without a reckless bone in their bodies. But everything I thought to do seemed so crazily different from the idea before it that I never could quite commit to any of them, often starting them but unable to finish. I thought maybe working for Grace would help me figure out what kind of writer I’d be. Or at least inspire me to be all the different ones I was.
A minute later, Clark himself came over to the table, setting down a fruit plate. “Are you Kate Sommers?”
“Yup, that’s me.” I was surprised he knew me, since I’d only come here a few times with my mom. But he had those eyes that softened at the corners when he looked at you, like he was a man who remembered every last customer forever and ever. There might have been a story in that.
“Grace left you this,” he said, handing me a napkin, folded and with my name scrawled across it. “Was your mom Lanie Sommers?”
“Yeah?”
“Great lady. We’ve missed her here. Your food’s on the house.” He nodded at the napkin with a small apologetic smile.
I unfolded the napkin. On it, in nearly indecipherable scribble, were the words, “Headed to NYC. Job off. So sorry. Have lovely summer. XO, GR.”
Clark shook his head. “She breezed in here this morning on her way out of town and told me you’d be coming. I know it probably seems harsh, but that she remembered to tell you at all is something for Grace. She’s brilliant but she’s, well, spacey.”
I nodded at him, but felt the heavy weight of disappointment settle in my stomach. No job would mean . . . what? A summer spent at Eliza’s beck and call? Endless hours to eye-loiter all over Ryan Landry?
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said as I got up from the booth. “Hope to see you around!”
I walked out onto the sidewalk and stared at the street signs, my eyes not really registering anything. The summer spread out before me, completely empty, and I felt aimless.
I dragged my bike from the rack and got on. I sped away from Clark’s toward the beach, picking up speed as I let my irritation and anger sink in. I knew I probably looked like a maniac, but I didn’t care. All I could think was, who does that? Sure, Grace Campbell wasn’t a bank or some other corporation, but a little professionalism should have been warranted, right? It was times like this when I missed my mom the most. She always calmed me down whenever I got unsettled. I thought about what she might say now if she were here: “Take a deep breath and try to reset; think about what you really want; remember all the great things you still have going for you,” but it wasn’t the same. I let the wind tangle my hair as I turned my bike onto a side street.
My mind scrolled through job possibilities. I knew I could always see if the Landrys needed a hostess but that would mean seeing Ryan every day. Or more. While the idea had appeal, I’d probably look like a dumb kid with a crush if that was the first job I ever took on the Cape. Eliza had never worked there, even when they’d dated. She’d been at Dale’s Dream Cone, which might be okay as a last resort. There were cute shops up and down Main Street—even a bookstore, the Perch—but if I wasn’t working for Grace, I didn’t really want to be stuck inside and away from the ocean. I pedaled toward Morning Beach, the biggest in Harborville. If I wanted to work this summer, I needed to find something right away before everyone else arrived for the season. Luckily, I knew a place that probably hadn’t been actively advertising for employees.
Joe’s Surf and Bike Rental looked closed as I marched across the sand, but I knew better. At the back door, I knocked three times. When the door opened, plumes of sweet marijuana smoke rolled over me.
Smokey Joe coughed. He had to be at least fifty by now, but he had the worry-free expression of a sixteen-year-old who’d just passed his driver’s test.
“Hey, were you expecting me?” he asked.
“Um, do you mean were you expecting me?” I replied.
“No, I meant the first thing. What’s shakin’, Katie Sommers?”
I was amazed that he remembered my name, but I took it as a good sign. “It’s Kate now,” I said, smiling so it didn’t sound curt. “And I was wondering . . . are you hiring for the summer?”
He paused. He looked behind him at the rows of things for rent. Boogie boards and bikes haphazardly leaned against the wall of the shed.
“Yes. The summer is a hard job, but it’s the only one you’ll ever love.” He nodded at this, like he’d said something very wise.
�
��So, does that mean I have the job?”
“Sure thing, milady. You get early shift, nine a.m. to four p.m. I’ll pay you twelve dollars an hour, but I like to give bonuses. You know I don’t need the money.” Joe was all business as he said this. I hadn’t realized he didn’t need the money, but I nodded like this was an irrefutable fact.
“Smokey, you’re the best. This is just what I was looking for.” It was half a lie, but I was still grateful.
“The things we’re looking for have a way of finding us,” Smokey said cryptically.
I was certain that Smokey didn’t know what he was saying, and yet I could have spent the evening trying to parse meaning from his comment. So what if the Grace Campbell job had fallen through? This would be an interesting place for a writer, I told myself, people watching all day. Plus, I wouldn’t be inside a store, or serving food, and it was just a couple minutes from our house.
“Well, I’ll come find you tomorrow,” I told him. But Smokey was already back on his perpetual break. I wondered if he ever closed up the store.
I went to retrieve my bike from where I’d leaned it against the shack and, with a sinking in my stomach, saw it had a flat. A big nail was stuck through the back tire. I hadn’t noticed it with all my furious peddling from Clark’s Coffee. A breeze rolled past me, carrying the sugary smells of taffy and cotton candy being made on the boardwalk. Normally, I would have breathed them in, but right now the aromas mocked me. Today was not all that sweet so far.
I examined the tire, realizing that I’d have to get a new one. The rubber was torn where the nail had made its impact. When we were kids, Ryan had always known how to fix things. Once my bike chain had fallen off when we’d all been riding on the beach and Eliza had told me I’d have to walk back, but Ryan had fixed it in two quick motions. “Don’t listen to your sister. This kind of stuff is easy, if you just look at it the right way,” he’d said.
I remembered staring at the faint stubble on his chin; it was the end of August, and the hair on his face was darker than on his head. His hair always lightened in the sun over the course of the summer. He was fourteen, and it was the first time I’d noticed facial hair on someone who wasn’t my dad. It was also probably the first time it occurred to me that Ryan Landry was good-looking. I was a late bloomer, and the only sixth-grade girl without a crush. But suddenly, I had one.
“Wait,” I’d said, prying my eyes away from his face and pointing at the chain. “Show me how to do it, in case it happens again.”
He’d grinned, making him even more beautiful. “Eliza would never think of that,” he’d said. I’d stored that precious moment away for years now, pulling aside its wrappings every now and then to relive the memory.
“This summer is not about Ryan Landry,” I told myself aloud. This would be my mantra; Tea would be proud. “He was a crush and just a crush. You are beyond crushes.”
“Katie, Katie, Katie, bike troubles again?” The voice was deep with a hint of a smile in it. It was a voice I hadn’t heard in years, except in my head.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I looked up from my tire toward his voice. The sun was starting to sink in the sky and I had to squint. He was in shadow, the sun behind him, framing his silhouette. He was somehow larger than life and just the right size.
Why had I picked right now to start talking to myself about Ryan Landry?
“Just a flat,” I told him. I laughed, trying for light, tinkling now-be-on-your-way-Man-of-My-Dreams giggle, but the sound that emerged was a long wheeze. “Oh, and it’s Kate now.”
Instead of leaving, Ryan crouched down to examine the tire, half kneeling over me. He looked, for a long time, at my face. Heat rose to my cheeks. I wished I already had a tan to hide my blushing.
“Oh, is it? Interesting.” He smirked but not in a cruel way. It was more like he wanted to tease me a little, the same way he used to when we were kids. I could tell that he’d heard me chanting mantras about him.
“So, should I walk you home? Or do you want to see if Smokey can fix that?”
Ryan Landry wanted to walk me home? “Smokey just gave me a job. I’m not going to press my luck today.”
He stood up and extended a hand to help me back onto my feet. I took it. His palm was cool and callused and muscular. The hand of a man. It almost made me laugh to think of it that way. The last time we’d been here, I’d still thought of Ryan as a boy.
“Working for Smokey. That should be an adventure.” He grinned, but only halfway. He had eyes the same color and clearness as green sea glass, darkening as they grew more serious. He was looking down at me intently again, in a way I wasn’t used to. I liked it, a lot, even though I didn’t know if I was supposed to.
He took my bike by the handlebars and hefted up the back end, so he could roll it home on the front wheel. We started walking along the boardwalk, winding our way back to our street. His shoulder, solid and lean beneath his shirt, was barely a millimeter from mine. It had taken me five miles of running to get rid of the rattling, and now it returned with force.
“Are you still at the restaurant?” I asked him, referring to his family’s place on the pier.
“Yup,” he said. “I’ve been taking over more of the management so my parents can slow down a bit.”
“That’s good,” I said, trailing into small talk about his brothers, Pete and Garrett, and what my little sisters were up to.
Then we found ourselves in a sort of half-comfortable, half-awkward silence. Ryan peered at me again, his eyes settling onto my face. “So, I don’t really know how to ask this but, are you okay being back?” His voice was low and softer and his words fell close to my ear.
I looked up into his face. My lips came up to the hollow under his Adam’s apple, and if I tilted my head, I could kiss my way up to his chin. I blushed and turned my gaze to my feet, clad in my nicest sandals for the meeting with Grace. My second right toe was permanently bent from a soccer injury; I wished I could hide it from Ryan. His toes were straight and long in his flip-flops. Could someone have sexy toes? He did.
“I’m okay,” I said, finally answering the question, not knowing if my answer were true. “I mean, maybe I’m not okay, but I know it’s good we’re back. Eliza’s getting married, you know.”
Why had I said it like that? Like, “Eliza’s getting married, ready for me and my bent toe?” I hated the way I sounded.
“Yeah, I heard,” Ryan said. I wanted some hint of what he thought about this, but the way he said it was the same as if I’d said, “The first day of summer is in ten days.”
We’d reached our houses. Even though we were on Pleasant Street and near the smaller beach it connected to, it was a quick walk to and from Morning Beach.
He leaned toward me, knocking his shoulder into mine. It was not a big gesture, coming from someone who’d thrown me into the water, high-fived me, tickled me, and chased me during games of tag. But this time, we were all alone. If I leaned back toward him, we’d kiss. Or we could kiss. It felt like the start of every daydream I’d ever had about him but I was stuck under a total emotional paralysis. This wasn’t real.
“It’ll be a good summer,” he said, putting the handlebars of my busted bike gently in my hands. The side of his hand brushed the side of mine and I had to bite my tongue so I wouldn’t gasp. His hand was warm, and I knew if he took my hand, his grip would be strong but not overbearing. Without the bike between us, there’d be no space between our bodies. I looked up at him, realizing how close my lips were to his chin. A slight trace of dark stubble grew there, almost asking to be touched.
Finally, he backed up, toward his house, deflating and relieving me at the same time. My jaw hurt from clamping my teeth so tightly. He smiled at me, and for a second, I caught him looking at my legs.
“Keep running, Kate. You look good.”
As he turned and walked to his house, I fe
lt the bike start to slip from my hands, like his words had made me completely lose control.
In a way, they had.
CHAPTER THREE
I’D BEEN IN my room since my failed meeting with Grace Campbell and my walk back with Ryan. I heard my sisters downstairs in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. I hated the thought of going down there and having to tell them that my big summer job had fallen through. I wished I’d never even mentioned it.
I slouched deeper into the blue-and-green throw pillows on my bed, rereading the exchange with Grace to see if I’d missed something, or said anything to make her change her mind. But, no, aside from her job description being “doing assistant-y things,” everything was very straightforward.
I closed the laptop and wrote a quick note to myself, a plan, really:
Get up with the sun
Ocean swim or run
Write until 8:30
Smokey’s
I thought about the room above the garage, where my mother used to paint. Even though we’d rented the house out for the last three summers, that room had remained off-limits to tenants, a fact that irritated the leasing company—they liked to remind us about the added value of its separate plumbing and entry, “should we choose to make the space available.”
I looked around my small room, and thought of Eliza’s much bigger one on the ground floor. I needed more space now, too, didn’t I?
I thought of how my mom sometimes said, “Art can be selfish.” Creating something new forces you to claim time and distance from other parts of your life, but I wasn’t sure if being selfish also entitled me to the studio. Especially when I didn’t know what I was working on.
I finally forced myself to head downstairs to the kitchen. The smell of garlic hit my nostrils and my stomach growled.
The Summers Page 2
