The Summers

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  Hearing Ryan use the phrase “geeking out” was beyond adorable. And I loved how passionate he was. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I said. “But maybe after the fireworks?”

  “Definitely,” Ryan said, taking my hand and leading me to the back row of chairs. The view back here was more expansive and had the bonus of offering a little privacy for fireworks-inspired kissing.

  “You know, my parents are around tomorrow. . . .” he said, waiting for me to sit down in my chair before settling into his. He draped his arm around my back and pulled in closer.

  “That’s not how a lot of guys start those sorts of questions,” I said.

  He laughed, “Well, it is if I want you to join us for dinner.”

  “You know I’d do anything for a home-cooked Landry meal,” I said with a sly smile.

  “Anything?” he said as he ran his hand up my thigh. I focused on the first silver fireworks igniting in the distance to calm my racing heart. I’d already met his parents—many times—but never as Ryan’s girlfriend. As Grace would say, context was everything.

  “Almost anything.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I’D BEEN INVITED to the Landrys’ house for dinner countless times. “Invited” wasn’t even the right word: We’d just pop into their house and vice versa, like our kitchen tables were connected to each other.

  Invites had been extended this summer but, with everyone getting older and having their own lives, we’d all been too busy. And I got the sense that the Landry boys rarely ate dinner together. Not because there was anything wrong, but because they were all on different schedules. It was part of growing up, I guess, but thinking of it made me strangely nostalgic.

  I clutched a bottle of wine to my chest and rang the doorbell, laughing a little at Mrs. Landry’s chipped green planter that burst with the marigolds and petunias she planted every year. She always claimed that she was not a gifted gardener and that it was her special green planter that kept the plants alive.

  She came to the door. “Katie! I mean Kate. Ryan told me you go by Kate now. I need to get used to that.” She flung open the screen and gave me a big hug. Her dark brown hair had a few threads of gray, and when she smiled, more creases appeared around her eyes. But she was the same Mrs. Landry, right down to her perfume. It gave me a small pang in my chest to realize that I’d never get to see my mom grow old. She’d always be stuck in time for me. “Why haven’t you stopped by already?” Mrs. Landry drew me back to reality.

  Before I could answer, she took the wine out of my hands. “What is this?” She shook her head. “Are you crazy? You don’t bring a hostess gift. You’re family.” She practically dragged me into the living room.

  Before I stepped inside, I couldn’t remember exactly what the main house looked like—surely some things had changed over the years—but it all came rushing back to me. The little gust of air that tickled your ankles as the screen door whooshed shut behind you, the aromas of butter, garlic, and lemon from the kitchen, the sense of being lived in. There was a messy arsenal of sports equipment by the back door, and the aura of men as the majority, unlike our home. Mrs. Landry did her best to overcompensate, with pastel bowls of seashells and floral candles amid the video game controllers and beaten-up copies of Sports Illustrated. A painting of my mom’s hung over the couch—two women chatting under a pink-and-yellow beach umbrella.

  The reminder of my mom calmed the shifty, twisting bumps of my heart.

  “Mike, Katie—Kate! I keep messing it up—is here,” she said. “How are you, dear?”

  I grinned despite myself. I was still nervous—after all, I’d seen their son naked and Mrs. Landry was no fool.

  “I’m good, been keeping busy,” I said. Since Mrs. Landry seemed unwilling to take the wine bottle from me, I set it down on the dining table. It was set with the same floral dinner plates I remembered from three years ago.

  “Katie!” Mr. Landry bellowed as he walked in from the kitchen, a can of beer in his hand. His belly had expanded a little, but he still had the same ruddy complexion and kind eyes.

  “You must still be running,” Mrs. Landry said. “Look at those legs, Mike. God, I’d kill for them. Keep it up.”

  “Well, no wonder Ryan likes her,” Mr. Landry said. “This is an athletic household.” He patted his stomach, then pulled me into a hug.

  “You know,” he said as he gave me a final pat on the back, “you didn’t have to wait ’til you were dating Ryan to come over and see us,” he said.

  Mrs. Landry swatted him. “She knows that,” she said. “Kate’s a busy girl. She’s working for Grace Campbell, the writer.”

  “That’s right, very impressive.” As Mr. Landry raised his beer to me, I realized that Ryan had filled in his parents. Was he as nervous about this dinner as I was?

  “We’re going to eat in just a few minutes. Peter might join us a bit later but Garrett’s at work,” Mrs. Landry said, confirming my theory that they didn’t have their big dinners together as often as they used to.

  “Ryan is in the kitchen, by the way,” Mr. Landry said, pointing toward the kitchen door with his beer can. “Perfecting.” His tone was affectionate but a touch sarcastic, the same as always.

  “And where do you think he gets that from? Not his mother—” Mrs. Landry quipped.

  “I was just starting to wonder,” I interrupted with a smile. “I’ll just go say hi.”

  It was only now, when I started to let myself breathe again, that I smelled the delicious aroma of roast chicken. Ryan’s back was to me as he stood at the stove, vigorously stirring the contents of a small saucepan. I couldn’t help but admire his butt beneath the ties of his apron. If his parents weren’t ten feet away, I might have stepped up behind him and squeezed it.

  “Smells amazing,” I said by way of greeting.

  Ryan looked over his shoulder at me. “Don’t be mad, but I can’t kiss you right now. I have to be all about this risotto. If I stop stirring, it dies.”

  I slid up next to him and planted one quick peck on his cheek. “I couldn’t possibly disrupt a life-or-death moment,” I said. “In exchange, I merely require a taste when it’s ready.”

  “Deal,” Ryan said. “So how’d this morning’s writing session go?”

  “I got a couple of things down on the page,” I told him. The new timbre of our relationship had lifted some of my anxiety, and I’d been able to focus on my writing. The story about the society where kids were born with unbreakable bones was coming together, and I could even see it turning into something longer. If the delicious dinner Ryan had prepared was any indication, we were feeding one another’s creative energies.

  “Can’t wait to hear more,” he said, smiling even as he gave his risotto the evil eye. “Do you mind getting out a serving spoon for the mushrooms?”

  I went, by instinct, to the drawer where the Landrys kept utensils. They were still in the same spot. I put the spoon in the casserole dish and plucked a single mushroom from it.

  “Whoa,” I said after the mushroom had practically melted in my mouth. “What was that?”

  “Asiago-and-truffle-oil cremini mushrooms. Do you like them?”

  “Um, yes, I’m marrying those mushrooms later.”

  “Pervert,” Ryan joked. He began pouring the risotto into a serving bowl and I grabbed another spoon for him. Even though I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Landry talking about something in the next room, for a split second, I imagined Ryan and me in a kitchen of our own, getting ready for a dinner party with our friends. But what friends, exactly? Morrison and Jessica? Besides that, there wasn’t much overlap. And what would happen when I went west, and Ryan stayed here?

  How had one spoon in a serving dish led me into all these questions?

  Mrs. Landry popped in the kitchen, breaking the spell. “Need help with anything, honey?” Her voice was light, but her posture was tense.
I could tell she wanted to get back into her kitchen and start taking over. Even though Ryan and Mr. Landry both cooked at the restaurant, this place was Mrs. Landry’s domain.

  “Nope, I’m good,” Ryan said.

  “And everything’s tasting good?” I didn’t see how she could doubt the flavor of food in Ryan’s hands.

  “Yup, great.” He sounded a little annoyed.

  “Okay, then, I’ll be in the dining room.”

  “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” I said as I helped Ryan carry dishes to the table.

  “I wanted to,” Ryan said, leaning down for a slightly longer kiss as he balanced the platter of chicken. “I like cooking for you. You appreciate it.”

  There was a catch in Ryan’s voice and I wasn’t quite sure why.

  Once his plate was full, Mr. Landry pointed the remote at the TV and clicked on a baseball game.

  “You still a Mets fan, Kate?” He directed the question to me but his eyes were on the TV.

  I nodded. “Course,” I said. “Born and bred.”

  “They look good this year, bastards.”

  Mrs. Landry slapped his forearm. “Mike, you shouldn’t be calling people bastards.”

  “Why, it’s what they are. Right, Ry?”

  “Yup,” Ryan nodded, watching as his dad gobbled the contents of his plate without even really looking at the food.

  “What bastards are we speaking of this fine evening?” It was Pete, shouting as he let the screen door bang shut. He left a trail of his baseball equipment across the floor as he moseyed to the table.

  He didn’t sit down, just pulled a drumstick off the chicken and began to eat it like a bucket of KFC. “What’s the fancy stuff?” he asked, pointing at the side dishes.

  “Rice, mushrooms,” Mr. Landry said, still looking at the game. “Ask your brother.’ ”

  “It’s very good, dear,” Mrs. Landry said. “No rosemary on the chicken, though, hmm?”

  “Not this time, Ma,” Ryan said. “Fennel, thyme, garlic. A few other things.”

  “Ah, interesting,” Mrs. Landry said. I wondered, with all of the amazing flavors, how she could possibly miss the rosemary.

  I didn’t know if I should try to talk about myself, or ask questions of the Landrys, or what. Because I knew them, and they knew plenty about me, the pretense of a family dinner all felt a little awkward.

  We all let ourselves get absorbed into the game, and grew quiet. Throughout the meal, Pete hovered half in and half out of his chair, gulping the food like he was barely bothering to taste it. It took me a while to notice how sullen Ryan had become. He was still eating, but I could tell that something was off. He wasn’t considering his food, how it tasted and if it could be improved. I wanted to think of the Landrys as blameless and perfect compared to my own family, but it was clear that they just didn’t get this piece of Ryan. They considered him the sports star, not the gourmet chef.

  “I think Ryan’s cooking is pretty amazing,” I said. “And like I told him, I don’t use that word lightly. Can’t go around calling everything amazing, you know?”

  “You can call the Red Sox amazing.” Mr. Landry pointed at the TV.

  “Not today.” I grinned, looking at the score. I could feel myself blushing, but this needed to be said. “Ryan’s got real talent, and a dream, and I respect that. I wish I could cook like this. Or someone in my family could.”

  “This family’s full of good cooks,” Mr. Landry said. “Ryan’s mother’s outstanding.”

  “Oh, you guys are the best, but Ryan’s doing something different. And I think that’s special,” I said.

  “Good risotto, Ryan,” Pete said, actually slowing down a bit to chew.

  Mr. and Mrs. Landry nodded, looking from me to Ryan and back to me again. “Yes, very nice job, honey,” Mrs. Landry said.

  Maybe they were irritated with me. But it didn’t matter. I looked over at Ryan and took his hand under the table. He squeezed mine and smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I WAS HALF-AWAKE in a state I was starting to refer to as beach sleep. It was an ideal state. I still felt gripped by the night, my limbs and body liquid and warm and painlessly melded with the mattress, while my mind felt just awake enough to register that the breeze coming through the window brought with it the smell and texture of the ocean. You didn’t wake up from beach sleep. You rolled in to the day on a soft tide of gently returning consciousness. And beach sleep was that much better the mornings after I’d been with Ryan the night before.

  My phone buzzed on the nightstand next to me. Ryan. “Run this a.m.?”

  I smiled to myself and asked for a half hour. The one thing that could pull me from beach sleep was Ryan. Since having dinner with his parents, we had spent every spare second together. During our morning runs, I no longer felt like I was running from anything. We’d strolled down the boardwalk and Ryan had tried to win me another teddy bear—this time, I stopped him after he’d won the giant light-up sunglasses. We’d even taken a late-night dip in the Landrys’ hot tub, after everyone was asleep, and watched the steam rise into the darkness.

  And while sex didn’t feel like the whole point of our time together, when we were alone—usually at the end of the day—it seemed impossible for one thing not to lead to another. We were, I thought as I tied my running shoes, both physical people.

  Now we met in the space between our houses. I pulled Ryan toward me by his shirttail, giving him a kiss that wasn’t long but felt like it needed to be continued. “That will be motivating,” Ryan said. I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Let’s head south today,” I said, already jogging toward Pleasant Street Beach. Normally, we headed in the direction of Morning Beach but I thought it would be nice to head through the neighborhood around our houses.

  “Sure,” Ryan said. We took off at a medium clip, easily falling into pace with one another.

  “Sleep okay?” he asked, looking at me sideways. I could see his mouth upturned at the end with the sly grin that had grown so familiar to me these past few weeks.

  “I did. You?” I circled around the spindly branch of a flowering dogwood tree, one of the perfect white dish-shaped flowers tickling my upper arm.

  “Yeah, no idea why,” he said. I reached out and playfully slapped his wrist.

  We were a few blocks from our houses when I started to turn down Wilcox. Ryan reached out for my arm and gently pulled me back. “Let’s not go that way,” he said.

  I stopped at the curb, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Why not?”

  Ryan halted, too, staying a few yards away and looking down Wilcox like he expected a monster to pop out of someone’s hedges. He stared at the ground, kicking the dirt with the toe of his Nikes.

  “It’s just . . . you know. Well, my ex lives down Wilcox,” he finally said.

  “Ashley?” I blurted her name before I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to know it.

  He squinted at me. “How’d you know that?”

  I shrugged. “Jessica Ambrose strikes again.”

  Ryan nodded knowingly and I was relieved that at least my gossiping wasn’t going to be an issue. “I just, I’m over it and I think she is, too, but it seems like a jerky thing to do, to go running by her house with my new girlfriend,” he said.

  “We’d be running, not knocking on the door,” I said, trying to tamp down the irritation in my voice. Really, we would have been past her house in five seconds. Was Ryan really worried about her feelings, or was he still just too hung up on her to see her front door?

  Ryan shrugged. “You never know if she’d see us. Just, would you want to run by your ex’s house?”

  I thought about this and thought about all the texts from Matt I’d left unanswered. Surely, he had to have some clue that maybe I was dating someone but it wasn’t like I’d reset my Facebook status to �
��In a Relationship” or posted pictures of us on Instagram. I supposed he had a point.

  “I guess, well, maybe not,” I said. “But it’s not like he’s here, either. Are you and Ashley . . . do you still talk?”

  Ryan shook his head with a vehemence that wasn’t characteristic of him. “No. Not at all. She took the breakup pretty hard.”

  I felt a tiny glimmer of satisfaction knowing that Ryan had broken up with Ashley, and not the other way around. Now I looked down Wilcox, half fearing I’d see a girl running angrily toward us, wielding a scissors from her salon.

  “What about you?” Ryan asked. He was walking a little ahead now and I started moving, too, down the sidewalk perpendicular to Wilcox. “Do you still talk to your ex?”

  “Matt? Yeah, we’re still friends,” I said. Ryan nodded, making it hard to see his expression. “We’re both headed west in the fall so, you know, it will be good to know someone out there.”

  Out there. West. The fall. With those words, I felt how easily the conversation could go from talking about our befores to our after. What would the end of the summer mean for us?

  “Oh. Yeah. I can see how that would be . . .” Ryan trailed off and stopped walking, looking at me. “Does he . . . does your ex know about us?”

  “We haven’t really talked this summer,” I said, not pointing out that there was no reason I couldn’t have returned one of Matt’s calls by now and worked Ryan into the conversation. “I mean, if we do . . . I will . . . He’ll know.”

  Ryan reached out and squeezed my shoulder. I stood on my toes, brushing my lips against his. Wrapping his arm around me, Ryan kissed my forehead. “Well, now that that’s out there, do we stop talking about our exes?”

  “It is supposed to be in bad taste,” I said. I did, honestly, want to know more about Ashley but the topic seemed fraught with potential for talking about the future. I wanted the end of summer to stay far away, like it had felt before this conversation.