I twist my mouth to the side. “Yeah. Everyone wants me to stay the course, you know? But do you ever feel like everyone else is making decisions in your life for you? Like you’ve lost control?”
Blake’s quiet for a minute, and I blush. Of course he has.
He nods and scrapes his toe through the gravel, sending tiny rocks scattering.
Shit.
I hurry to save the conversation. “It seems to me like college is only going to add to my debt, rather than help me start off fresh.”
“So here you are.”
“Here we are,” I correct him.
He laughs low, under his breath. “Here we are,” he agrees, and our situation really hits me.
I’ve spent the whole time I’ve known Blake avoiding him, staying safe. When you’re a mixed family and you have four parents between you, it’s easy to arrange things so you’re never in the same room with each other. Every Thanksgiving, when he’d be with our parents, I ate with my dad. And every Christmas when he saw his mom, I set up my stocking at Mom and Jim’s house. In the three years our parents have been married, I haven’t spent more than two hours in a row with Blake. And now we have to spend the whole summer together.
I don’t know if I can handle it.
Whatever tiny ping of excitement I feel just by being in the same space with Blake has to end. Getting too comfortable with him is stupid. I may not have my life figured out, but I know enough to know that.
4
Blake
June
I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong with McKenna when a text message from my ex pings through on my phone.
For the love of God, will you please pick up? Hailey demands, and since my ex doesn’t believe in God, I don’t know what the hell he has to do with it.
I make my phone screen go black and try to remember the words my sponsors used to tell me. Don’t engage in reckless behavior.
Sorry, Hailey. That means you.
If she wanted to talk to me so much, she wouldn’t have been banging our neighbor in my bed the day I came home from rehab. My bed in my house that I paid for while I was away at rehab, my bed that I assembled and built for her because it was the exact model she wanted. Watching her fuck Steve, with his scrawny arms and weird, pale ass, made this simmering rage boil up in my blood. It’s like she wanted to get caught. It took everything I had to walk away, to not smash Steve through the wall or dive for a pill or a bottle or something, anything, to take away that pain. But I did it, and I’m here in this beach house, sequestered away to protect myself. Frankly, there’s not a lot Hailey can say to make me pick up the phone.
Instead of responding, I slam over to the refrigerator and open the door for the third time in ten minutes. Other than the picked-over bowl of grapes on the counter and a few containers of vanilla yogurt in the fridge, there’s nothing edible in this place.
I would ask McKenna where to find something to eat, but one minute our conversation was going fine, and the next she froze up on me. She dropped her arms to her side and said, Well, that’s the tour, before bolting away. I know she doesn’t have work because wherever she went, she brought a book and a beach towel with her, but who knows where she’s disappeared to.
Guess I’m going out for lunch.
I walk toward the kitchen door and grab my keys off a set of hooks decorated with seashells. The whole house, as far as I can tell, takes the beach theme literally, with seashells filling the clear base of the lamps in the living room and diagrams of sea life decorating the walls. Every magnet on the fridge makes some reference to the shore—Ship happens. Don’t be crabby. Life’s a beach, enjoy the waves. Even the mat outside the door says Whalecome in the shape of a blue whale.
I’m not going to judge because my other option right now is going back to Hailey, and that’s never going to happen.
Another text. Come on, Blake. Let me know you’re safe.
Nope.
The Jeep in the driveway beckons like an escape. I haul myself into the car and start the engine running so I can blast the AC.
The Jeep was a graduation-from-rehab present to myself, a reminder to be the kind of man who deserves to drive such a nice car. Every component inside snaps in and out, even the roof, and it’s like a choose-your-own-adventure car. Like a puzzle or a toy you get to build to fit your mood.
It’s a top-down, roof-off kind of day, but right now my stomach’s the more pressing concern. I search for a grocery store on my GPS and locate the nearest one.
The Maycomb family beach house sits in Beach Haven, New Jersey, not to be confused with Haven Beach, and as I drive down the street toward Beach Avenue, which runs the length of the island, I pass an armful of colorful houses—pinks and blues and even the odd yellow. The islanders take their house painting seriously here. Probably have an approved-colors list in the Home Owners Association bylaws.
Two blocks into my ride, a white, shuttered building squats in the sun with with an aging, hot-pink school bus parked in the dusty lot outside. Painted on the side read the words Nardi’s Party Bus. Get you home safe.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and my throat goes dry.
A crowd rolling out the door with an afternoon buzz confirms my suspicions—there’s a bar not two blocks from the house. Jesus H. Christ, this is rich. I wonder if Jodi and my dad know. This island is already small enough to be a trap. Now there’s another spot on my list of places I can’t go.
* * *
My mouth waters at the scent of the thick, juicy steak sizzling on the grill on the beach house deck, fat dripping down its sides. I’m staying clean this summer, and while food doesn’t fill the emptiness inside me quite the same as my other drugs of choice, it’ll have to do.
I flip the steak, then hang the tongs off the side of the grill and close the lid. When I turn away, a splinter lodges in my heel.
“Shit,” I cry out, pain spiking my heartbeat.
“What’s wrong?” McKenna’s voice rises from the ground floor around the corner of the house, and then the deck shakes as she pounds up the stairs to me. “What happened?”
She arrives next to me in a rush, the smell of sunscreen and salt water, a small hand landing on my arm and shocking me enough to make me forget about the pain for a split second.
“Splinter,” I tell her.
“Ouch.”
I nod. I lean against the railing and lift my foot, trying to inspect the damage. The splinter’s lodged on the far side, hard to reach either way I twist my ankle.
McKenna watches me struggle for a minute, then gives me an amused look. “Can I help?”
I drop my hands. “You sure?”
She bites her lower lip and hunkers down on the deck, then takes my foot in her hand. Her gentle fingers fumble over my skin, and there’s a moment of pain when she tugs on the splinter and pulls it free.
“Did I get it?” She peers up at me, her face pinched. She’s still wearing that bikini with its tiny pink strings, and her beach towel sits low on her hips.
I pull my eyes up to her face, but it’s hard not to notice her body, tanned and strong, with just enough curves. She’s young is all. Barely more than a teenager. Girls don’t look like that when they hit thirty. At the same time, she sure as hell isn’t under eighteen anymore, either.
“I think so.” There’s a lump in my throat.
No one’s taken care of me for a long, long time. Certainly not Hailey, who’s always the number one in her own book. Even at rehab, everything was clinical and sterile.
McKenna’s the first person in a while to actually touch me. That’s the reason I keep telling myself why it makes me feel alive.
“Thank you,” I say, and McKenna drops her hands and steps back.
“You’re welcome.” She wrinkles her nose. “I hate feet. You’re lucky I like…”
She bites off whatever she was going to say and makes a face like she’s going to bolt again.
I’m not ready for her to leave
yet, so I ask, “You just get back?”
“A minute ago. Wasn’t supposed to come back to an injury.” Her voice warms something in my chest.
“An injury sustained in the name of a good meal.” I tilt my head and offer her a smile. “You hungry? There’s plenty for two.”
She glances at the grill, and my eyes—dammit—skim down her body. A tiny bead of liquid glistens on the tanned skin between her breasts, and I don’t know if the drop is sweat or seawater or what, but suddenly I have the need to know.
Her eyes flick back to mine, filled with uncertainty. “Thanks, but I’m going to shower off,” she says. “Not too hungry.”
The way she says it—like it’s killing her to say no—makes my stomach twist.
God, she must really hate me.
“Right,” I say. “Well, there’s a fridge full of food now. Help yourself to whatever you want.”
She nods and spins away and heads back down the stairs, flashing a bright pink spot of sunburn on her back under the strap of her bathing suit.
I stand there awkwardly and babysit my food while the water in the outdoor shower turns on. McKenna’s voice drifts up in a hum, and I pull the steak off the grill still half bloody so I don’t have to stand there and torture myself. Because even when I’m sitting at the kitchen table, no longer hungry but eating my steak anyway, I keep coming back to the tiny drop of liquid on her chest.
Salt or sweat or tears?
The way if I could just reach out, I’d know.
5
McKenna
June
I scrape the pool net along the bottom of the water feature at the Putt-Putt Hut and smile at the satisfying weight of a bunch of golf balls collecting in its soggy grip. When I lift the net from the murky water, it’s like revealing a rainbow. A flick of the wrist and—ta-da—a bit of magic.
I dump the balls into a bucket on the pavement beside me, save for one shiny gold ball, which I toss back into the water at the mermaid’s tail for good luck. I’m not sure what I’m wishing for. Maybe just a tiny bit of peace.
Ever since Blake arrived, I’ve been on edge, wondering where he’s at so I can keep up this dance and steer clear of him. It’s exhausting. So much for my summer of solitude.
I carry the bucket into the Hut so we can rinse the balls and reuse them with other customers. Inside, Brooke sits on the counter, Sam Kowalski standing between her legs with a hand on each of her thighs. For the last few summers they’ve had this on and off thing going, and from the way he’s fiddling with the edge of her shorts, I’d say it’s back on.
What’s the point of summer if you don’t get to have fun? Brooke likes to say.
Maybe I should tear a page from her book.
Brooke catches my eye over Sam’s shoulder and sees me struggling to balance the bucket and the still-dripping scooper. She nudges Sam and he steps back just enough to let her hop down.
She takes the bucket from me, grunting at its weight. “Holy shit, look at this haul. You are the best ball handler I know.”
She winks at me, and I groan good-naturedly.
I duck into the supply closet to return the equipment, and Brooke follows me, whispering in the quiet space. “Guess there are no hot summer prospects? No news on that front?”
I shake my head and press my lips into a line. “Not about that, but I do have news.”
“You do?” Her grin stretches wide. “You know I like a good story.”
I laugh. “Of course you do.”
Brooke leans the back of her head against the wall and taps her foot on the floor. “So are you going to spill?”
“Blake’s here,” I say.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Brooke since he arrived, but it feels like the first time I’m ready to say something. I guess I’ve been holding out on the news, trying to figure out what to do with it. Still haven’t actually made up my mind. No doubt Brooke will have an opinion.
“Blake as in your stepbrother?”
I walk back into the main room of the Putt-Putt Hut, and she follows me.
“One and the same.”
Brooke stops whispering, so her voice comes out loud and accusing. “Wasn’t he in rehab?”
I dart a glance at Sam, who pretends not to look at us in a way that makes me know he heard every word.
I make a face at Brooke. “Really?”
She cringes. “Sorry, Kenn.”
“It’s fine.” I sigh. “Not like it’s some state secret.”
Brooke waves a hand between the three of us. “Want to grab some lunch and tell me more?”
I point at the unattended register. “Who’s going to watch the front?”
She frowns. “Why do you always have to be so logical?”
“I’m not always logical.” I giggle. “This is just common sense.”
Brooke fishes a few crumpled bills out of her back pocket and gives me a hopeful look. “Clam chowder takeout?”
I grab the bills and glide out the door. “Back in ten,” I call over my shoulder.
You can buy some of the best clam chowder on the island in this little hole in the wall restaurant in Bay Village, just a tiny screen door stuck halfway down an alley, and that’s where I go to grab our lunch. The day’s warm enough for me to reconsider hot soup, but god, the clam chowder’s good, and I refuse to eat it anywhere off this island. I’ll eat as much of it as I can while I’m here.
When I walk back inside the Putt-Putt Hut carrying a quart of soup and a few packages of soup crackers in a brown paper bag, I find Sam and Brooke perched at one of the tables where tourists sit to eat their overpriced ice cream. Their backs are to me, heads bent together, and from here I can see Sam playing idly with her hair. It looks nice and peaceful and intimate, and I have to clear my throat to get their attention.
I’ve known Brooke since the summer we both turned fourteen, and even though we were mostly summer friends up until we left for college, we both ended up at Penn State University. Actually, half of my high school ended up there, which makes for the occasional awkward party where I bump into someone I’ve fallen out of touch with, and we both have to pretend to care.
Freshman year, Brooke and I agreed we should find other roommates to get the full college experience, but we ended up spending every minute with each other anyway, so by sophomore year we decided to cut to the chase and room together. If I don’t go back to college, I’m abandoning Brooke, too. Another thing for me to feel bad about if I think about it too hard.
Brooke turns and breaks out in a smile. “Lunch wench!”
“That’s lunch mistress to you.” I set down the paper bag and dig inside for disposable bowls and plastic spoons. I distribute them to my friends and then plop into a seat to ladle out clam chowder.
“So?” Brooke asks the second I dip my spoon into my soup. “You said Blake’s here, but what exactly does that mean?”
I swallow my salty, delicious soup. “He’s staying at the beach house with me. For as long as he needs, I guess.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes are big, while Sam keeps his gaze trained on his soup.
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Is he, you know, clean?”
My shoulders go tight, and my skin feels hot and stretched. “He’s fine.”
Brooke leans back against her chair and nods. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re all fucking fine. “Just because someone’s had a rough patch doesn’t mean he’s a bad person,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
“O-kay,” she drawls. “I just remember you talking to your mom, and it was pretty serious.”
As much as I wanted Brooke’s opinion before, I can’t talk about Blake anymore. I’m sure everyone else is talking about him enough. Everything I know about him, I learned secondhand. So I change the topic to the best flavor of fudge on the island, and Sam weighs in, and then we chatter on from there.
I don’t want to b
e the kind of person to spill Blake’s secrets. Even now, there’s part of him I want to protect.
* * *
Blake strolls up to the house just before dinnertime, distractingly shirtless and sweaty. I’m wrist-deep in the rich garden soil when he appears, and I watch him through a lens of green. His tattoos curl over his shoulders and down his biceps like an invitation to look closer, and my stupid heart thumps hard in my chest.
I don’t know where he’s coming from, but he looks good and solid on the sidewalk, like someone you could reach out and touch and not have crumble away. We’ve been here together for less than a week, and I already dread the challenge of avoiding him for the rest of the summer.
“Hey, McKenna,” Blake calls, and I freeze with my hands full of dirt.
“Hey,” I mumble.
He leans his forearms on the wooden fence that separates this part of the garden from the sidewalk and peers down at me. “I’m going to shower, but want to grab some dinner when I’m done?”
I pat the soil into place at the base of the hydrangea bush I just planted. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
My stomach growls loud enough for him to hear.
Well, shit.
Blake heaves out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously, McKenna?”
“What?” I shoot him a challenging look.
“You don’t need to be so weird around me.”
“I’m not being weird.”
I’m being the most awkward human on the planet right now.
Dammit. He’s right.
Blake’s lips twitch at the corners like he’s trying to hold back a grin, and that tease makes me want to prove him wrong.
“Tell you what,” I say, “Since you’re already gross, why don’t you help me in the garden for a bit and then we can grab dinner and I can show you how totally not awkward I can be.”
Step Summer Page 3
