Cold Summer

by Gwen Cole

  Copyright © 2017 by Gwen Cole

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0766-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0770-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Corri, because without you, there would be no words.

  0.

  Kale

  For me, seasons don’t exist.

  Only I know what it feels like when summer turns to winter in an instant. When one minute I’m in my bed and the next I’m staring up at snow-covered trees, wondering what year I’m in.

  Even now I feel it coming.

  I sit on the back steps, gripping the wood with one hand like it’s possible to anchor myself here in the present. No matter how hard I try, it never works. The only thing I can do is delay it, sometimes not even that.

  Trying to take my thoughts from it, I stare across the field behind the house where we once played baseball in the summers. Swatting at bugs and shielding our eyes with our gloves from the sun’s glare. The grass was kept short then, always ready for us to spend the last hours of the day throwing ball and hoping the sun wouldn’t leave. Mom would watch us from the back porch, a few feet from where I’m sitting now. Cheering us on and never taking sides.

  Now the field is overgrown.

  Just a memory of the family who used to live here.

  I hear Bryce inside, coming down the stairs fast and hard. The jingle of car keys and his audible sigh—the only evidence he’s seen me. And because of that, I’m surprised when he walks across the kitchen and opens the screen door behind me.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asks, lingering on the top step. The screen door bangs shut behind him.

  I manage to give him a one shoulder shrug. It’s all I can do—I feel like if I move again, I’ll disappear.

  That one sentence is probably the most he’s said to me in a week. Without Libby here—with her constant sisterly comments and snide remarks—the house is submersed in silence. We dance around conversations and slip past whichever rooms the other is in.

  Not brothers. Strangers.

  That’s what we’ve become, and it’s my fault.

  I can feel him staring. It has to be close to ninety degrees out here and yet I’m wearing a sweatshirt. I shiver like it’s twenty. My body knows what’s coming before it happens. I tighten my grip on the wooden stair even more.

  Bryce shifts his weight, making his keys bump against his hip. I don’t like him standing there, saying nothing, like I’m the one who came to find him.

  “Did you want something?” I finally ask, gripping the stair tighter. My forearms flex, not strong enough to keep me here.

  “I’m going to the store, so I was wondering if you wanted to come.” He’s lying—he only came out here because he felt like he had to.

  “No, thanks.” My voice is tight.

  “Why not?”

  I keep my eyes forward.

  “Because I—” Because I won’t be here in an hour? Because I don’t want to disappear while we’re driving to the store? I’m sure he would take that well. I start again, coming up with a normal answer. “I just don’t want to,” I finally tell him.

  Bryce only sighs behind me.

  I wrap my free arm around myself and shiver again, a place of winter invading my thoughts. If I close my eyes, I’ll see nothing else. So I keep them open, hoping I’ll stay here longer.

  I can’t give into it. Not yet.

  Bryce says, “So—” He pauses a long moment “—are you …” He takes a quick breath and starts again, his voice lower. “Are you going to be here when I come back?”

  I almost lie to him but end up saying, “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, well—” If I turn around, I would see him flex his jaw because that’s what he does. But I don’t, so the door opens and he says, “I’ll see you later.”

  Bryce’s footsteps fade away into the house, followed by the slam of the front door and the roar of his truck starting.

  Then I’m alone.

  After putting it off for so long, I close my eyes and picture the place my body wants to take me. I don’t want to go, but I also don’t want to stay.

  Two worlds I don’t want to be a part of.

  Two worlds I don’t belong in.

  And the worst part is I don’t have a choice.

  I stand and take a step off the porch, my foot landing on snow instead of grass. Cold bites at my skin and fills my lungs. Everything changing in an instant. I don’t have to open my eyes to know I’m here.

  This is what my life has come to.

  I don’t have a superpower.

  I have a curse.

  1.

  Harper

  When I decided to move to Uncle Jasper’s house permanently, I didn’t think it would happen so fast, and I definitely didn’t think it would actually happen. Boy, was I wrong.

  It doesn’t hit me until I’m staring at the house.

  Not during the plane ride or when the pilot announced our descent. Not even when Uncle Jasper picked me up from the airport and we drove past miles and miles of familiar fields and driveways marked with old mailboxes.

  But now that the truck has shut off and the only thing I have left to look at is the farmhouse, I can’t ignore the truth: I’m back in the place where I spent my summers every year—a place filled with memories of a boy with secrets and a house I loved more than my own. But this time I’m not just visiting. This time I’m staying for good. Same girl, different life.

  What the hell just happened?

  I glance over at Uncle Jasper. He stares out across the field to the left, his hand still on the top of the steering wheel. His short graying hair is hidden beneath his Royals cap, the blue faded and the bill fraying around the edges.

  My throat feels dry, but I ask him anyway, “Do you think this was a mistake?”

  He blinks and looks over, giving me one of his rare smiles.

  “People don’t make mistakes,” he says. “They make decisions.”

  “Ah, wise Uncle Jasper is at it again.”

  “I try my best. Come on, let’s get your stuff upstairs.”

  He grabs my duffel bag and I follow him to the house with my backpack, leaving my biggest check-in bag in the back for later. I’m still wondering what I’m doing here. Inside, it smells like old wood and toast, just as I remember. The pictures in the hallway show past holidays, Dad and Uncle Jasper when they were young, and even some of me. I glance at Aunt Holly’s empty chair before following him upstairs, noticing the afghan still draped over the back and the way the green is still that faded color.

  Being in this house without her doesn’t feel right. It probably never will
.

  I follow Uncle Jasper upstairs. He stops at the door at the end of the hall where my room looks untouched, as though nobody has been in here since I left. My clock glows green from the nightstand and my bed has a single pillow on it. The top of the dresser is bare, save for the mounted mirror on the wall above.

  Uncle Jasper sets my bag on the floor, the old hardwood creaking under his weight. He looks around the room. “If you need anything, just let me know,” he says. “All right?”

  I only nod and stare at my comforter. The bed calls to me, whispers for me to hide away under the covers and sleep the days away until I wake up, realizing everything was a dream. I want this whole summer to be over with. When school starts up, there will be more distractions, things to take my mind off everything that’s gone wrong.

  Uncle Jasper pauses at the door.

  “Harper?” I look up, trying not to show how I feel. “I’m really glad you’re here. I know it may not seem that way, but I am.”

  Despite everything, I smile. “I think I am, too.”

  “You sure?”

  “No, but it’s like you said. I made a decision.” Then I say, “And I actually do need something. Do you still have that extra TV that used to be in the guest room?”

  He raises an eyebrow and steps back into the room. “Yes? You want it in here?”

  “Yeah, it’s just … I game.”

  “You game? What do you mean, like, Nintendo 64?”

  I try not to laugh. “No, like Xbox. I play with other people online. And you don’t have to worry about me staying up here all day—I limit myself. You still have wifi, right?”

  Now he’s the one who wants to laugh, but he finally shrugs and says, “Yes, I still have wifi, and I’ll move the TV later tonight.”

  At least something will be somewhat normal.

  After he leaves, I unpack my clothes, and when I go to put my sweatshirt into the third drawer, I find a picture from my last summer here, laying exactly where I left it. I never took it with me, because I felt it belonged in this house more than anywhere else. And it does. Everything about this picture is proof of how much I loved it here.

  Uncle Jasper’s property line borders with our neighbor’s house on the other side of the woods. A river runs halfway between our houses, and that was where I found my company every summer. If it wasn’t for the Jackson kids, my summers here wouldn’t have been so memorable. My aunt and uncle were fun, but a kid can only hang out with grownups for so long.

  The picture was taken in the yard under the oak trees, the three of us hanging off each other’s shoulders, grinning like nothing could make that day better. They labeled Uncle Jasper and Aunt Holly as their Aunt and Uncle, too, since they never saw theirs and they were around enough for them to be exactly that.

  I stare at Libby, and then Kale. Bryce was always doing something with school or hanging out with his older friends, so it was always just the three of us.

  Looking at Kale again, even after all these years, sparks something inside. His smiling face and single dimple. And this is a picture from six years ago—I can’t help but wonder what he’s like now, and how much he’s changed. Because my parents couldn’t have any more kids after me, I hadn’t known what it felt like to have siblings until I met Libby. She was the sister I never had. But Kale—I felt something entirely different about him.

  He makes me look forward to the days here.

  Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.

  2.

  Kale

  Everything about this place is cold.

  It’s in the air around me. In the earth underneath my boots. Through every breath I take.

  I hate it.

  My numb fingers fumble with the cigarette as I try to get it out of the package. When I finally manage, I bring it to my lips and cup my hands around the match, waiting for it to catch. My hands shake too much.

  I just want a smoke, and even this seems too hard.

  “Here, let me try.” Adams crouches in front of me, leaning his rifle against his shoulder so he can use both hands. I can only see parts of him where the moonlight catches breaks between the clouds.

  I give him the matches, just wanting the damn thing lit. And when it does, my hands don’t shake as much. I take a long drag and offer it to Adams, who does the same, half smiling when he hands it back.

  “Where did you say you got these again? They’re terrible.” He settles down next to me, his leg pressing against mine.

  I tell him. “I’m not saying it’s true, but I might have found it lying next to a Kraut officer last week.”

  “Just lying there, huh? No wonder they’re so bad. The Germans don’t know the meaning of a good cigarette.” He laughs—right not to believe me. I wanted to smoke so bad, I went as low as searching for them. Most guys do it—to find watches or other souvenirs—but it was my first time.

  I never realized how cold a dead body could become.

  We sit in our foxhole and pass the cigarette between us until it’s gone. There’s something about sharing a smoke—something I could never explain. And because I’m not alone here, next to someone who’s going through the same thing, it’s the warmest I’ve been all night. I hear the guys five yards from us, in their own hole, smoking their own cigarettes, talking about the girls they left behind back home and about better times.

  When I think of home, I don’t think the same way these guys do. In this world—in this time—I have no home.

  And the place I call home in my own time isn’t much of one anyway.

  “What did you say your sister’s name was again?” Adams asks.

  “Libby.” I stuff my hands into my armpits. A sad attempt to warm them.

  “And how much younger is she than you?”

  I glance over, my eyes shooting a glare. “Lay off. We might share a hole, but that won’t last long if you keep asking about my sister.”

  He laughs and it vibrates through his chest. With his shoulder pressed against mine, I feel every chuckle. It makes the night a bit warmer.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “When I save your ass one of these days, you’ll have to introduce me. It’s in the code of conduct.”

  “Really,” I say.

  “I kid you not,” Adams says. But he can’t keep his face from breaking into a grin.

  After a while, I feel him drift off to sleep, his chest rising and falling slower and slower like it suddenly might stop. But it doesn’t. He keeps breathing and the night wears on. The snow rains down on us, cold and silent, making the forest around us a forbidden land.

  I don’t know how the rest of the guys do it, but it’s almost impossible for me to sleep at all in these holes. In this place.

  My heart pounds too hard when I think of them out there. When they could bear down at us at any moment with their guns raised. Shooting through us like we’re paper mache. In these woods, in this hole, there is nothing else I can think of.

  Sometimes I try to think of home to make things more bearable. Of my sister and brother, from back before everything turned for the worse. Of my only friend—the only person who hasn’t given up on me. It’s hard to think about them when they don’t even exist here.

  Here, everything is cold.

  Even my thoughts.

  A few hours before dawn, I’m finally exhausted enough to sleep. It happens while thinking of past summers and a girl I can hardly remember in this place.

  I wake to the sound of mortars.

  They fall on us from above. Unseen before it’s too late. Even before I open my eyes, my heart pounds and my hands shake—the side effect of being woken to the sounds of death.

  Adrenaline courses through my veins, like an old friend ready to be embraced. I hear Lieutenant Gates yell for us to stay where we are, swearing at the men who would rather take their chances in the open than be trapped in holes.

  Trees fall around us.

  Dirt rains from above.

  Mortars scream and pound the earth.

&nb
sp; I grip my rifle to my chest, my fingers numb from holding it so tight. Adams and I stay huddled in our hole, only able to pray one doesn’t land on us. So many times I’ve wondered if it would. If I travel back in time just to die. To become a part of history and disappear without anyone knowing what happened to me.

  I glance over at Adams. His face is pale and his jaw is set.

  The silence of the forest returns as suddenly as it left, but it’s not alone. The broken trees creak where they’re split, and the moans of men echo through the morning fog.

  Adams gets to his feet, unsteady like he can’t walk right, and climbs out of the hole. He’s covered in dirt, probably the same as me, his clothes the color of dark ash. I watch as he looks around himself, surveying the damage before fully standing.

  “Come on, Jackson.” He motions me up, and after pushing my fears aside, I follow. My feet are numb in my boots, and I can’t feel my legs. The forest is full of fallen trees and half buried holes. Everything around us is not what it was. Blood paints the snow where soldiers whom I once knew have died.

  Parker.

  Whitt.

  Campbell.

  My stomach turns over at the sight of their broken bodies. Knowing I could’ve been one of them. I’m shaking again, the cigarette long worn off.

  I watch Adams look into the hole next to ours. It’s bigger than it was. Misshapen. We were five yards away from death. I still can’t feel my legs or anything else besides my heart, which beats unevenly.

  Adams looks back at me and shakes his head. The emptiness in his eyes is something I’ve grown used to. The war is taking a greater toll on him than me. I don’t know why; Adams has more to go back to than I ever will. Maybe it’s because I only take this a couple days at a time. He doesn’t get to come and go like I do. Doesn’t get any reprieve. He’s here for good.

  I fumble for another cigarette in my pocket—needing a smoke now more than ever—when I hear a scream from the sky and someone shouting.

  “Take cover!”

  Those two words never fail to make my heart pound.

  And there is nothing I hate more than a late mortar to catch us off guard. It’s a dirty game they like to play with us.