Cold Summer

by Gwen Cole

  Dad shouts at someone on the phone in the kitchen, and Bryce is still out with his friends. The television is on, watched by no one.

  Before I can disappear upstairs, Dad ends his call and breaks something against the counter. I flinch, taking a step back toward the door. He rarely gets angry—it’s a sign that my timing couldn’t be worse.

  Dad catches sight of me and walks down the hallway. He’s trying to contain himself—he tries so hard to keep his work separate from home but it doesn’t always happen. Sometimes I think he sees me as an employee who needs to be fired for showing up late every day.

  “Damn it, Kale,” he says. “Where have you been? I told you to stay home today. The delivery guy came and nobody was here to sign for it.” He takes a deep breath and looks past me, like a better version of me will walk through the door and replace me. It’s what he wants. “Where were you?” This time his voice is in check.

  Staring hard at the carpet, I say, “I went to see Miles.”

  “You’ve been gone three days,” he says. “And the first thing I ask of you is to be here. Is that so much to ask?”

  I swallow, feeling my dry tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  “I’m sorry.” And I am. I don’t want to tell him, but I totally forgot he told me a delivery was coming.

  “Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time,” he says, then he holds out his hand. “Give me your keys. As of right now, you don’t deserve to have a car. I should have done this months ago, because nothing seems to get through to you.”

  I pull my keys out and drop them in his hand, cursing myself then cursing him because we wouldn’t be like this if he only listened to me in the first place.

  The first time I time-traveled, I was seven-years-old. I was playing in the woods and suddenly I was on the sidewalk somewhere totally different. I didn’t understand it at first. Everything looked a little strange and I didn’t recognize where I was. A shop owner took pity on me and let me eat a candy bar until the cops came to get me. They seemed a little surprised to find a lost kid in a town where everyone knows each other. I told them I was from Central City, Iowa, but they didn’t believe me. How could a seven-year-old get to Idaho by himself?

  I had been there for only two days when I came back. I burst through the front door yelling about what had happened and where I’d been. Mom had called the police the day I disappeared, and she could only nod as I told her my story, probably thinking I watched too many movies and was just glad I was back. I don’t think she ever believed what I said. Dad told me to stop lying and tell the truth. I tried hard to convince him, but nothing I said made a difference.

  After about a year, I stopped telling him altogether.

  Now he begs for a truth I’ve already given him years ago.

  When he turns away, I finally unfreeze and say, “And you think taking my car away will help that?” Then I whisper, “Fuck you.”

  I know it’s a mistake the moment I say it. Everything from the last few days has built up, wanting to come out and scream. Giving me the courage to say reckless things. Stupid things.

  Dad turns around, his eyes hard as stones. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”

  He walks back to the kitchen without saying another word. I wish he would come back and try to talk to me. Ask me again about where I’ve been and really believe me when I tell him the truth. But none of this happens because he thinks I’m a liar. I’ve thought about disappearing in front of him, and maybe someday I will, but I would rather have him believe me first. Take my word as truth like he should.

  A shiver runs down my spine and my skin goes cold.

  I run upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and lock myself in the bathroom. I’m breathing heavy now, not understanding why I feel cold—I haven’t even been back a day yet. It’s too early to travel.

  I won’t for another four days, maybe three from the pattern I’ve been in lately.

  I stare at the sink, counting numbers in my head to distract myself.

  The feeling drains away, leaving me more anchored to this place. Here and now. I let my breathing become steady along with my heart, becoming surer of myself. After years of doing this, I should be able to control it. And in the past, I had even started to feel like I could.

  But for the last few months, something has been different. I’ve been trying to ignore that I’ve been leaving more often—more than ever before. Trying to pretend like nothing is wrong.

  But I can’t anymore.

  I wake the next morning with Bryce shaking my shoulder. I groan and push him away, but he plants himself on the end of my bed. It dips down with his weight.

  “What time did you go to sleep last night?” he asks. I hear him rub his head, his hair too short for him to mess it up.

  I crack my eyes open to see daylight fighting against my curtains.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter. “What time is it right now?”

  “Eight.”

  “Then two hours ago.”

  I can hear him thinking. He grinds his teeth when he thinks.

  “What happened last night?” Bryce asks.

  “What do you mean?” I sit up and put a hand over my ribs. They still hurt from the mortar two days ago.

  Bryce stares at my bruised body. Sees my dog tags over my chest. His eyes tell me he wants to question me, but doesn’t ask. I wish he would so things can go back to being normal again between us.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Dad was acting weird this morning, so I figured it was because of you.”

  “Do you know what time he’ll be back?” I ask.

  “He said after lunch.” Bryce looks at me, something he doesn’t do often. Usually he looks at the things around me, but never me. “What happened last night?” he asks again.

  “It was nothing, we just got in a fight. The usual.”

  “Kale—”

  “What?” I’m running out of patience with his questions.

  Bryce shakes his head and stands. “I don’t even know why I try.”

  “You call this trying?” I ask. “What’s the real reason you came in here?”

  He stares back because he knows I’m right. He wishes this was trying, because then he wouldn’t feel so guilty about not talking to me anymore. Not caring. Bryce started hating me the moment Mom left.

  He blames me for it, I know he does. And he has every right to.

  Bryce makes to leave, but pauses at the door. Then he adds, “Oh, and Kale?”

  My tongue forms a silent curse before he turns back around.

  “What?”

  He looks me in the eye. “Dad said the next time you leave, he’s going to sell your car.”

  I fight to keep my face expressionless—he knows exactly where to hurt me the most. “Thanks for the message,” I say tightly.

  After Bryce leaves, I don’t know who I’m angrier at—Dad or myself. He won’t be the one taking my car away; I will do it myself the moment I leave again.

  I get out of bed and pull on a T-shirt, still wearing my jeans from the day before. The steps are blurs under my feet and the front door slams behind me.

  I don’t go back when I realized I’ve forgotten my sweatshirt.

  It’s not worth it.

  I pass my car, sitting where I had left it the night before, and head straight into the woods, following the path I used to know so well. It’s nearly overgrown now, looking and feeling different from when I was younger. The quiet forest does nothing to calm my heart or keep my hands from shaking.

  I’m cold again.

  I want to stop thinking. About Adams. About Dad. About the place I’ll be traveling to in a few days.

  It’s a thing that builds up with every passing day, and one day, when the slightest breeze can make me shiver, I just disappear. I’ve learned when it’s going to happen, down to the second, but I can’t stop it—nothing I do can make me stay here.

  Sometimes I can delay it. I’ll take a hot shower and gain a few hours in
the present. I try to prolong it by wearing a sweatshirt, but I don’t know if it does any good.

  When I was younger, the summers were warm to me because I would leave once a month. My body would acclimate to the temperatures, and when that month would pass and the days grew colder for me but nobody else, I knew it was almost time.

  But now, when I’m leaving every four days, I’m always cold.

  Symptoms of a time-traveler. Even when I travel somewhere warm, it’s always the same. My ability’s way of warning me.

  The path before me ends, bringing me to a small clearing with green grass and calm water. I stop at the river and let the sun attempt to warm my skin. It tries … and I want it to succeed.

  Someone comes through the woods, and my thoughts stop spinning. I know only two other people who come here, one of them being Libby, and she’s gone. So that leaves Harper, which makes me feel weird inside.

  She doesn’t notice me right away. She has a pair of earbuds in and her eyes are on the ground, following the path from Uncle Jasper’s house. Her red Converses are tied today, something always rare to see, and she’s wearing a Overwatch T-shirt.

  My heart starts to slow with her being here—that feeling of leaving far, far away. Then it speeds up for an entirely different reason.

  Harper catches sight of me and stops short. “Kale.” She pulls out her earbuds, her eyes on me the whole time. “I wasn’t expecting to see you out here.”

  I feel my skin start to warm. “I wasn’t expecting to find myself here, either.”

  She smiles at that, small and fleeting. “You look horrible, by the way,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep last night?”

  “Something like that.” It becomes a problem when your nightmares come to you even when you’re awake. “How were the fireworks?” I ask, needing a change of subject.

  “They were all right. Nothing special, anyway.”

  Harper steps closer, stopping right next to me at the edge of the river. I try not to stare, though it’s hard. She’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her. Her hair is close to blonde in the bright sun. Some of it curling behind her ears where it’s escaped her ponytail. Her cheekbones stand out now and her ears don’t seem as big. She’s still Harper, though. Still the girl I saw again for the first time last night.

  I look away before she catches my stare.

  “How was school this last semester?” she asks, bending down to pick up a small stone on the shore.

  I glance away from her hands, turning over the stone in her fingers, and say, “Tedious. I don’t think my teachers liked me very much. What about you?”

  “It was okay.” She shrugs and looks over the river again. “It’ll be weird this year, though. I’ve never changed schools before.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “What’s your favorite subject?”

  “History.”

  I feel like I should smile at that, but it doesn’t come.

  “Really?” she says, smiling again. “I never would have thought that. I didn’t think anyone liked history besides the teacher.” Then she adds, “Are you glad it’s almost over?”

  I shift my weight, wondering if I can change the subject before she realizes it, but it’s no use. The truth will come out eventually. “I’m actually not going back to school,” I tell her. “I took my GED test a couple months ago.”

  The skin between her eyebrows creases together. “Why?”

  “I got expelled,” I say, trying to sound like it doesn’t bother me. “I guess they have a problem with kids who don’t take attendance seriously.”

  Harper doesn’t have a response for this, because she knows exactly what I mean. She probably thought I didn’t do that anymore. I think everyone thought it was a “phase” I’d been going through. Like most kids with problems.

  If only.

  I can see her thinking about something, and I wish I knew what.

  Then she says the last thing I expected: “Let’s go swimming.”

  “What?”

  “Swimming,” she says again. “When was the last time you went?”

  “Probably the last time you were here,” I admit. Libby never wanted to go without Harper here. It was never any fun with just the two of us.

  “All the more reason to do it,” Harper says, shrugging.

  Before I can say another word, she takes off her T-shirt, revealing a dark tank top underneath. Then she kicks off her shoes, leaving them on the bank.

  “I don’t think I feel like—”

  “Come on, Kale.” Harper backs into the water, a smile playing along her lips. Daring me. “What else do you have to do?”

  I kick off my shoes in response and reach back to pull my T-shirt over my head. The water is freezing and I have to hold back a shiver. A part of me is afraid it’ll trigger unwanted traveling, but I convince myself it’s too soon to worry about it. I sink deep into the river. Letting it wash over my chest and then my shoulders. My bruised ribs ache every time I take a breath, but the water feels good.

  Harper is already in the middle of the river, where the wide bend arches around, the water coming to a standstill before moving on. It’s deep enough to come up to our necks.

  The pebbles are smooth under my feet, and the pull of the river lures me downstream, but I don’t let it drag me away.

  One summer, Libby and I decided we wouldn’t swim in the river until Harper was with us. And summer came early that year. The days would make us sweat and stare up at the sun, only to wonder if it would bake you if you stood there long enough. Going down to the river was tortuous. We would stand on the shore, our T-shirts clinging to our backs and our hair damp.

  On a Saturday afternoon, Uncle Jasper called the house, telling us Harper was here. We ran out the door and down the path, not caring about the sun because we were finally going to swim.

  We ran through the back door and shed our shoes. I was the first up the steps and into Harper’s room, where her bag wasn’t even unpacked yet.

  But when I saw her, I stopped, blocking half the doorway, because I instantly knew something was wrong. She was always great at faking things like that. But not with me.

  When Libby pushed past me into the room, Harper put on a smile and agreed to go swimming with us.

  Libby went back downstairs to find Aunt Holly, but I stood there until Harper finally looked at me. She knew she could fool Libby—not me.

  I never had to say a word.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, digging through her bag and avoiding my eyes.

  “Harper—”

  “Kale,” she said in the same tone. That’s what she did when she wanted to change the subject. She would make it into a joke. But this time her smile fell, like the act was too much for her to keep up. “I’m fine. Let’s just go swimming, okay?”

  Now so many years later, this Harper has gotten so much better at hiding things. Even with me. I don’t realize it until now, when—for an instant—she gets this faraway look in her eyes, like she’s thinking about something she’s trying to bury. It comes and goes so fast.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She blinks and it’s gone. “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m not Libby,” I say. “You might be better at hiding things, but this is me you’re talking to.” Then I ask, “Six years isn’t too long to forget that, is it?”

  Harper stares, the water coming up to her chin. “Maybe. I also thought a person could change in that time. But I was wrong about that, too.”

  The little moment of happiness that I may, or may not, have had is gone. She might have been talking about herself, or maybe her mom, but it hits too close to home for me to ignore it.

  I move away from her and say, “I need to go.”

  “Kale, wait,” she calls after me.

  I wade out of the water and pull on my shoes, not caring if I get them wet.

  Harper puts her hand on my arm and I stop, my wet fingers clutching my shirt. I can’t remember the last time some
one touched me like this.

  “Kale.” The way she says my name makes my heart jump. “Just … please, listen.” She doesn’t speak again until I look at her. She lets go of my arm and says, “I wasn’t talking about you—”

  “But it still applies, doesn’t it?” My voice is harsher than it should be.

  Harper wants to deny something she can’t, I can see it. Then she says, “If you haven’t, then I’m okay with that.”

  “What do you mean, you’re okay with that?”

  Harper looks suddenly like she doesn’t know me. Maybe she doesn’t. I barely know myself. “I’m okay with it, because it’s you.”

  “Well, I haven’t.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Maybe you haven’t changed—or haven’t seen yourself change—but you have.”

  “I haven’t changed, because I can’t.”

  We both know what I’m talking about. We aren’t talking about change—we’re talking about me leaving. Always leaving because I can’t stop.

  I can never stop.

  “Why?” Her voice is desperate for an answer.

  “I can’t.”

  When I don’t say anything else—letting those words sink in—I think she finally understands, even if she doesn’t know the truth. Because when most people say they can’t, they don’t mean they can’t. They either mean they’re too afraid to or don’t want to.

  I am neither.

  When I say I can’t, I really mean it.

  Words have many meanings, but one has to figure out their meaning to the person using them before they can truly understand them.

  I let out a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, it’s just … I thought this would be easier.”

  “What would be easier?”

  The answer is simple.

  “Everything,” I admit.

  Harper starts to look away but something catches her eye. She stares at my chest.

  At any other time, it would’ve made me flush.

  But then I remember the evidence I wear there.

  “Where did you get these?” Her hand brushes against my dog tags and I back away, pulling my T-shirt over my head before she can get a better look at them.

  She stares at the small lump over my chest. Unsure of what she saw.