Cold Summer

by Gwen Cole

  I nod. “It’s true.”

  Uncle Jasper folds the paper and gets up to put it away in the drawer where he keeps old newspapers, mostly those that have crosswords he couldn’t finish. “If you ever want to read it, it’ll be here. But there’s something you should know about it.”

  “What?”

  He sits down and finally smiles. “It was only written two years ago.”

  I sit up straighter and ask, “He’s still alive?” This is something I hadn’t expected. Most World War II veterans have passed away by now.

  Uncle Jasper nods. “He got married and had four kids, and he now has six grandchildren. If you hadn’t saved his life, Kale, that whole family never would have existed. So I think you’re right—it was worth it.”

  The last memory I have of Perkins was him looking at me before I told him to run. There was blood and dirt streaked on his face—his eyes the only things in color in that whole world. It was the moment I knew he would live.

  That was what I had gone there to do. Save him.

  Ripples in a pond.

  That’s all the past is.

  It’s almost unbelievable that one person could have such an effect on it. It makes me wonder about the small things in life, and how much they have to do with the bigger picture. How many times have I traveled to the past to do small but important things? I’ll probably never know.

  We’re not all meant for great things, but we all play a role somehow, no matter how big or small.

  It’s my first night home from the hospital, and I can’t sleep. I should be able to because sleeping in the hospital is terrible. People always coming in your room in the middle of night, wanting to take blood pressure or make you take pills.

  I should be able to sleep, but the nightmares still come—something that might not ever go away. I know war can give you scars on the outside. I never thought about the scars left on the inside once it was over.

  Ones that may never heal.

  In the morning, not long after the sun peeks through my curtains, there’s a knock on my door. I push myself up and Dad comes in, pausing before sitting down on the bed.

  “Do you always wear your jeans to bed?” he asks, eyeing me like maybe I’m not feeling well or something.

  I shrug. “Sometimes.”

  It’s not like I can sleep anyway.

  He keeps glancing at the single dog tag around my neck, his mind elsewhere. Talking with Dad can still be an awkward occurrence, something I’m sure will become easier with time.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He comes back to the present, giving me an unexpected smile. “I have something for you. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now, but I needed to make sure I could get it first.”

  “You got me something?”

  His smile falters a fraction. “I needed to do something, and this is the only way I know how.”

  “Dad, you didn’t need to do anything,” I say, really meaning it. “You being here and believing me is more than enough.”

  “I know,” he says. “But this is something I needed to do, and I don’t want to hear you complaining or telling me I didn’t have to. I did it because I’m your dad. Doesn’t that give me the right to give you things?”

  I finally return his smile. “What is it?”

  “It’s downstairs.” He stands up and tosses me a shirt off the floor. “Come on.”

  I pull my shirt quick and follow him down. I’m a little caught off guard when he leads me outside. I squint against the morning sun and glance around.

  Then I can do nothing but stare.

  “Dad …”

  I hear him pull keys from his pocket, and he presses them into my hand. I look down and see that they’re my keys. Mine.

  “I told you I would try fixing things, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but—” I don’t know what else to say. My car is parked in my spot like it never left. Except it’s not the same. It’s so much better than I could have done myself. I could never afford to do any body work, and now my car has suddenly transformed into what I’ve always dreamed it could be. “This is …”

  My words become forgotten.

  I have my car back.

  Dad puts his arm around my shoulders. “You don’t deserve any less,” he says. “Uncle Jasper was kind enough to help me with it, and I don’t want my son driving in a car that looks like a piece of shit.”

  I laugh because that’s the same thing the guy said when he took it from me.

  “But how did you pay for it?”

  “I’ve had things laying around I didn’t need anymore.”

  It doesn’t take me long to think of it. And when I do, I suddenly don’t want this anymore. It’s too much. For what I put him through, he shouldn’t have done it.

  “Your baseball cards,” I say. “Dad you shouldn’t have—”

  “They were collecting dust in my closet.” He flies his hand aside like it doesn’t matter. “I knew I would need money one day, and that day just came a little sooner than expected.”

  I look down, where my keys lay so familiar in my hands.

  I can only say, “Thanks, Dad.”

  He pulls me in tighter, and we stand there together and look at the day like it’s something brand new.

  I’m glad I made that promise to Harper all those years ago.

  And it’s one I intend to keep, even if I have to prove history wrong all over again.

  46.

  Harper

  I stand in front of the mirror, trying to convince myself the dress fits right and my hair isn’t too boring. I haven’t worn a dress in months, and I kinda missed it. That’s really weird for me to admit, but sometimes dressing up is fun.

  Grace drove me to the mall and showed me the only stores worth going into, and she helped me pick out something that worked. The whole time I wished Mom could’ve been there, too.

  In the end, though, I’m glad the way things worked out, even when my thoughts betray me. If I went to live with Mom, I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be going to school in the fall with Libby—who finally convinced her Mom to let her come back after agreeing she’d go to college somewhere near her.

  And I wouldn’t be with Kale.

  I’ve known him for a long time, and yet I’ve never been so nervous about seeing him before. It’s like something old and new, all at once.

  “Harper, he’s here!” Uncle Jasper yells upstairs.

  I take one more look at the white and blue summer dress, thinking maybe I should have picked something different. It’s too late now. I grab my purse off the bed and go downstairs. Uncle Jasper waits by the door, smiling when he sees me.

  “Nice choice of shoes,” he says, meeting me at the bottom step.

  “That’s all you have to say?” I ask, glancing down at my Chucks.

  “Be home before midnight?” Before I can slap him in the chest, he says, “You look beautiful. I wish Holly was here to see you.”

  I glance over his shoulder where her chair still sits by the window. “Me, too.”

  Uncle Jasper kisses me on the forehead, the same way Dad used to when I was little. “I know she would be proud of you, just as I am.” Then he nods toward the door. “He’s waiting outside.”

  I stand on my tiptoes and hug him. “Thank you,” I whisper into his ear.

  After a moment, Uncle Jasper clears his throat and pulls away. “You should go,” he says.

  I plant a kiss on his cheek, smiling because he’s trying not to cry. I leave, not wanting to torture him any longer. Kale is waiting for me in the driveway and succeeds in making my heart skip a beat and start over too fast.

  Never in my life have I seen Kale wear anything except jeans and some sort of casual shirt, something I’ll surely never complain about because he looks good in anything. And when he asked me out on our long-belated first date, I knew somewhere in the back of my mind he would dress a little better than normal.

  But I didn’t except him to lo
ok so good.

  His black slacks look new and fitted, and he’s wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And to pull everything together, a black tie hangs slightly loose at the neck.

  And what surprises me most of all—his hair is styled. Not messy or in his face, but arranged in a way I never imagined he could pull off.

  I have to remember how to walk. Kale watches me the whole time—his hands in his pockets. When I’m close enough to see the specks of blue in his eyes, I say, “You look … amazing.”

  He smiles and glances down at himself. “I’ve been known how to dress well, if need be.”

  “Known by who?” I ask. I catch sight of the car behind him, not at all sure about what I’m seeing. “Is this your car?”

  His eyes never leave me. “It is.” The old Mustang looks brand new, its black paint shining and without a scratch. “I needed something decent to pick up the girl I love.”

  I force my gaze off his car, feeling so aware of what I’m going to say. “The boy I love should know these things don’t matter.”

  Kale’s smile turns into something else—a side of him I’ve only seen a handful of times. Every one of those times being the moments before he’s kissed me. It’s a side of him I’ve grown to love.

  “Do you remember when we first met?” he asks. “When you were covered in mud and said we had something in common because we both had weird names?”

  “It was on the back porch.”

  Kale nods slowly. “There hasn’t been a day since then when I haven’t thought about you. Not even when you were gone all these years.” He steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “I can’t think straight when you’re around, because you’re all I’m ever thinking about. And I don’t think I would be here if it wasn’t for you. You’re my anchor in a timeless world, Harper. I felt it the moment I met you, and I feel it even more with you looking so … unbelievingly beautiful.”

  I let a smile creep onto my lips, never wanting to kiss him so much. “You want to know what I feel when I look at you?”

  He leans in closer. “So much.”

  “Something I’ve never felt around anyone else.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  I stop inches from his lips and whisper, “It’s the truth.”

  Kale might not be a superhero or someone who will change the world, but he’s the only one to ever make my heart pound like it does.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  47.

  Kale

  The sun is low, and yet sweat beads down my temples and neck.

  My arms hang heavy. Tired. But the pain I feel every time I throw another ball, through my shoulders and down my back, is better than feeling nothing.

  I’m alive out here.

  Something I’m feeling more and more every day.

  I still wake in the night, my voice hoarse and my skin damp, but now Dad is there when I need him the most. When I’m haunted by something I’ll never go back to. But also something I can never forget.

  I haven’t time-traveled for two weeks. Before that, it was a week. But never back to WWII. Always somewhere else, sometimes with a purpose of helping someone and sometimes not. Soon, I might even be able to control where I go.

  It’s getting better.

  This is where I want to be, now and forever.

  Under the sun, breathing in the air of summer. Standing in the field I used to know so well. When I dig the toe of my shoe into the dirt, the wind carries the dust away. Over the tall grass and farther until I can’t see it at all.

  I bend down and take another ball from the bucket. I turn it over in my hands, my fingers tracing the stitches.

  I take a deep breath and bring it to my chest, my leg coming up in a motion I could do in my sleep. My arm comes back and then the ball flies. It hits the net.

  Thump. Thump. Over and over.

  The bucket of balls is slowly dwindling to none. It’s the first week all summer Miles couldn’t make it. Grace’s name came up, and I didn’t ask more than that.

  From over the long, seeding grass, the sound of the screen door slams shut, its hinges screaming for oil.

  I don’t turn to see whose footsteps are coming my way. Now that everyone in the house is gone—until Libby gets back—it can only be one person. Even still, I’m a little surprised.

  It’s been a long time since he’s been out here.

  Now that I know he’s behind me, I’m conscious about my throw.

  I miss the mark. About a foot high.

  “Do it again. Relax your shoulders,” he says.

  I can picture him behind me—arms crossed over his chest, brow firm with judgment. I used to see that face at every game I played. Dad being competitive enough for both of us.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn the ball over in my hand again, readying myself. I throw, not taking my eyes off the mark.

  After it hits dead center, joining the others on the dusty ground, I turn to see him smiling.

  “It’s good,” he says. “Have you been practicing?”

  I nod. “I haven’t stopped. I meet Miles down at the school once in a while.”

  “Well, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

  I only nod and turn away, getting ready to throw again, still feeling like I had a whole chunk of my life torn away.

  But even though I’m on a different path now, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad one. If anything, it’s the opposite.

  “Maybe I can still go to tryouts in the spring,” I say.

  He smiles at that, giving me a hope I haven’t had in so long.

  I throw my last ball.

  “I miss coming out here,” Dad says behind me.

  So I take a chance on something I wouldn’t have a couple months ago. “Do you want to play?” I ask, turning around. “Tossing the ball around helps my shoulders loosen up.” I shrug like I don’t care, but really, I’m afraid he’ll say no.

  But he smiles and gives me the only answer I hoped for.

  “I would love to.”

  So while the sun slowly sets, we play catch and lose balls in the tall grass when we try to fake each other out.

  But then later, after our shoulders are sore and our backs wet with sweat, Dad goes into the barn and starts up the tractor.

  I sit on the back steps and watch him mow the grass until its short. Like it was all those years ago. Back when nothing was complicated.

  I’ve wanted to be normal my entire life.

  And it wasn’t until I embraced who I was that I realized I never would be.

  I might be a time-traveler and a dropout. Someone who never thought they would go to college or have a job.

  But I would rather be no one else.

  I’m a boy who keeps his promises.

  Even when history tells me otherwise.

  Acknowledgments

  Not many people read the acknowledgments, but I think it’s the most important part. Because without these people, this book never would have been made.

  First and foremost, I have to thank God for giving me this gift to write and create stories to share with countless others. I might not be good at math or school in general, but I can write books and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  To my amazing agent, Rachel Brooks. Thank you for being by my side through everything, especially that stuff we never thought we’d have to deal with. Without you picking my book from the slush pile, I wouldn’t be here. In addition, thank you for Brenda Drake for hosting Pitch Madness, and Summer Heacock for choosing Cold Summer for #TeamFizzy—those were the first steps to putting me on this path.

  Big thanks to my editor, Nicole Frail, for shaping this book into what it is now, and to the whole Sky Pony team for what you do behind the scenes to make this book possible. Special thanks to Sammy Yuen for creating such a beautiful cover.

  To my early readers, Wendy Higgins, Diane Stiffler, Kari Martin, Christie Martin, Leigh Ann Burcham, Theresa Latourelle, Heather Gaines
, Natasha Razi, and Caroline T. Richmond: Thank you for reading terrible first drafts and still finding the good in them.

  To my newer critique partners, who might not have helped me with this particular book, but helped shape my writing into what it is now: Scott Reintgen, Kevin van Whye, Dave Connis, and Tricia Levenseller. Thank you for putting up with my emails and texts and everything that comes with being a new author. I’m beyond lucky to have all of you.

  Many thanks to old and new friends, you each had a part in this journey: Sandy Perrin, Carrie Smith, Hannah Hunt, Meagan Rivers, Alan Ramirez, Meghan Sullivan, Michelle Larsen, Sarah Glenn Marsh, Dan Perkins, and Kristen Simmons.

  To Corri: Thank you for saying, “You should try writing.” You were my first reader and first person to tell me to not give up.

  Thank you to my whole family, and especially my parents: Mom, you’ve always been nothing but supportive and my biggest fan. Dad, thank you for all the books you read to me when I was young, and giving me books when I was older. I’m sorry I got published instead of going to college.

  Special shout-out to the other 17er debut authors. Thank you for listening and letting an introvert find it easy to make new friends. You all rock.

  To the Insomniacs: Thank you for being the most awesome people and talking about inappropriate things at inappropriate hours.

  To my husband, Joe: Thank you for putting up with my many hours of writing and letting me go unemployed for two months so I could write this book. As Chris Traeger would say: You are literally … the best husband ever.

  Last but definitely not least: Thank you to my readers, without you there really would be no books.