Summer's End

by Sally Henson

  “Why haven’t you told me about it?”

  He takes a deep breath and looks out in front of us. “One day this summer I came back here and got out of my truck …” He looks down at the cooler and opens it, handing me a piece of chicken and a container of potato salad with a plastic fork. He takes a bite of his chicken and stares ahead into the distance of the track as if he hadn’t stopped mid-sentence.

  “You got out of your truck and what?”

  “I was changing the lure on my fishing pole when I looked up and saw,” he motions all around us, “this.”

  I look around and furrow my brows. “It’s cool back here, but I don’t think I follow.”

  He shrugs. “It reminds me of us at the creek or the cliffs. We spend a lot of time hanging out by the water and the woods.” He glances at me and then down at his food. “It reminds me of the peace I see in you when you're near water.”

  “Hm. I guess that’s true.” My lips mash together, and I turn to see his expression. He’s staring along the line of the track.

  “With the railroad tracks, it's something different.” He rests both palms on top his thighs and gazes into the expanse. “It's like something not yet seen.” He takes a deep breath. “A longing for distance where the lines of the track disappear into the horizon.” His words are melodious and poetic—deep. He takes another audible breath, his eyes release from what was holding them, in search of my reaction. “It's like a symbol of your future.” His gaze lingers, a small smile quirking his lips as he studies my eyes and my body language. I'm not sure what he's looking for, but I reciprocate the action and do a search of my own in his crystalline eyes.

  The silence feels uncomfortable, but I don't know why. I usually don't mind quiet. Neither of us looks away. I decide to share my thoughts on his last words. “That was very poetic and beautiful.” I dive into the potato salad. There’s a tension between us. “Mmm, this is good. Did your mom make this?” I ask with my mouth full.

  He nods his head and finally looks away from me as he takes a bite of potato salad.

  “How often do you come here? I've never heard you talk about this spot before.” I'm still trying to put together some sort of logical explanation or reasoning about what's going on, trying to cover as many angles as possible.

  “I don't come here on a regular basis. It just depends.” He says the last part slowly with a half-smile. His eyes, his expression show he’s holding something back. “I don’t think anyone else knows about it, except my dad. You could say it's a secret.” His phone alarm goes off, and he makes a sound of frustration. Pulling the phone out of his pocket to shut it off, he mumbles something about time under his breath and sighs. “I'm sorry. I need to get back to work. Do you want to take the cooler with you to finish your lunch?”

  “Nah, I'm full.” I reach in the cooler for a water bottle. “I'll take the water, though. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Sure.” He moves the cooler to the front of the bed by the cab. I shake out the quilt and roll it back up. Lane's ready with the twine and ties it up. We both get in the truck at the same time. “What are you going to do until the pool opens?” He's driving faster than when we came.

  “I always bring a book. I'll find a comfy spot and read.” The quiet before the storm of screaming kids.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Nothing new, just a re-read.” I do my best to be nonchalant and a bit evasive.

  He scoffs. “By your generality in reply I can tell it's not one of your intellectual books.”

  I raise my chin. “You have no idea what I'm reading.”

  He turns right onto the street that leads to the pool. “I know exactly what book you're ‘re-reading’. How do you plan on getting up for church tomorrow? You know you'll be up all night finishing it. You do this every time you read it.” We pull into the parking lot, and he's beaming as if he’s won the game of Clue with one hint. Aha! The baker did it, in the greenhouse, with a toothpick and a piece of gum.

  I take my seatbelt off, lean toward him, and give him an exaggerated eye roll. He stretches his arm across the back of the seat and gives me a cocky grin. I shake my head and huff. “You are so ridiculous.” I bolt out of his truck with my bag in hand and shut the door. After a couple steps, I twirl around, hand on my hip, and give him my highbrow I'm-better-than-you pose.

  He rolls down the window. “You know I'm right. And what's ridiculous is your obsession with Twilight. Which book are you on?”

  I raise my chin and scoff. “The first one.”

  His face lights up. “See, I told you I knew what you were reading! I know you better than you think, Regan Stone.” He looks at me like he just uncovered all my secrets and is relishing in them.

  He’s still leaning over the seat. I step to the open window and reach my arm through mussing up his hair. “You should read it. You might learn something about female perspective.” I say, inviting him to be a student of the opposite sex and not just an observer.

  He frowns at my comment, straightening behind the wheel. “I'd rather read something good like Gates of Fire. It's more relatable than vampires and werewolves.” He glances to the clock radio. “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tomorrow at church. You better be bright-eyed, unless you want me poking and prodding you the whole time.”

  He rolls up the windows as I’m talking. “I'll be up and out of bed before your lazy butt, as usual.” He just smiles and backs out in a hurry to get back to work before he's late. The dust flies up in a trail behind him through the rock parking lot.

  When I finally arrive home from work, I'm exhausted from the kids and the death grip from the drive in Dad’s junk car. I'd like to go straight to bed, but I need to wash the chlorine out of my hair. The smell of lavender from my soap adds to the calming effect of the hot water. Climbing into bed, I leave my book in my bag, knowing what Lane said is true. If I read tonight, I won't be able to put it down even though I've read it nearly a dozen times. Instead, I drift off to sleep quickly with the events of the book, the day, and the week swirling together. My dreams are a strange combination of all three that make no sense.

  I wake up at 6:30 on the dot from a somewhat restless sleep. I feel a little like a zombie, awake but not alert. The weirdness of my last dream keeps playing in my head as I brush my teeth. My reflection reveals the messy, light brown mane I call my hair. It was secured in a ponytail bun on top my head when I went to bed last night, but the tossing and turning has it sticking out in every direction. At least it's long enough it should brush out okay. I close my eyes and suck in a breath, letting it out in a yawn. Ugh. I stare in the mirror at my eyes. They look terrible, all puffy and crusty.

  I wash my face and splash some cold water to rinse the cloudiness away. My dream still plays on repeat, though I try to blink it away. The short version? Stacey Faniger was a vampire. And of course, she was out to get me. Lane ripped her to pieces then came to my aid while Tobi, Cameron, and Haylee burned her carcass. It all happened at the cliffs near the oil pump jack. If only I didn’t have to deal with Stacey ever again.

  Back in my room, I walk eyes-half-closed to the closet, pull a dress out, and throw it on my bed. It’s a turquoise blue with white stripes, short-sleeved, long, and cotton. I take one step to pull open the top drawer of my dresser and latch on to the first bra I feel. Clumsily I finish getting dressed, slip on my flip-flops, and stumble to the kitchen for breakfast. I smelled biscuits baking when I woke earlier.

  “Smells good.” It sounds like I have a frog in my throat or something. My eyes are still half closed.

  Dad whistles low. “You look like you haven't slept a wink.” He sits at the table drinking his coffee with an empty plate in front of him.

  “No. Just didn't sleep too good.” I crumble a biscuit on my plate, then spoon creamy sausage gravy from the skillet over the biscuit and shuffle toward the table to plop down. Mom sits a glass of milk in front of me. “Thanks.” I look up at her with pitiful, tired eyes. She smiles lovingly in
return at her zombie who dreams about vampires.

  5

  I peer in the door of my class and see Lane sitting in one of the club chairs in the far corner of the room. He’s staring at his phone. Ms. Braun, my high school counselor, is talking with our youth ministers Tristan and Shea Shaw by the coffee bar. Some of the other students are up there, too, getting their morning drink and doughnut. I walk straight to the club chairs and plop down, attempting to conceal a yawn. Lane keeps his head down but glances up with clear alert eyes and smirks. “How late did you stay up reading?” An “I told you so” look is written all over his face.

  I can’t help but smirk because I knew he was going to accuse me of reading all night. “I didn't stay up and read last night. I went to bed as soon as I go home.”

  He raises his brows. “It looks like you had a good night's sleep.” Sarcasm drips from his every pore

  My legs were already heavy as I walked in this morning, and now my chest sinks. I’m aware that I'm hypersensitive this morning, but I don't need my best friend making fun of me. His annoying smirk is about to burn up my short fuse. I narrow my eyes and twist my mouth to the side.

  He scoots to the end of his chair and suggests, “How about some caffeine to get you through the next couple hours?”

  I don't drink much caffeine, but mornings like this …. Nodding my head, I soften my expression to something more grateful. The heaviness in my body lightens, my meltdown thankfully averted.

  Lane walks to the coffee bar and makes a concoction of caffeine and hot chocolate. It doesn't taste great, but it's better than straight coffee. At least I can choke it down this way.

  Halfway through our lesson, I finish the drink and feel the caffeine boost. My eyelids don't threaten to slide closed and though my brain isn't functioning at a high level, I think I'm going to make it. Lane doesn't have to poke or prod me through service either.

  Our families sometimes sit together. His parents are close friends with mine. Today my parents are hosting our weekly gathering. Normally it's a potluck dinner accompanied by discussion of the sermon, scripture, Sunday school lessons, politics, and family. When it starts getting too heavy, Lane and I escape and head out for a walk, go fishing, or anything that takes us outdoors.

  I'm crashing from my caffeine high while simultaneously eating a dinner with too many carbs. It's not a good combination, my body is craving carbs, and I don't have the discipline right now to avert them. I'm fighting to stay upright. Occasionally, Lane elbows me or slaps my leg under the table.

  Dad's had enough of me bobbing my head at the table. “Regan, why don't you go take a walk. You're about to fall asleep in front of your plate.”

  His voice startles me. It had become monotonous and was aiding the sleep that's trying to take over my body. “Take her outside and get her woke up, Lane.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lane scoots his chair back, takes his plate and mine into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Cary stops him, “You two go ahead. We'll take care of the table and dishes today.”

  I scoot back from the table and stand, managing enough energy to squeak out a soft, “Thank you.”

  “Can we go?” Lilly, one of Lane's twin sisters asks Mrs. Cary, hoping that people under the age of nineteen are being dismissed.

  Mr. Cary nixes their idea. “You two will help clean off the table and do the dishes.” The girls moan at the same time.

  Lane and I pick up our shoes and go out to the patio to slip them on. “You want to walk to the creek?”

  “I brought my fishing gear. I need some worms, though.” Standing and stretching, he asks, “Are the can and shovel still in the shed?”

  “Should be. I'll get them.” I stretch too. My muscles need some oxygen. The fresh air helps me become more alert. “I'm taking this towel, too.” I hung it over the chair last night when I got home from working at the pool. “I might take a little nap when we get there.” My eyes are drooping already, and I keep yawning as we walk toward the driveway. Veering off to the shed I ask, “Why did you drive separate?” Usually, the Cary's all come in the same vehicle. Lane goes the other direction to his truck.

  “Dad wanted to drive my truck to check out the new spring we had replaced.”

  “Mm.” I pause to finish a yawn. “Everything okay?” I enter the shed for the empty paint can we use for worms and the shovel for digging them.

  “Yes, and if you don't stop yawning you'll have me so tired I'll want to take a nap, too.” He yawns. I chuckle. “You know it's contagious,” he says swiping his sunglasses out of the cab, then sliding them on. He reaches over the bed of his truck for the fishing poles and tackle box.

  We meander through the trail at a slothful pace, taking in the sights and sounds of summer coming to an end. Both my brain and body are working at a snail’s pace. Is it possible to become an actual zombie? Because I feel like one. Lane stops halfway to our destination.

  “Give me the shovel.” I look up at him, my eyes barely able to focus. His lips have a slight curl. He's not mad. My eyes trail to the shovel in my hand. I move it toward him. He trades me the tackle box for the shovel. Somehow, he holds everything in his right hand and hooks the wire loop of the can over the handle of the shovel. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “Come on.”

  I put my arm around his waist for support. This is better. I snuggle against his side and purr like a kitten. He’s my warm security blanket. Mmm, he has a clean, woodsy scent. My lids flutter, this is much better. “You’re so good to me.”

  He chuckles. “Let's pick up the pace. You're starting to look like a zombie,” he chides, dragging me along.

  After a few steps, he starts in “My dad was telling me Asian carp have found their way into Lake Michigan.” A fish story. “They seem to populate faster than rabbits and are overtaking....”

  I try to focus on what he's saying, I hear him, but my brain drifts off. The cicadas are in full force. It's amazing such a big noise comes from a small insect. At this moment, I like the cadence of their music. How can my brain think of this right now, yet I can't seem to focus on a simple conversation?

  Floating back to the consciousness of Lane's words, I hear him finish his story as we walk out of the woods and into the open area of the creek. He lets go of me and strides to the bank.

  “I'll try a lure first,” he mumbles to himself, laying everything gently on the ground. “Tackle box, please.”

  “Dad needs to bush-hog this bank again,” I grumble, as I walk toward him with the tackle box. The grass and weeds have grown. My body is still pulling me to take a nap.

  “Thanks.” He lays it on one side and opens to a particular set of lures. Lane picks through them like a debutante picks through her jewelry box, debating which ones will accomplish the goal of luring the biggest fish.

  I turn to find a spot under the big shade tree to settle under. There's a quilt covering a cooler on top of the bench. It's not my dad's. “Where did that come from?” Lane couldn't have carried it just now, as tired as I may be, I would’ve noticed. I look around to make sure there's no one else here.

  “I brought it before I came in for dinner earlier. A few drinks for this afternoon.” He stands, reeling in a bit and casting out.

  I drag my lead-filled legs over to the bench and tug on the quilt and dig around. “My favorite.” Fritz Cream Soda. He has IBC Black Cherry and water, too. Water sounds good...too full to drink a soda. I move through the high grass and weeds, with my water and towel in hand, to a shaded area near the creek's edge to spread the towel on the ground.

  Lane peers over at me. “Use the quilt. You'll be more comfortable.” He turns his back and casts his line again.

  “This is fine.” It's already down, and I don't want to put forth any more effort. Yawning, I lie back, cross my ankles, and rest my arm over my eyes to block some light. I'm so tired, but my muscles won't relax. After a minute, I turn on my left side, tucking my arm as a pillow and attempt to blow out some of the frustrations
in an exaggerated sigh. A few moments pass. This isn't working. I scoot back and roll to the other side, trying to stay on the towel, searching for a comfortable position.

  “You're scaring the fish away with all that racket and floundering around.”

  “Argh!” I sit up. “I'm sorry. I can't get comfortable.” I'm almost at my limit with fatigue. I know he's only teasing me, but my brain isn't thinking straight, and I feel bad for scaring the fish away. My chest constricts, and tears moisten my eyes.

  Lane reels in his line and lays his fishing pole down on the bank. He walks to the bench, studying my twisted and tangled clothes and hair on the way. I'm glad I changed out of that dress. He picks up the quilt and strides over to help me up.

  I narrow my brows, worried. “Are you mad?”

  He smiles and chuckles. “No, Regan. I'm not mad.” He spreads out the quilt and rolls the towel up. “Your pillow,” he says, handing it to me.

  Arms hanging, crazy hair falling down my back, droopy eyes, I stand watching him—dumbfounded at this brilliant simplicity. “Thanks.” A brilliant smile flits across his face, framing the beauty hiding behind the sunglasses. I snuggle into the quilt and allow the cicadas to lull me to sleep.

  I awake with a fresh memory of a dark-haired young man stroking my hair away from my face. Ocean waves lap at my feet. Turning over, keeping my eyes closed, I try to remember more. His skin was smooth and the color of honey and his eyes were.... Fingertips brush a piece of hair away from my face again. Am I still dreaming? The sounds of water flowing and squirrels barking fill the air, but no ocean waves crashing on the beach. As I inhale, the smell of tall field-corn mixed with dry grass indicates exactly where I am.

  Slowly, I raise my eyelids and see denim. My eyes follow the outline to the waistband where I discover bare skin fit with smooth muscle and lightly tanned skin. Once again, fingertips graze my face. Leisurely, my eyes glide over a muscled chest and up to a handsome face, seeing dimples, lips full and wide. I close my eyes, fueling the mental image of long lashes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. A sigh of comfort and familiarity—Lane. A rich soft chuckle calls my attention. I answer by raising my eyelids to meet his dimples and obscured irises—sandy hair lifting at the ends. He continues to brush my messy hair through his fingers. I want to live in this moment, savor it for a few more minutes.