The Season of You & Me

by Robin Constantine

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Emma.”

  “She didn’t—”

  “I told her not to.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to talk to me in class?”

  “Where’s the mystery in that? Besides, you’re too serious in class, pen at the ready, open notebook, conjugating verbs and shit.”

  He thought I was serious? He noticed me in class?

  “So, Ems knew you were texting me, and you knew I was the friend coming tonight—why did you disappear when we got here?” I didn’t know where this bold Cassidy was coming from, but I felt charged, wanting to get to the bottom of it, and he was too freaking cute close up.

  “I got the feeling you weren’t interested. You looked out the window the whole way here.”

  “You were talking about the crappy music.”

  “It was pretty crappy, wasn’t it? I mean, Drew pays out the ass for premium satellite, you’d think—”

  “What did the last text say?”

  “You take Spanish, you should know.”

  “I only look serious. You’re the Spanish scholar.”

  “Only because it’s my second time taking it. Butler needs to change up her lessons,” he said.

  I wasn’t letting it go; I wanted to hear him say it. He shifted to face me, the glow from the fire flickering across his face. He kept his eyes on mine. So serious.

  “You look very pretty tonight, Cassidy.”

  I blushed at the compliment, laughed, took a sip from my beer. Suddenly there was a loud mechanical woop sound. Then there were lights. Blue and red and blue and red.

  “Shit,” Gavin said, grabbing my beer and tossing it with his toward a nearby garbage can. He took my hand. “Run.”

  We weren’t the only ones scattering toward the woods. I wasn’t sure what kind of trouble I was running from, but visions of Nana in her housedress, or worse, Mom, who was out on a date that night, coming to pick me up at a police station, fueled my run. Leaves crunched as we darted through the trees. Peals of laughter, more crunching, shushes coming from every direction as kids from around the fire scattered. The woods were cooler, and my face was frozen in a grin, my breath coming out in gasps. I had no clue where we were headed, but I trusted Gavin. I had no choice.

  I focused on his hand clasped around mine, pulling me forward. It felt right, comfortable, like I’d found something I’d been missing. My pulse pounded in my head and the last sip of beer threatened to rise on the back of my tongue. We finally reached a clearing, a large field with waist-high weeds surrounding a massive, imposing-looking building with chain-link fences around it. Gavin let go of my hand and stumbled forward a bit, looking up at the sky and laughing. I bent over, hands on my knees, dizzy from the run, my mouth dry. Gavin took my hand again.

  “C’mon.” He was out of breath too. We sat on the chilly ground with our backs against the trunk of a large tree, facing the abandoned asylum. My breath slowed; my thoughts became more rational.

  “Well, now what do we do?”

  Gavin laughed. “We wait. This always happens when some jackhole lights a fire.”

  “Will they come after us?”

  “Too much of a hassle; that’s why we scatter. Sometimes they have a patrol car over here, but I guess luck is with us tonight. As long as no one causes any real trouble, like setting the woods on fire, everyone kind of goes along with it.”

  We sat listening until the sounds in the woods died down. The fire was snuffed. The flashing lights were gone. I pulled my knees up to my chest for warmth and stared at the abandoned asylum. “Think it’s haunted?”

  “Nah,” Gavin said, reaching into his pocket and producing an ornate silver flask. “But this would make one helluva horror flick, right? Maybe there’s a psycho who got loose right before the place shut down and he’s been living in the woods all this time and decides to go on a killing spree because he thinks he’s being attacked.”

  “So we’re the first to die, then?”

  “Maybe me—you’d be the ingenue, the one everyone falls in love with.” He opened the flask and offered it to me. I was about to take it, but stopped.

  “Or,” I said, “the ingenue gets lost in the woods, but is found by a charming guy who turns out to be the escaped psycho, and he drugs the girl and takes her to his asylum lab to perform all kinds of sick experiments.”

  He took a swig from the flask. “It’s only Fireball.”

  “And you feel the need to carry a flask?”

  “Sometimes. Takes the edge off. Keeps you warm. I won’t perform any sick experiments unless you want me to,” he said, holding it out.

  I took the flask from him this time and downed a sip. Fireball was the perfect name because the liquid burned my throat, but it tasted like cinnamon and, true to Gavin’s word, warmed me up. I ran my thumb across the engraved front of the flask.

  “GWH—what’s your middle name?”

  “It’s my father’s flask; he’s George Wallace Henley.”

  “Wow, that’s a flask-worthy name.” I handed it back to him.

  He laughed. “Sounds impressive, right? I’m Gavin William Henley, so I guess I can pass it off as mine.” He took another sip before screwing the top back on. His phone dinged. He reached into his pocket and checked the messages. The screen illuminated his face.

  “Drew says coast is clear.”

  My heart fell. I was sitting in a field of weeds in front of an abandoned asylum and had no desire to leave. Gavin stood up, held out his hand for mine, and pulled me to standing. I stumbled over the root of the tree and gripped his arms for balance. He steadied me, laughing. Even his laugh was sexy. I couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t wait to hear what would come out of his mouth next. How had I not noticed any of this for two months in Spanish?

  “I think we’d be the couple who made it out alive,” he said. “The one everyone roots for.”

  I leaned against the tree and pulled him toward me, my mouth reaching for his before I could think, rationalize, stop myself, because the boy with the silver flask was trouble, and I knew it, but I didn’t care. He was momentarily startled, but then made this low rumble of approval in his chest that I felt as he kissed me. His lips were warm and tasted like cinnamon and as his arms crushed me against him, everything around us dissolved. I had an epic story to whisper in the halls of school on Monday.

  It was a story I wished I could forget.

  And wishing . . . well, yeah, I knew where it got me.

  “Hey, Cass, you’re a million miles away.” Nan held the railing as she settled onto the top step next to me. I shook off the Gavin thoughts, but a nagging question remained, the one Emma had brought up earlier in my room.

  “Do you think I’m running away?” I asked.

  She wrestled something out of the pocket of her housecoat—a waxed paper envelope with two almond cookies. She offered me one. I was going to pass but figured I’d be missing Jade Garden soon enough. We nibbled on the cookies before Nan said anything.

  “You know, I never liked that boy. He didn’t eat dessert.”

  I laughed. “That’s random.”

  “No, a man who doesn’t eat sweets doesn’t know how to be sweet, in my experience anyway. And I don’t mean the superficial fake sweet. I mean the real, deep sweet.”

  I wasn’t about to touch what real, deep sweet meant. I’m sure whatever Nan was thinking was far away from where my perverted mind was taking it. Mom stepped out onto the porch, opened the folding chair, and sat down, putting her legs up on the railing and letting out a long, hassled-sounding sigh.

  “Cassidy thinks she’s running away.”

  “I want to run away,” Mom said, tilting her head back and looking up at the sky.

  “So you think I am?” I asked.

  She turned her head to me. “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Emma thought maybe it was immature to skip out.”

  “And Emma’s the authority on maturity now,�
� Nan said.

  “I know, I know, I just don’t want it to look like I’m copping out.”

  Mom looked dreamily up to the sky again, her face softened. “Copping out of what? Cassidy, you’re spending the summer with your father, you’re not running away. You’re changing the scenery. There’s a difference. You’re opening yourself up to new experiences. That’s all, nothing wrong with that. This will be good for you.”

  I hoped she was right.

  TWO

  BRYAN

  EYES CLOSED, I COULD IMAGINE I WAS IN THE OCEAN.

  I was whole underwater.

  Floating.

  Still.

  In control.

  One with the water around me.

  Some moments, I could step out of my life. (Step. Ha.)

  There was always that point, though, when my brain reminded me that communications between it and my legs were wonky. That it could shout commands all day and my lower half wouldn’t listen, as if the nerves in my legs were plugging their ears and singing lalalalalalalalalala, we can’t hear you, but worse, because there was no undoing it.

  I’d never walk again.

  Even a year and a half after the accident those words were unreal.

  T-10. Incomplete. Numbers and letters that defined me now.

  They were unreal too.

  In the water though, I could imagine. Remember.

  If only some instrumental version of “Radioactive” hadn’t been playing under the water, I would have been golden.

  “Bryan.”

  A splash across my face brought me back to the rec center pool. Fluorescent lights instead of the sun. Chlorine instead of salt. I blinked the water from my eyes, shifted the therapy noodle out from under my knees, and paddled upright. My arms ached from my workout. I’d pushed myself hard. I may not have had use of my legs, but I had the upper body of fucking Iron Man. #wheelchairperk

  Jena, a rec center noob, stood at the side of the pool and waggled her fingers at me. We didn’t really know each other, but knew of each other. Wade had her stats down, like he did for every girl who was working at the rec center for the summer. Single. Sophomore. Soccer/swim girl. Liked to party. Her red lifeguard hoodie skimmed the top of her legs. Her long, tanned legs. Legs that could run and jump and kick without a second thought. Thighs that could wrap around me.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Sorry for the splashing. I wanted to get your attention.” She bent down and grabbed the therapy noodle out of the water.

  “No worries. I’ve had people get my attention in worse ways.”

  She pressed her lips together. Clearly my material was not charming her.

  “We’re, um—closing soon.”

  “Seven already? I’ll be right out.”

  She looked around. Her eyes landed on the pool lift. My first few times in the water, I’d used and hated everything about it, especially needing someone else’s help just to take a swim. Six months of training and I was expert at getting in and out of the pool, no fanfare necessary. Although getting help from Jena might have been worth it.

  “I don’t need that,” I said, and made my way toward the end of the pool. She followed alongside as I swam to the end of the lane.

  I pulled myself up on the edge and twisted, placing my butt down and centering my weight. Jena handed me a towel. I was about to tell her she didn’t need to baby me but nodded thanks and took the towel from her. Hot girls being helpful was definitely a #wheelchairperk. I’d left my wheels close for easy access. She looked at the chair, then me. I smiled.

  “It’s not as hard as it looks; I can manage.”

  She played with the string pulls on her hoodie and fidgeted, eyes darting between me, the chair, and the kids who were screaming at the other end of the pool. “Mr. Beckett said to check in with him before you leave. Do you, um . . . need help with anything else?”

  “I am headed to the shower. . . .”

  Her head snapped up and her eyes locked on mine. A confuzzled-kitten look, maybe wondering if she’d heard me right. It was cruel of me to leave her hanging. I knew that. She was vibing off the tragic of my situation, like anyone else who knew of me and my accident. Oh, he’s that guy, the one who liked to surf, the one who tripped and fell and fucked up his life forever. The one they had that fish-fry fund-raiser for over at the VFW hall. Must not laugh around him.

  I smiled. “Kidding.”

  A flash of teeth and a high-pitched giggle told me she was seriously relieved I hadn’t been trying to put the moves on her. Laughter always broke the ice. Even if it was of the holy-shit-I’m-so-glad-you-were-kidding variety. At least I’d made her think of something other than hauling my ass out of the pool.

  “You should tell Mr. Beckett he needs to play some better underwater tunes—that instrumental stuff is boring. Something like Neck Deep.” I draped the towel over my shoulders.

  She laughed again, but stopped when she saw I wasn’t. She must have thought I was joking.

  “That’s a band?”

  “Yeah, I know it sounds like—well, I guess it might be ironic if I was quad, or would that be a coincidence? I always mix that up,” I said.

  “Quad?”

  “—draplegic, you know, paralyzed from the neck down. That would be sort of—”

  Oh hell, Bry, why not joke about your daily skin check for pressure sores, wouldn’t that crack her up? “I also like Jimmy Eat World and the Story So Far.”

  “I love Jimmy Eat World. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Beckett about it,” she said, over-smiling to erase the awkward. The kids at the other end of the pool screamed again, running away from each other. Jena sounded her whistle. The kids kept messing around. She rolled her eyes. “Gotta deal with them. See ya.”

  “Later,” I said as she yelled for them to stop running. They didn’t listen.

  Good for them.

  I locked the brakes on my wheels and hoisted myself into my chair, then pushed off to the showers.

  Alone.

  “So I hear you don’t like my taste in music?” Mr. Beckett stared intently at his computer screen as I maneuvered through the doorway. The rec center was an older building; not much thought had been given to accessibility except in the newer wing with the pool. It was tight, but I managed, positioning myself between the chairs that were in front of his desk. He may have thought it looked like he was working, but I could see in the reflection of his glasses he was playing solitaire. After a few clicks of his mouse, he turned his focus on me, folding his hands on the blotter in front of him. The scene felt oddly formal considering he was my godfather.

  “It’s great if you want to put everyone to sleep, Owen.”

  “It’s popular stuff though, no?”

  “For forty-year-olds.”

  “Ha, ouch, Lakewood.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Mr. Beckett was my father’s best friend, best man, fishing buddy, a fixture at our house on Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve. As Mom and Dad and my younger brother, Matt, were working through their own shit adjusting to our new situation, he’d been the first person, aside from my therapist, to help me feel that being paralyzed wasn’t some dismal life sentence. He didn’t do it with fake enthusiasm. No pom-poms, no clichéd words of wisdom or pity. He did it by being there, in the worst and best moments, offering silent acknowledgment to move forward, letting me feel shitty if I wanted to, but never allowing me to wallow so deep I couldn’t get out. From the look on his face, I couldn’t tell what kind of moment this would turn into, but I knew he wanted to talk about something. He took off his reading glasses, folded them with more care than necessary, and placed them at the top corner of the blotter before finally leaning forward on his elbows.

  “What?”

  “How are you feeling about Monday?”

  “Good. Ready.” Monday was my first day back as a camp counselor post-accident. I’d held the same job when I was fifteen, and figured things couldn’t have changed all that much in two years. S
ix-year-olds were six-year-olds. They ate. Ran. Spilled shit. And didn’t want to do much else but swim. Totally manageable.

  “Okay, cool.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you think it’s cool.”

  He blew out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head like he was doing a sit-up. He looked at a water stain on the paneled ceiling as he spoke.

  “I do think it’s cool, and I’m glad to hear you’re ready, because I think you’re ready too.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Don’t you think that looks kind of like Florida?” He pointed at the ceiling, outlining the water stain in the air with his index finger. “There’s the panhandle, and see, over there—”

  “Just be straight with me. I can handle it.”

  He looked at me again, sat upright in the chair. “A few of the parents have expressed concern about your ability to take care of the kids in case of emergency.”

  “Wasn’t that the whole purpose of that Q and A session last week? What kind of emergency?”

  “I don’t know. Polar ice caps melting. Werewolf bites. The usual stuff parents worry about. I know both you and Wade are more than capable of taking care of your group.”

  “Then why are you telling me this?”

  “I wanted you to hear it from me, not some trickle-down island gossip or mouthy kid. You can handle it—I wouldn’t have offered you a job if I thought otherwise—but I know it can be tough dealing with people who don’t understand what you’re capable of.”

  “Fuck it.”

  “Mouth, Bry.”

  “Who complained?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I reassured the parties involved, but since this is your first time back to work, I thought I’d give you some options.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know Olivia isn’t going to be with Tori in the culinary class anymore. Her father is—”

  “Working on an engineering project in Houston and they have to go there for the summer. Yeah, I know.” I left out that it was all Tori had been complaining about the past two weeks, pissed that Liv would be abandoning her for the whole summer and worried that Mr. Beckett was going to drop her cooking class and assign her to a group of tween boys.