Meet Me at Midnight

by Jessica Pennington

  Sidney

  Asher goes on and on until we finally reach the little bay on the opposite side of the lake. Telling me about how his friend Todd didn’t talk to him for two days. Apparently it’s my fault that Asher was a jerk to his friend? If he’s trying to make me feel guilty, it isn’t working. But if he’s trying to annoy me, then he’s nailing it. Because him talking to me while I swim is a lot like when the dentist has your jaw jacked open and asks you how school’s going. Have you been flossing? Are you still swimming? If bus A leaves Cincinnati on Tuesday and bus B leaves Detroit on Wednesday, what is the square root of pi? It’s a special kind of torture, when you can’t respond. But acknowledging that I hear him would just help his cause, so instead I just push myself as hard as I possibly can, until my arms and legs feel like limp noodles.

  When the water starts to lighten and I can make out the bottom—he can’t claim I didn’t make it to the other side, I’m clearly in the bay—I wave Asher over to me. He cuts the engine and lets the boat drift until it’s sidling up beside me. Even though it’s just one of the little rowboats, I know I can’t get in myself. Not unless we let the boat drift in another hundred feet to the really shallow water. And I’m too tired for that.

  I try anyway. I put both hands on the edge and try to pull myself up, but I can’t get any traction when the boat dips. The metal digs against my palms. I haven’t done an open-water swim in ten months, and my entire body feels spent. If my dad had come, I would have swum a half today, just to ease myself into it. Asher scoots to the edge of his seat and reaches his arm out with a smirk. And as I grab it, all I can think of is how he called me neurotic, and said I had a stick up my ass. No, a tree up my ass. I brace myself against the boat with one arm and give a tug. And when he loses his balance, I give one more, until he splashes into the water.

  “Your turn,” I say cheerily, still hanging from the side of the boat with one arm.

  “Brilliant.” Asher shakes his head in the water. “Now neither of us is in the boat.”

  “You’re swimming back,” I say, giving him the sugary-sweet smile I usually reserve for when our parents are around. There’s no hiding my guilt now anyway. Asher is already stripping his T-shirt up over his head, kicking his legs to propel himself up out of the water. The edge of the wet cotton slaps me in the face as he throws it into the boat.

  “Gross,” I mutter.

  “It’s lake water. You’re covered in it,” he says, rolling his eyes. He holds his breath and sinks down into the water, coming up with his shorts in his hands. As the fabric sails over me and into the boat, I’m suddenly aware of the fact that he’s now effectively in only his underwear a few feet away from me. I spend at least fifteen hours a week around guys dressed in no more than Asher, so I don’t know why I feel heat creeping up my neck now. Maybe because it’s weird to be near your nemesis while he’s naked. Almost naked.

  “Well, there you go,” he says. “You got what you wanted.”

  I raise my eyebrows, unsure what he’s referring to.

  “I’m practically naked over here.”

  My nemesis is not only naked, but also a mind reader, and I want to scream at him to get out of my head, but all I can manage is: “Ugh.”

  “Whatever, Sidney. Next time you want me to take my clothes off, you can just ask.” He dips down into the water and surfaces a foot away from me. “Quite frankly, I’m tired of you objectifying me like this. I’m not just a pretty guy in a Speedo. I’m a person.”

  “Hardly,” I say, but my eyes catch on the sharp angles where his neck meets his shoulders, and suddenly my eyes are drifting lower, to the planes of his chest.

  Asher laughs, and it catches me off guard, the way it barrels out of him. And as if he realizes his mistake, he dunks down, cutting the sound off with a torrent of water. When he comes up, it’s slow and dramatic, like when a creature emerges in a scary movie. Water drips down his face in shimmering streams. And he’s right in front of me, so close that the water churned up by his legs is brushing against mine. I could count the droplets of water clinging to his dark lashes.

  Asher slings an arm up over the boat, facing me. His feet graze mine in the water as they lazily flutter there. Hair wet and glistening, the last little rivulets of water drip down his tanned face, sliding from his chin down to his chest. When he braces himself against the boat all of his muscles tighten, and something in my chest does the same.

  “What are you doing?” I don’t mean it to sound so breathless, so alarmed.

  Asher leans forward, his mouth next to my ear, his warm breath a stark contrast to the cold lake. Under the water, his hand rests on my calf, and a little shiver that I hope he doesn’t notice runs through me. Every inch of me vibrates at the touch.

  “Sidney?” His voice is whisper soft, so close his breath tickles my ear. I should move away, should find some sort of inhuman strength to hurl myself into this boat, but I can’t. For the first time in forever, I feel like I’ve forgotten how to swim.

  The water is chilly this far out, but I don’t feel the cold at all now—my entire body feels like it’s on fire. “Yeah?”

  His hand slides down the length of my calf to my foot, and he leaves it there, softly cradling my arch in his palm. “I’m helping you into the boat.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice.

  I find that inhuman strength I wished for when I push my foot roughly against his hand and propel myself up and into the boat. Unfortunately, it isn’t graceful, sexy, or defiant. I flop into the boat much like my heart is flopping in my chest. And when I take the seat next to the motor and start it up, I think I hear his laugh mixed with the roar of the engine coming to life.

  DAY 5

  Sidney

  My dad has this thing for vacation jerky. We call it that, because literally the only time Dad wants to eat jerky is when we’re at the lake. Some vacationers gorge themselves on tropical drinks with little umbrellas, or all-you-can-eat buffets. My dad stuffs himself with teriyaki beef sticks until it starts to feel like his summertime cologne, and everyone in a two-house radius judges.

  In his defense, they are pretty tasty. They sell them at the big store in town, and Dad doesn’t like to put them on Mom’s shopping list (because the judgment starts in our house) so he usually sends me. Here’s twenty bucks, run to the store and get yourself something fun. Maybe grab something for me while you’re there? As if I’m going to find anything fun at the grocery store. Dad thinks he’s being slick, but Mom always snags me before I leave and gives me her own list of things she needs.

  I’m just about to pull out of the driveway when Asher comes dashing toward the car. He pulls at the handle just as I slip the car into drive, but I don’t unlock it. I swear I still feel a phantom tingle where his hand was on my leg, and it makes me want to floor it. He cocks his head to the side and palms a piece of paper against the window. Two taps on the glass, and I roll it down. “I have to grab some stuff for my mom.”

  “Ugh.” I let out a disgruntled sigh, because while I can say no to Asher all day, Sylvie is a different story. “Fine.” It’s not the car’s fault, but I press the button to unlock the door more aggressively than is necessary anyway. Asher climbs into the passenger side and immediately skips to the next song on my playlist. “You have a car, you know.”

  “My mom sent me over to see if your mom needed anything. And your mom insisted we didn’t need to drive two cars. She practically shoved me out the door so I wouldn’t miss you.”

  I can already feel it—Mom’s current obsession with her carbon footprint is going to be the death of my sanity this summer. I turn out of the driveway, and we’re halfway to the store before either of us breaks the silence.

  “Jerky run?” Asher asks, sounding almost sympathetic.

  “You know it.”

  * * *

  We park the car and silently head into the store, both of us turning toward the deli. Asher grabs my list, and I’m trying to get it back from him, my hands reaching around and b
ehind him, when I hear my name.

  “Sidney?” It comes from behind me, an aisle or so down. Standing next to a display of marshmallows, his red River Depot shirt now swapped for a soft gray T-shirt, is the dreamy ice cream guy. Right here in my grocery store.

  I grab the list from Asher, who is momentarily stunned motionless, and compose myself, straightening a little. “Hey, Caleb.”

  He closes the gap between us and sticks his hand out to Asher. I take a deep breath and let it out loudly. “This is Asher.” I introduce them as they shake hands next to the little case of jerky sticks that got me here. I grab a pack and put them in my basket.

  “Your…” His eyes swing from Asher to me. “… brother?”

  Asher and I say no at the same time. He sounds absolutely disgusted by the prospect of having to be related to me.

  “Our families vacation together,” I say, realizing too late that it sounds sort of weird. “Our moms were college roommates, and we come up here every year. We have houses next to each other over at Five Pines.” I point to the doors like an idiot, as if the houses are right outside. “Almost identical houses, actually. It’s a—”

  Asher puts his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think he needs our family histories.” I shrug his hand away, but at least he shut me up.

  “I actually have to go find some apples,” I say, taking a step away, toward Caleb.

  He smiles. “What a coincidence. I love apples.” I head toward the far corner of the store and he falls into step beside me. I don’t look at Asher, but I hear his footsteps behind us, getting softer, not louder, thankfully.

  “I bet there’s a name for this,” I say, when we’ve rounded the aisles that separate the fresh food from everything else.

  He looks at me questioningly. “Shopping?”

  “No.” I laugh and it feels good to be able to. “The phenomenon where you’ve never seen someone before, and then suddenly they’re everywhere.”

  He smiles. “I don’t know that I’m everywhere.”

  “I’m just glad I was here first,” I say, a teasing lilt to my voice. “You’re following me.”

  He smiles and shrugs. “Fair enough.”

  I walk toward the little fruit section and he follows me. “I’m just picking up some stuff for my mom.” I pull a plastic bag off of the carousel and grab two apples from the edge of the shelf. I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain why I’m at the grocery store—I suppose I don’t want him thinking this is what I do for fun. I did make it sound like I was lonely and pathetic, and would be lurking around River Depot whenever possible.

  Caleb reaches into my bag and takes the apples out. “Take these,” he says, handing me two of the same apples, but from a different row.

  “O-kay.” I’m not sure what just happened. It felt like the shopping version of mansplaining. Was I just produce-judged? I don’t know how to pick out apples? I may not be a culinary wizard, but had it mushed into applesauce in my hand I would have put it back myself.

  I make my way through the produce section and Caleb picks out a watermelon for me, switches out three of the four peaches I picked up, and advises me not to buy the raspberries that are on sale, because they won’t last more than a day. I know he’s really spooked me with his produce pickiness when I find myself peering behind me, wondering where Asher is, in a desperate way I don’t know how to feel about.

  I must be looking at Caleb with as much apprehension as I’m feeling, because he finally stops touching my food, like it’s been electrified. I’m not sure it shouldn’t be—maybe that would teach him to keep his hands out of someone else’s basket.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “My dad owns this grocery store.”

  I let out a long whoosh of air and my shoulders feel like they drop about three feet. “Thank god.” Suddenly my personal-shopper experience is making a lot more sense. “I was starting to worry you were just overly aggressive about produce.”

  “Guilty,” he says with a smile. “Sorry, I can see how that was probably weird. Apparently I get aggressively helpful when I’m nervous.”

  And I ramble.

  He sounds nervous now, and it makes something flutter in my stomach, so I try to switch the subject. “How have I never seen you around here before? Sometimes I feel like my family’s designated grocery-getter.”

  He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and looks over at me. “Maybe you weren’t looking?”

  I’ve been to this grocery store a million times. “Maybe,” I say, my voice skeptical.

  Caleb smiles and his eyes crinkle in amusement. He’s smiling at me. “I usually spend summers with my mom in Tennessee.”

  “Ah. It’s not nice to make people feel crazy.”

  “Noted,” he says, taking a loaf of bread out of my basket and replacing it with another heavier loaf as we pass the bakery area. He holds his hands up like I have a gun pointed at him. “Last time, I swear.”

  I’m still staring at his hands, which are now on my shopping basket—the only thing separating us—when Asher comes around the corner. “Hey, Sid—” Caleb looks at the same moment I do, and I can tell just from the obnoxious tone of Asher’s voice that this isn’t going to be good. “Are these the right ones?” Asher holds up a bright blue box of tampons, and looks past Caleb to me.

  I bite my lip to keep from screaming, but if he thinks he’s embarrassing me with tampons, he’s seriously delusional. “Yeah, I think those are going to work for you, Ash. Though you should get a bigger box, because I hear they work great for nosebleeds. You know, in case someone were to punch you in the face at some point.” I pause dramatically. “Or something.”

  I give him a sugary-sweet smile and Caleb chokes back a laugh. “Not unless provoked,” I say in my most demure tone, looking at him as innocently as I can muster, “of course.”

  “Got it, Slugger,” Asher says, and I can tell he wants to smile, but he turns his face from mine to Caleb’s, and then he lets it loose—a toothy, blindingly white smile. “Careful with this one,” he says, and if I could growl, I would. Not that I would ever actually hit Asher, but right now I’m seriously considering if I could leave him here, or make him chase my car.

  Asher retreats back into the aisle he came from, and Caleb shakes his head, like he’s been in an Asher-induced fog, and can’t quite break out of it. He raises his eyebrows like he wants me to explain, and I just shrug. There is no explaining me and Asher.

  “Kara said you’re coming to the party tomorrow night,” he says.

  “Did she?” I’m still flustered, and I feel like I’ve lost some of my flirting mojo. Asher strikes again.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m … debating.” I walk toward the checkouts, hoping he follows. When he does, that flutter is back, tickling my ribs.

  “I’ll be there,” he says, as he grabs a plastic bag from my basket and sets it on the black conveyor belt we’re now standing beside. I do the same, and piece by piece we unload the basket together. “You know, if you need something to throw into the pro column of your list.”

  “How do you know I have a list?” I smile and he shrugs. There’s a moment of silence as the cashier hands me my bags and I take a step toward the doors. I give him a quick glance back. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Asher

  When we got back from our shopping trip, my dad and Tom drove to the marina to get a new sensor for Tom’s boat, so I’m sitting on my deck, avoiding the girls-only rock-painting party that’s happening on the deck next door.

  Sidney paints rocks. Literally, rocks you find on the ground. She collects them at the beach—I’ve never figured out a rhyme or reason to which ones she picks out, because they’re all different—but she sifts through the sand like she knows exactly what she’s looking for. And then she spends hours sitting on the deck or a blanket in the grass, painting them with little designs. Again, no rhyme or reason I can decipher. There are ro
cks with words on them, some with colorful flowers. One had a skull on it. It’s the only art I’ve ever seen Sidney do, and it’s so random I can’t help but be intrigued.

  She can easily paint four or five in a day. Ten if they’re really simple and she’s committed to avoiding me the entire day. By the end of each summer she has to have painted at least a hundred, if not more. My mom always leaves with some, but are there just buckets and buckets of these things sitting in her room somewhere? Does she give them to her friends at home? I shouldn’t care about something so stupid, but I can’t help but wonder: What is she doing with all of these rocks?

  Last summer, her mom started painting them sometimes, too, which means my mom also got involved, and now it’s like a little rock-painting sweatshop when the three of them go at it, like they are right now. My phone buzzes with a text and my eyes dart from the painting party next door to where my phone is lying on top of my book on the railing of our deck.