One Hot Summer

by Heidi McLaughlin

  It’s then that I see the first summer person I know pull into the small, awkwardly spaced parking lot. His window rolls down, his aviators hiding mischievous brown eyes I’ve known since our camp days. “Lizzie girl!” Randy shouts as he exits his jeep, not bothering to lock it or even close his windows, it being a small beach town and all.

  “Long time no see.” I give him the usual, first-summer-sighting reply, and he grins widely, long, lanky arms flinging around me and lifting me into a bear hug.

  “Damn straight, girl,” Randy replies. He always was one of the nicer kids, always up for a laugh, always down for a party. “That’s it, it’s time for summer to officially commence.” He takes a big, dramatic breath. “I’m here,” he says dramatically, as if the entire town were awaiting his presence before summer could actually begin. He always did make me laugh.

  “Is that so?” I ask him.

  “Hell yeah. Where’s the party tonight?” Because there always is a party in the summer, every night.

  It’s then that I hear what must be his passenger side door slam shut, and I jolt, not having realized there was anyone else in the car with him.

  A tall—at least six feet—boy, or man, lean but built in ways his tank top does everything to compliment, struts to join us, in no particular rush. I frown, because I know everyone in this town, even the summer people, and while there’s something deeply familiar about him, I can’t quite place him. Until he pushes his sunglasses up over his head, and then my goosebumps return with a mocking vengeance. Because it sure as hell isn’t a result of being cold.

  Noah Reed.

  “Hey, Liza.” His full lips quirk into a small smirk. “Long time...”

  “No see,” I reply, my throat suddenly dry, and I have to cough to get my voice back to normal.

  Noah hasn’t been around in a couple of summers, not since his sister’s boating accident. We must have been fourteen or fifteen the last time I saw him. I think his family still owns their old beach house, but it’s been shuttered for years now, and I never did find the nerves to ask Randy or any of his other friends where he’d been.

  Noah bends down—significantly, as he’s grown about a foot since I saw him last—and presses a small kiss to my cheek. No hug.

  “You’re back,” I comment.

  “Just for a few weeks,” Randy interjects. “Staying with me at my crib.”

  “You mean, your parents’ crib,” I correct him, teasing, and he grins again.

  “Touche, Red.”

  I self-consciously run my fingers through my hair, as if Noah didn’t already know I was a red-head, as if he hadn’t known since we were little kids, when it was far brighter, and he’d tease me about my freckled nose.

  “Tell me you’re not with Jonah Berry anymore,” Randy jokingly begs, “please, I don’t think my heart can take it.”

  I laugh, but can’t help but notice Noah’s eyes focus on mine with interest as they await my response. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. For some reason, though, I hesitate. I know what the answer is, but not for the first time, I wonder if it should be different.

  “Yes, I’m still with Jonah,” I concede.

  Randy flails his hand to his heart and shakes his head. “You’re killing me, girl.”

  Vaguely I detect the subtle shake of Noah’s head, as if he’s disappointed. Not in general, but in me, and, weirdly, it stings. I don’t owe that guy anything. I don’t even really know him. Certainly not this tall, grown, built version of him. His hazel eyes are the same, that intent stare, but his jaw is more defined, his cheeks more chiseled. His lips are fuller, kissably so, and I swallow anxiously, guiltily, not quite sure where the thought even came from.

  I guess childhood crushes die hard.

  But I’m not a child, I’m eighteen, and my relationship is none of his, or anyone else’s business.

  Noah just turns toward the entrance to Boardwalk Bagels, though, and mutters something about seeing me around, without so much as looking back. It shouldn’t bug me, but for some reason, it does.

  Randy hurries after Noah, walking backwards to tell me that they’ll see me later at the beach, and to text him when I know where the party is. Because there always, always, is a party.

  3

  I’ve been best friends with Jillian Penn since we met on the beach when we were both eight. She is a rare hybrid, having begun life in Atlantic West as a summer person, only to move here full time when her parents divorced. She lives in the Estates full-time, in her beautiful Mediterranean style home, right on the beach, making it more than ideal for parties. Especially with her father in the city and her mom out of town for a good chunk of the summer.

  It’s also convenient for me, as my mom can’t exactly give me a hard time about sleeping over my bestie’s house, and if she knows I’m sleeping out, I don’t have to worry about her staying up until the early hours waiting for me at home.

  Jonah is drunk as usual, pressuring me to impress all of his friends with one of my “famous” keg-stands. Somehow, he has yet to notice that I haven’t done a keg-stand in probably two years, in favor of enjoying my drinks while standing upright—shocking, I know. After all, I haven’t been “famous” for anything of the sort since sophomore year of high school, a time Jonah seems to have trouble letting go of. Nor am I remotely interested in doing anything at all for the sole purpose of impressing his friends. Or anyone else for that matter.

  I attempt to shrug off the strange, melancholic air that seems to thicken the mild, evening sea breeze. It’s become more frequent as of late, like I, too, am holding onto something I know I’ve been ready to move on from for a while now, and it’s not just my eagerness for college. I head out through Jillian’s family’s French patio doors, and beyond the pool full of drunk and high teens doing reckless flips off the roof of the pool house, others making out, heedless of the mostly disinterested audience. I make my way down to the sand, intent on letting my typically bare feet cool in the lazy surf.

  “Hey, Red!” Randy’s familiar, happy-go-lucky voice rings out from behind me. I spin in place, and my smile falters briefly as Noah Reed’s massive, impressively forged body casts an imposing shadow at his side.

  “Uh, hi, Rand.”

  His goofy grin puts me at ease just as Noah’s inscrutable, vaguely unimpressed gaze gets my hackles up. But then his eyes rove my body, landing on my own, and there’s a flicker of something. Interest? Desire?

  Whatever it is have my belly fluttering in a way Jonah never has.

  Noah has always been smart and thoughtful in a way Jonah has always been reckless and uncaring. And for some reason, in this moment, their juxtaposition strikes me.

  I purposefully shut down the unwelcome wave of discontent, the embers trying to kindle that awareness from not so deep within my psyche that whispers that Jonah is not the guy for me. Which is not to say Noah is. I mean, Noah is the kind of guy who’s for everyone. Let’s be honest, there isn’t a straight girl in town who wouldn’t take one glance at him and start drooling. For God’s sake, I nearly run my hand over my own lips to check for drool.

  I side-step the two of them, gesturing for them to continue on into the party, as I continue on my way to the water.

  Thirty seconds later I’m around the dunes and skimming the surf with my toes. I huff out a deep breath, letting the usual calming effect waft over me. There’s nothing on the horizon but the moon and a couple of freight ships, and the sight of it has always soothed me.

  "You shouldn’t be down here alone this late.” The deep timbre startles me, and I spin around so fast I nearly lose my footing. Noah’s arms reach out just in time, though, large hands on my waist and elbow steadying me before I end up ass-down in the shallows. Seawater tickles the hem of my white sundress that’s not much more than a swimsuit cover-up. I take note of nothing but the heat of his grip though, and for some reason, I’m taken aback by his hands. Bigger than I remembered. They’re the hands of a man, and I wonder if by calling Jonah my “boy”
he meant to point out the glaring differences between them.

  His eyes follow mine to where he holds me, obviously mistaking my confused interest for discomfort, and with a small squeeze, as if to make sure I’m steady, he releases me.

  “Where’s your boy?” Noah Reed’s handsome face is cast in nothing but shadow and moonlight, highlighting the hard lines of his unshaven jaw, his strong, beautifully masculine cheekbones. His eyes appear greener than usual in the natural, ethereal glow of the night, yet somehow darker, knowing.

  His eyebrows raise, and I momentarily forgot he’d asked me a question.

  “Berry?” Noah has always called Jonah by his last name. “Your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not—” I almost say he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve never used those titles after all. But I suppose he kind of is, and for some reason, now more than ever, I’m not sure I want him to be. “I don’t know,” I say instead, whether I mean I don’t know if he’s my boyfriend, or where he is, I don’t let myself ruminate.

  I almost add that I don’t care, either. But that would be unkind, and Jonah deserves better than that. Not much, I’m sure, but better than my telling others before him something I’ve known since even before I gave in and started dating him in the first place: that we’ll never be right together, that our relationship isn’t going anywhere. I know better than to talk to someone else about what I know in my heart before I grow the courage to tell Jonah himself.

  Even if it is Noah Reed.

  Noah nods thoughtfully, something behind his eyes almost mocking, and I recall his distaste for Jonah. Noah has never taken Jonah for much more than a bully or a joke, but Noah isn’t the only one who’s grown and matured over the years, and suddenly I feel indignant on Jonah’s behalf. He’s far from perfect, but he’s always been there for me, and I need to remember that.

  “I should get back inside,” I murmur, making a half-hearted step back up toward Jillian’s house, where, off in the short distance, the music and muffled conversation continues to color the background like a familiar white noise.

  “Back to Berry?” Noah’s tone is almost sarcastic, and I resent it. I know he has good reason not to like Jonah. Jonah wasn’t always the nicest kid, and he was the one who dared Noah’s kid sister to walk the rail of the back boardwalk causing her to fall and break her arm. But that was mostly an accident, and, anyway, it was what? Five years ago? And Noah hasn’t been back in town in at least three years now, so what does he know? If Noah could grow into that, then Jonah could have changed, too. He could be a saint these days for all Noah knows.

  “Back to my friends,” I say sternly, and practically huff away, regretting my less-than-mature attitude, not quite sure why I feel as put out as I do.

  I don’t have to look back to know Noah doesn’t follow.

  I take the short footpath back through the small hills of sand dunes and beach grass, and less than a minute later, I’m once again surrounded by sweaty, partially clothed bodies, and smoke from both cigarettes and weed, The Red Hot Chili Peppers blaring from the wireless speaker by Jillian’s infinity pool.

  It’s an entirely different world than the peace of the quiet shoreline, at least at this time of night, and in my current mood, I much prefer the latter.

  A glance at my phone displays several missed calls from Jonah, and texts I don’t bother reading. We’re at the same party, after all, and it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since he’d been relentlessly nagging me about kegstands.

  I note that it is getting kind of late, and, in my less-than-enthusiastic mood, I consider calling it a night.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Jonah accuses, before I even manage to catch sight of him.

  His harsh grip drags me several feet away from the crowd by my elbow, but most definitely not out of earshot, and I’m not sure why he bothered even that. He’s strange when it comes to the opinions of others. He could care less what they say about him, but when it comes to what they think of me—us—he wants full control. It’s like he’s determined to project a certain narrative, whether or not it’s indicative of reality.

  I yank myself from his grip, unprepared for the force necessary to free myself.

  It hurts, and I roll my shoulder, tracing the faint redness on my elbow with my opposite hand.

  “The beach...” I say carefully. It’s always wise to be careful when Jonah is less than sober. “And I’ve told you not to talk to me that way, Jonah.” I add more with my eyes, silently reiterating the warning I’ve stated a hundred times at least—that if he wants someone to control, or worse, push around...he picked the wrong fucking girl.

  After all, tons—if not most—of the other girls in Atlantic West would be positively thrilled just for a chance with him.

  Jonah is exceptionally good-looking—despite his current foreboding glare—in that surfer kind of way he has about him, and while I’ve never been particularly impressed by his reputation personally, I appear to be alone in that opinion.

  So, if Jonah wanted that kind of controlling, 1950’s-style relationship, there’s no logical reason for him to have pursued me, of all people, especially so vigilantly, and for so long. Not for the first time, I wonder if his attraction to me is more physical than anything else. It makes no sense otherwise, and I’ve told him so. Many times now.

  His thin blonde brows pull together in anger, his cheeks reddening in flames I should probably know better than to fan.

  It’s then I notice how glazed his eyes are, how bloodshot. I don’t know exactly what he’s consumed tonight, or how much, but silently I hope it’s from smoke and not drink. He’s far calmer when he’s high than when he’s drunk, more reasonable, though he knows I prefer him on nothing at all. Still, the combination is the worst, and I can tell in his expression that there’s no reason there whatsoever. Which means there’s no point in trying to discuss anything with him right now, certainly not when he’s in this state. Although I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss, anyway.

  “And I’ve told you,” he says darkly, “I don’t like to be fucking disrespected!”

  Jonah takes a looming step in my direction, standing practically right in my face, as if to remind me of his superior size, and of my own, more petite, more vulnerable frame. As if I wasn’t already well aware.

  I don’t back down, though.

  I’m not afraid of him. And I sure as hell won’t let him believe otherwise.

  Still, I don’t need a drunken confrontation about nothing, and so I try to employ the same tactics I’ve found effective in the past.

  “Jonah—”

  His glare widens, his nostrils flaring. “I’m sick of my girl disappearing all the time! And people always having to ask me where you are! I look like a fucking idiot!” he growls, so fiercely that spittle lands on my cheek.

  I stifle my gasp.

  I don’t know why I’m still so stunned by this behavior from him, by his random, inexplicable perceptions, and his utterly unacceptable reactions. Maybe it’s because of all of the impassioned apologies—and the displays of contrition—he so zealously swore the last time he ‘lost his temper’.

  All of the ‘last times’.

  “If you look like an idiot, Jonah, it isn’t because of me,” I shoot back, honestly.

  It’s the wrong response.

  He grabs my upper arm again, this time hard enough to cause actual pain, and I wince, more surprised than anything when he refuses to let me shrug him off. Instead his fingers squeeze harder, with the kind of force he usually reserves for drunken brawls with his friends or the occasional bar fight with people he refers to as “spoiled summer brats”.

  Jonah drags me a few more feet down toward the dunes, and for the first time I register actual fear.

  “You’re a real independent woman, Liz,” he spits, sardonic and seething, “but there’s only so much shit I’m going to take from my own fucking girl!”

  I yank so hard I actually feel myself bruise, but I finally escape hi
s grip. Or he releases me. I’m not sure which.

  I rub my arm, knowing I will feel his unwelcome mark far more sharply tomorrow, and I resent it beyond measure.

  Jonah has grabbed me before, I have no choice but to shamefully admit to myself, and he’s lost his temper and gotten too aggressive with me, too, but he’s never caused me actual, physical pain. He’s sure as hell has never left a mark on me, either.

  But it's the debilitating injury to my pride—to my self-worth—that is far more devastating to my soul.

  I am not this girl.

  I will not be this girl.

  I make the decision here and now, once and for all. The one I should have made in the first place.

  “Then I’m not your fucking girl,” I say slowly, cautiously.

  Not cautious of his reaction, because fuck him.

  Fuck Jonah Berry.

  I’m cautious of his comprehension. Careful that he understands that this—this controlling, violent fucking bullshit—it is a nonstarter for me.

  My proverbial line in the sand.

  And he’s already crossed to the wrong side.

  I glare at him, demanding he hear me, that he come back to his senses. Or whatever senses he’s ever had.

  Because as much as I wish that the other Jonah, the version of him that can be so sweet and caring, if not particularly thoughtful, would somehow return to the body of this monster before me—to show off his typical displays of regret and remorse—it won’t change anything now.

  This is too much. Too far.

  I am done.

  We are done.

  But Jonah’s eyes are clear windows to his spiraling thoughts, and the squaring of his shoulders, the baring of his teeth, and the flex of his biceps all tell me I need to extricate myself from the situation—and quick—before it snowballs any further. We can talk tomorrow.

  It won’t actually change anything, but we can have a conversation. I owe him that at least. I think.

  “I have to go.” It’s all I can say at this point, and I turn to head back toward the shore, speed-walking with purpose in a diagonal path, because it’s that bit closer to the direction of home. Even if, despite there being little to no crime in our quaint beach town community, I have to admit, to myself at least, that it is probably a bit too far to walk alone safely. With friends is another story, and that I’ve done more times than I can count.