Boys of Summer (34 page)

I feel a fist clamp around mine, holding my arm from moving. Holding my rage in check. And then I feel myself being yanked back with a surprising force, until I'm lying on my back in the sand, breathless and sweaty, with the bitter taste of blood in my mouth.

MIKE

W
hat the hell is the matter with you two?” There's a voice. It's screaming. But it sounds like it's coming from another planet. Another dimension.

My whole body hurts. My head is vibrating. There's a piercing high-pitched sound in my ears that I worry might never go away.

I lie panting in the sand. Grayson lies a few feet away. I can hear his rugged breathing too.

We were fighting.

I
was fighting.

I never fight.

The voice is still screaming. I don't know who it belongs to. Harper? Is Harper the one who pulled Grayson off me?

“I've been freaking out! Looking everywhere for you guys! And then I find you brawling on the beach like two wannabe thugs. Are you serious?”

I blink and try to sit up. Bad idea. The beach completes a full rotation around me. I groan and grab my head, right as someone smacks me across the back of it.

“Idiots!” says the voice.

“Ow!” I wail. “What the hell?” I look up to find Whitney
standing between us, glaring down at both of us like an angry mother.

Whitney?

Whitney pulled Grayson off me?

Damn, that girl is strong.

“What do you want, Whit?” Grayson growls from somewhere beside me. I don't dare look at him. I'm afraid if I see him, then I'll see
it
all over again. It'll play in my head like a scene on a scratched DVD. Skipping and skipping and skipping forever.

Grayson's lips on Harper's lips.

Grayson's hand in Harper's hair.

Grayson's tongue in . . .

Rage flares in my chest as I angrily push the thought away.

“What even happened here?” Whitney demands. “You two are best friends!”

I scowl and face away from her. Grayson can explain. Let him admit to his little sister what a douchey asshole he is.

“I've been hooking up with Grayson. All summer.”

That would be Harper. I can't bring myself to look at her, either. Her voice sounds so small and broken. She's definitely crying. My heart lurches in my chest, wanting so badly to comfort her the way I always do.

I tell my heart to shut it.

Harper sniffles. “Mike saw us kissing.” She stops as a shudder passes through her. “Mikey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

My muscles tighten, but I still won't look at her. I face the ocean instead, the one thing on this island that has always been my friend. That has never betrayed me.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she cries.

“Like hell you didn't!” I snap, whipping my head to her. Dizziness instantly overcomes me, and I have to take a deep breath to regain my grip on the world. “That's all you do, Harper. You hurt me. You pound on my heart like it's your own personal Whac-a-Mole game. Oh! Look! Mike's heart has popped up again, better smash it with my hammer! Bam! Bam! Bam!”

She sobs harder. I tell myself I don't care. Even if I don't really believe that.

The sad truth is, I'll always care. No matter what she does to me, no matter how she hurts me, I'll never stop caring about Harper Jennings.

And that's the problem.

“Mike,” Grayson tries to say.

“You shut up!” I snarl.

“No, both of you shut up!” Whitney yells. “We have bigger things to worry about right now than your stupid reality-show drama.”

Grayson and I both turn to her with matching frowns.

“It's Ian, you guys,” she says, her voice wavering. “He's missing.”

Silence falls on the beach. Like the entire world has stopped breathing. Even Harper's blubbering has come to a halt.

“What do you mean, he's missing?” I ask.

Whitney throws her hands into the air. “I mean, he's gone! I can't find him anywhere.”

I think back to the last time I saw Ian. He and Officer Walton were walking his drunk, belligerent mother back to his grandparents' house. I offered to go with him, but he shooed me away like I was an annoying fly.

But that wasn't that long ago. An hour?

“I saw what happened on the beach,” Whitney continues,
her voice growing more and more frantic by the second. “I tried to text him—”

“Wait, what happened on the beach?” Grayson asks, looking to me.

That guy has a lot of balls, looking to me for anything.

“You would know if you hadn't been off making out with my girlfriend.”

“
Ex
-girlfriend,” Grayson mumbles.

I let out a growl and lunge for him. Whitney steps between us, kicking sand into my face. “Stop it! We have to focus!”

I spit the sand out of my mouth. “Whitney,” I grumble, “I saw him about an hour ago. Why are you so worried?”

“Wake the fuck up, Mike!” she screams.

I stare at her in disbelief. Did she just say that to me? Did that just happen?

“You guys have been so blinded by your own stupid problems this summer, you haven't even noticed that your best friend is drowning. He's suffering. His father died! And he's been hanging on by a thread.”

I brave a look at Grayson. He meets my eye. For a tense moment all that passes between us is resentment. I silently berate him for being an inconsiderate, shitty friend. And he silently screams back at me that I don't understand what he's been going through.

And then that moment passes. As moments often do. And all that's left is concern. For our friend.

Did you know?
I ask with my eyes.

No,
he shamefully admits.

“I tried texting him after he left the beach, but he wouldn't respond,” Whitney goes on. “So I went by his house. I knocked on the door for five minutes, but no one answered. It was unlocked, so I let myself in. The place is
a war zone. Trash and laundry and dishes and broken glass everywhere. And Ian wasn't there. But I found this by the front door.”

From her pocket she pulls out two halves of what used to be a photograph.

I grab the pieces and hold them together, until I can see the full picture. Grayson drags himself closer to me, close enough that he can look over my shoulder. So that he can see what I see.

It's a close-up photograph of Ian and his dad. Ian looks like he's about thirteen. They have their arms around each other, and they're both smiling like idiots.

I look to Grayson, and once again we communicate in silence.

“Cherry Tree Bridge,” we say in unison.

“What?” Whitney grabs the photo pieces back from me and studies them. “How can you tell? The picture is so close up, you can't see anything behind them.”

“It's the hat,” I tell her. “That was his father's fishing hat. He only wore it when they went fishing. It's the one thing Ian and his father had in common.”

Whitney has grown quiet, which is unusual for Whitney. I look up at her and notice that her eyes are wide and unfocused. “What?”

“I didn't know,” she says quietly, almost as though she doesn't even intend for us to hear.

“What didn't you know?” Grayson is on his feet now, putting an arm around his sister's shoulders. “Whitney. What happened?”

She shakes her head. “We passed by it about a week ago. The bridge. And he . . . I don't know, he just shut down. He barely said a word to me for the rest of the day. I couldn't figure out why.”

I get to my feet, ignoring the wooziness that threatens to push me back down again. I give Grayson a worried look. He returns it with just as much intensity.

“You don't think he'd . . .” But I can't even finish the thought. It doesn't matter, though. Grayson understands. Because that's how the three of us have always been.

We just get each other.

“I don't know,” he admits. “But we need to get there now.”

I start moving, adrenaline and fear powering my sore legs. “C'mon. I know a shortcut.”

IAN

C
an you see it now, Ian? Can you see the lure?”

“No, Daddy.”

“It's way down there. Stand on your tiptoes.”

“I still can't see it.”

“Here. Climb up onto this railing. . . . There you go. Be careful. Look down. Can you see it now?”

“There it is! I can see it!”

“That's the deepest part of the creek. That's where the fish are.”

“It's so far down. I don't want to fall.”

“You won't fall, Ian. I won't let you. Just hold on tight.”

I stand on Cherry Tree Bridge and peer over the railing, staring down into the dark ravine. When my father first started bringing me here, I was only six years old. I wasn't tall enough to see over the railing. He let me climb up onto the second rail so that I could see the lure that I had cast so far below.

It's been twelve years since that day. I've grown almost two and a half feet taller, but the ravine looks deeper than ever.

And my dad has never felt farther away.

How did it come to this? How did I even get here? I
thought I had it all under control. I thought my emotions could be sorted into little boxes and stored away to be dealt with later, when I had more capacity to deal with them.

Or to be dealt with never.

My mother was right. I'm a horrible son. I abandoned her. Just like my father abandoned us both. Except I had a choice in the matter. And I chose wrong.

My dad died trying to save someone. Trying to save his friends.

And all I've been is selfish. This whole summer. Thinking that playing songs on my stupid guitar or kissing Whitney's perfect pouty lips would make it all okay.

I miss him.

I miss him so much.

I miss the way he smelled. The way he walked. The way he laughed. The way he lifted me up when I couldn't see.

But who's going to lift me up now?

I'm stumbling in the dark. I can't see anything. And now there's no one to help me. No one to tell me it's going to be okay. No one to make sure I don't fall. No one to remind me to hold on tight.

Because there's nothing left to hold on to.

I step up to the second rail and balance precariously. When I was little, the weight distribution was all different. I was so small. My waist would rest comfortably against the top rail, keeping me stable. And my dad's arms would be wrapped around me from behind. Just in case.

But now I'm too tall. I'm too top heavy. Nothing lines up. My shins hit where my waist used to be. Gravity takes hold of my body and pulls me forward. I have to fight to stay upright.

And there's no one behind me just in case.

For the rest of my life, there will be no one behind me.