Boys of Summer (38 page)

Funny, I always assumed the opposite was true.

I grab my guitar and sit down on the couch. I softly strum the chords of a new song I'm working on. It's about my father. I'm not even close to finishing it. I can only bring myself to write a little bit every day. Who knows? Maybe I'll never finish it. Maybe it'll always be that unanswered question in my life. That great unfinished work that will forever have unlimited possibilities. Unlimited potential endings.

After I've played through the first few bars a couple of times, I set my guitar on the floor, lean it against the couch, and carefully lift the afghan from my mother's body. I scoot closer to her and drape the blanket over both of us. She stirs slightly, mumbling something incomprehensible, but eventually, after I make myself comfortable, I hear her breathing start to settle back to normal. I hear the house start to settle back to normal.

Or whatever this is.

That's the thing about normal. It's a moving target. It changes every day.

With my head resting on the back of the couch, I face my mother, feeling her soft breath on my cheeks. And somewhere, in that space between what we used to be and what we will eventually become, I fall asleep.

GRAYSON

M
y mom took the news about Vanderbilt well. My dad was another story. He yelled at me for a good half hour before he stopped talking to me completely. As I lay on my bed, I could hear him in the living room, shouting into the phone at some poor Vanderbilt admissions officer who was probably telling him exactly what my original acceptance letter had already told us. That if I was going to Vanderbilt, I was going there to play football. That my admission to one of the country's most prestigious schools was fully dependent on my ability to throw a spiral without doubling over in pain.

By the time I manned up enough to tell my father, I had already come to terms with the fact that I was not shipping off to Tennessee this month. The brochure pictures of the college's beautiful redbrick buildings and white columned facades were already fading from my view of the future. Replaced with a big, blank, white space.

My father, it would seem, would require more time to accept this.

And judging from all the sounds of slamming doors that I could hear from my bedroom, it would be a
lot
more time.
Maybe forever. Maybe he would never get over this loss. Maybe he would take it to his grave.

But that's not my problem. It's his.

And this loss is definitely not coming with me to
my
grave. In fact, it almost doesn't even seem like a loss anymore. It almost seems like a win.

“What are you going to do?” Harper asks me as I sit on her bed and watch her haphazardly toss every clothing item she owns into an open suitcase.

I shrug. “I don't know. And I have to admit, that feels pretty damn good.”

She smiles, but it looks forced. I know that's not what she was hoping to hear. She was hoping I would say I'll come to New York with her. I'll get on the ferry with her today and never look back.

Harper likes to be followed. Because she likes to run. She just doesn't like to be alone. But maybe that's what we both need. To be alone. To stop running. To stop chasing. To find a place and stay there, without looking back to see who's shadowing us.

She balls up a sweater and throws it into the suitcase. “Well, there's always room for you in New York.”

I snort. “You rented a studio apartment the size of this bed. If anything, there's not even room for you.”

She laughs, glancing out the window at her view of Winlock Harbor. Or at least this small section of it. “That's okay. I'm used to feeling cooped up. At least there I can walk ten steps and be in the middle of something amazing.”

I nod. “Do you have a job lined up?”

She opens a drawer, scoops the entire contents of socks and underwear into her arms, and dumps it into the suitcase. “Yup. You're looking at the newest waitress at the Starstruck Bar and Grill!” Her excitement is paper thin.

“That cheesy place where the servers sing the menu to you?”

She lets out a sad chuckle. “Yeah. A Broadway hopeful waiting tables. I'm a real freaking novelty.”

She turns back to her dresser. I stand up and wrap my arms around her waist. She freezes, then spins around and kisses me hard. I kiss her back, just as hard. When the kiss is over, we simply stand there, holding each other. It's nice. The way she feels. The way she smells. It reminds me of the beginning. When I tripped over her on the sand and we sat close enough to touch while she cried.

She's crying again now.

Then she pushes me away, giving both of my arms a squeeze. I wince in pain at the pressure.

“Promise me you'll see a doctor when you get back to Connecticut,” she says, turning to empty another drawer.

I sit back down on her bed, cradling my right arm. “My mom already booked me an appointment. She's going to come with me.”

“Will it heal?”

I sigh. “Eventually. But it'll never be the same.”

She turns and gives me a weak smile. “What fun is the same?”

I smile back. Because it's right then I realize that my broken arm is what brought me to her. Our paths collided because we were both running from futures we knew deep down weren't meant for us. Those futures had been carved out so long ago, by such different versions of ourselves, we barely recognized them anymore.

Harper and I have fought and made up and kissed and sworn to never do it again and stayed up all night talking about how much sense we make, even when saying it aloud didn't make sense.

And now here we both are, on the verge of new horizons, with blank canvases in front of us, and we don't know what to do. We don't know who we are.

And maybe we don't have to know just yet. Maybe that's the whole point.

When she has managed to miraculously fit the contents of her entire dresser and closet into the suitcase, she comes over to the bed and we lie back on the pillows. I scoot my good arm under her neck, and she rests her head on my chest. We melt into each other, like we always do.

We save each other one last time.

Like we always have.

A week later I'm in my room, packing my own suitcase, trying to decide whether or not to go to the final farewell bonfire of the summer. Harper is gone, living it up in the Big Apple. She video chatted with me a few times, showing me around her tiny apartment, gushing about how much she already loves it. The island feels somehow emptier without her.

I spent the past few days packing up the house in silence with my father, in preparation for our big return to Connecticut. The guys came over every night, and we watched the entire new season of
Crusade of Kings.
Ian was the only one of us who had seen it, and he was practically bursting at the seams trying not to give away any spoilers.

We mourned when the characters we loved were offed.

We oohed and aahed like ten-year-old boys every time dragons entered the plot.

We drank when girls showed their boobs.

And then we cried out in agony when the producers left us with yet another heart-wrenching cliff-hanger.

It was just like the old days. Except it wasn't. Because it was better.

Around nine o'clock I'm just zipping up the last of my bags when I get a text from Mike.

Where are you? Bonfire is rocking the house!

I know he's being facetious. The Winlock Harbor bonfires never “rock the house.” They're always epically lame. The only reason we go is to make fun of the tourists. And it's this very thought—a last chance to relive a sliver of the past—that eventually convinces me it's exactly where I need to be tonight.

I tap out a quick response.

On my way. Don't let them start the YMCA dance without me! I'll die of disappointment!

Mike sends me back a cringing emoji, and I slide my flip-flops on and start walking down the beach. I can hear the music and smell the smoke in no time. I breathe it in, wondering if it'll be the last time I ever smell it. Who knows what next year will bring. Who knows if my father will even let me come back. I'm surprised he hasn't kicked me out already. He's probably been too busy rewriting his will.

If tonight really is the last night, then I vow to make the most of it.

I find Mike and Ian standing off to the side, watching the spectacle with great amusement. I grab a beer from the bartender and join them.

“Hey, you made it,” Mike says. “You're just in time. I sense a conga line forming.”

My excitement level skyrockets. “You're kidding.”

Mike shoots me a mock glare. “When have I
ever
kidded about a conga line?”

“Well, we need to usher this thing along. Someone has to request ‘Celebration' by Kool and the Gang.”

“Already done it,” Ian says, sipping his beer. “Don't worry. This is happening.”

The song comes on a few minutes later, and we watch in delight as the tourists predictably arrange themselves in a long chain of awkward hands-on-hips and start snaking around the bonfire.

“This is amazing,” Ian says approvingly.

“This is epic,” I agree.

“This is the Locks,” Mike says with a sad shake of his head. And all three of us laugh.

I pat him on the back. “Are you sure you want to stay here, buddy?”

He chuckles. “I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.”

We laugh again, but I know he's telling the truth. Mike and Winlock Harbor simply go together. Cheesy tourist dances and all.

“Besides, Ian will help me keep the tourists in check,” Mike adds.

I raise an eyebrow at Ian. “You sticking around?”

He shrugs. “I think so. My mom really likes it here, and, I don't know, this was my dad's favorite place in the world. He looked forward to coming here all year.” Ian's voice breaks slightly. Mike pats him on the back.

“I think he'd like that you were staying,” I offer.

Ian nods. “I think he would too.”

“What about you?” Mike asks after a moment. “How long are you going to hang out?”

I shrug. “A few more days, I guess. I think I'm going to check out a few community colleges. Maybe try my hand at the whole getting-smart thing.”

Mike laughs. “And what about the old Harpoon? How is she doing?”

I laugh at his use of
my
former nickname for Harper.

“She's having a blast in New York City. Taking the world by storm, like we always knew she would.”

I watch Mike's reaction carefully. He gets quiet for a second, staring off into the ocean in front of us.

“Good for her,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. And I realize it wasn't meant for us. It was meant for her.

Mike blinks, like he's coming out of a short trance, and takes a sip of his beer. “So, these community colleges you're looking into,” he begins, nudging me with his shoulder. “None of them would happen to be in New York City, would they?”

I smile into my cup.

“Hey,” Ian says, elbowing Mike. “Isn't that Julie?”

Mike looks up and then awkwardly stares at the ground. “Yeah.”

I follow Ian's gaze to see Julie standing on the other side of the bonfire with a man and a woman, presumably her parents. She glances over here for a second before looking away.

My forehead furrows. “What happened? I thought things were going well with her.”

He sighs. “They were. But I pretty much screwed it up.”

“Oh, I
guarantee
you screwed it up,” I affirm. “That's the unfortunate consequence of only dating one girl your entire life. You never learned ‘the game.' ”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Oh, please teach me, wise master,” he intones, and Ian and I both share a laugh.

It feels good. Drinking on the beach, ribbing with the guys again.

I slap Mike on the back. “C'mon. How bad could it possibly be? I'm sure you can fix it.”