Boys of Summer (5 page)

I know it's an illusion. I read about it once. The moon, in fact, never changes size, no matter where you are on the planet, no matter what is happening in your life. It's your perspective that changes.

And right now my perspective is completely warped.

I lie on my back and let the swells of the tide gently rock my board. Normally I love coming out here and just floating aimlessly in the ocean, letting the waves take me wherever they want. This is where I can be alone. Where I can be me. Harper never liked the water much. She says it makes her seasick. Ironic, given that she grew up on an island. Maybe that's why she always feels so trapped.

As I drift, the usual post-Harper-breakup feelings flood through me. Frustration, disbelief, anger, before finally settling where I always settle. Somewhere near acceptance. It's like a routine now. A sick ritual.

This is who Harper is. This is what Harper does.

I know this. I've always known this. She didn't mean
what she said. It's not the first time she's said it's over for good. I just really hope it'll be the last.

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

She called out my name as I stormed off from the Cove. At least there was that. But I didn't stop. I kept going until I was halfway around the island, until the moon looked different. That was when I could finally believe that I had gotten far enough away.

Although that's an illusion too.

I know it's the same damn moon.

It's the same damn island.

And until I get her off it, she's going to be reacting the same damn way. It's a vicious cycle. She feels stuck, and I'm the easiest thing to break free of.

But what if I don't want to be so disposable anymore? What if
this
time, after she realizes that freedom isn't what she wants after all, I refuse to take her back?

The thought makes me laugh aloud.

Who am I kidding? I've been in love with Harper Jennings since the second grade, when she asked if I would split my cupcake with her. I handed over the whole thing without even batting an eye. Because I can't say no to her. I've never been able to.

I think about just leaving now. Jumping off this board, swimming to shore, banging on her door, and convincing her to go with me right this second. Don't pack any bags, don't say good-bye to anyone, let's just catch the first morning ferry, hop on a train, and go to New York. Let's get as far away as we can from this place and this moon and these vicious cycles.

Of course I know I can't do that. I can't leave my family to fend for themselves. My dad's still too injured to work, and my mother can't handle that burden alone.

Three more months,
I tell myself. Work hard, save as
much money as you can, and then we can go. Assuming Harper has gotten over whatever fear is plaguing her this time. Maybe I should have stuck around longer. Asked her more questions, so I could figure out how to change her mind. How to fix it.

No. Let her fix it herself. I'll leave her to enjoy her precious
space,
and then I'll wait for the signs that she's ready to come back. There are always signs. Reminiscing about the past, gentle touches on my arm that are supposed to look accidental, laughing too hard at everything I say. No matter how many times she leaves or how many different excuses she gives me for going, the way she comes back never changes.

And when that moment comes, I'll be here ready and waiting to whisk her off to New York. Leaving the island—the only home I've ever known—may make my stomach twist, but the thought of living a life without Harper makes it downright rip in half.

I can feel the tide picking up, the swells getting bigger beneath my board. Maybe the moon really
is
shifting.

I flip onto my stomach and paddle along the coastline. I wait patiently, biding my time until the right wave comes along to bring me to shore. Surfing is all about patience. Clearly I have an abundance of that.

Just like in life, the longer you wait, the bigger your reward.

Finding the perfect wave isn't about logic or calculations or studying the patterns of the tides; it's just something you feel in your gut.

I can see my perfect wave a few feet away, gently rolling toward me. With the help of the moonlight, I track it, feeling the buildup, letting the fiery anticipation spread through my arms and legs, like I'm a jungle cat stalking its prey, waiting for the precise moment to charge.

The moment comes fast.

I paddle hard, my arms aching in protest. I align myself with the oncoming swell. When it's almost beneath me, I pop up, and land in a crouch. I lean left, angling my body into the wave, joining its energy, becoming a part of it.

The surf lifts my board up, and I start to fly.

It's the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

This is my payoff. This is the reward for all my patience and diligence and hard work.

The wave shifts, and I lean to the left to compensate. But I misread the swell. The tip of my board catches on the water, and the board shoots out from under me. I stumble and try to hold on, but it's a lost cause. I go tumbling into the water, my side hitting first. Pain explodes in my ribs as the colossal wave washes over my head.

I hold my breath and swim frantically away from the shore to escape the undertow. Water rushes into my ears as the current tugs at my feet.

I kick toward the surface. When my head breaks through, I glance around for my surfboard, but it's nowhere to be found. I don't panic, though. It's not the first time I've lost my board. It's hard to keep track of at night, with the limited light, and it always washes ashore eventually.

I tread water to keep myself afloat as I peer toward the coastline. I'm not too far out. I could easily swim back now, but I decide to search for my board first. It couldn't have gone far.

I paddle to my left, in the direction of the cluster of small rental cottages on the western tip of the island. Fortunately, I spot my board only a few yards away.
Unfortunately
, before I can reach it, I feel something in the water with me. My heart races as I try to kick away, but it moves fast. Too fast. And within seconds I feel myself being pulled under the surface.

IAN

I
stumble through the darkness, trying to find the light switch and stop the ringing in my ears.

Who is screaming?

The light comes on before I even find the wall, and I'm standing face-to-face with Whitney Cartwright as I've never seen her before. Tattered T-shirt, messy pulled-back hair, glasses, and no makeup. She's wielding a straightening iron like it's a butcher knife.

Since she turned thirteen, I've never seen Grayson's sister in anything but short shorts, miniskirts, or tight-fitting dresses. And I've
never
seen her in glasses. Did she always wear those?

“Ian!” she says breathlessly, wilting in relief. Then she starts smacking me with the straightening iron. Thankfully, it's not on. “What the hell?”

“I'm sorry!” I say, cowering and protecting my face with my hands. The girl is stronger than she looks. “I didn't know anyone was in here!”

“And you forgot what a front door was?”

“I didn't want to wake anyone up.”

She guffaws and mercifully sets the flat iron on the dresser. “How'd that work out for you?”

Just then the door flies open and Mr. Cartwright comes in with a much scarier baseball bat. I instinctively duck and cover again. He looks from his daughter to me and then lowers the weapon. “What is going on in here?”

Whitney groans. “Relax, Daddy. Go back to bed. It's just Ian. He climbed through the window.”

Mr. Cartwright casts another curious look between the two of us. I can tell he's trying to figure out what he missed. “Are you two . . .” His voice trails off.

“NO!” We both respond at once. I instinctively back away from her until I'm practically shoved against the wall. I brave a glance at Whitney, who happens to look my way at the exact same moment. Our eyes meet for a second, and we both shudder in revulsion and repeat the word. “
No
.”

“Then why the hell are you climbing through my daughter's window in the middle of the night?” Mr. Cartwright asks.

“It's Ian,” Whitney answers for me with a hint of disdain. “Why the hell does Ian do anything?”

I sneer back at her. “Shut up.”

Mr. Cartwright sighs, clearly not wanting to get in the middle. “I'm going back to sleep . . . if that's even possible at this point. Ian, use the front door next time. That's what it's for.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry. Won't happen again, sir.”

He shakes his head and leaves.

“Yes, sir,” Whitney mocks in an obnoxious voice as soon as her father's out of earshot. “What, are you in the army now too?”

It suddenly feels like the floor has been knocked out from under me. Or that someone took Mr. Cartwright's bat right to my knees. Whitney's hand flies to her mouth as soon as she realizes what she's said.

“I—I,” she stammers.

“It's fine,” I say immediately, not wanting to get into this with her. Or anyone. But least of all her. How could rich, spoiled, has-everything-she's-ever-wanted Whitney Cartwright possibly understand what it's like to lose something you love? “I'll go find another room to crash in.”

I head down the hallway, into the kitchen, praying that Whitney doesn't follow after me.

She does.

“Ian, I'm so sorry. I forgot. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“I said it's fine,” I snap.

This shuts her up. At least for a minute. She
is
Whitney Cartwright, after all. The longest I've ever seen her keep her mouth shut was five summers ago when Grayson, Mike, and I dared her to hold her breath for a minute. It was the most blissful sixty seconds I can remember.

“Do you want some tea?” she asks, holding up a stainless steel kettle. “I could boil some water.”

It certainly wasn't what I was expecting her to say, but the softness of her voice is right on par. It's the same tone everyone uses around me. Like they're tiptoeing with their words. Let's all be nice to the guy with the dead dad. It makes me want to scream.

I never thought I'd prefer Whitney's annoying holier-than-thou demeanor, but right now, looking at that disgusting pity in her eyes, I'd do anything to get it back.

“Yeah, like you drink tea,” I say snarkily, hoping to trigger her.

It works. She sets the kettle back down with a
clank.
“How do you know what I drink? You don't know me.”

I snort in response.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she barks.

I raise my hands. “I didn't say anything.”

“You snorted. It's worse. It
implies
something.”

“I wouldn't dare imply anything.”

“No, you just call me a slut to my face.”

Suddenly, in one fell swoop, the tables have turned and
I'm
the one feeling guilty. I know exactly what she's talking about. It was three summers ago, the last time I saw her, before she stopped coming to Winlock Harbor. I was fifteen and she was fourteen and I . . . Well, let's just say I wasn't very nice to her. Grayson, Mike, and I were hanging out in the living room, watching the first season of
Crusade of Kings
with a naïve optimism (before we realized that the writers would eventually kill off every character we ever loved), and she came out of her room dressed like a medium-class hooker. She said she was going out with friends. Grayson barely noticed how incredibly inappropriate her clothes were. He was far too invested in the episode. It was the one where the heir to the House of Develin started plotting with his sister/lover to murder their father at the subtle behest of their manipulative mother. But
I
noticed. She looked ridiculous. I might have made some snide, sarcastic remark about her outfit, but it was just a joke. And she didn't seem to care. She just rolled her eyes like she does at all my sarcastic remarks. Then she lobbed some snippy retort back at me and left.

I didn't think she actually remembered that.

“I didn't call you a slut. I never used that word.”

“That's right,” she says, crossing her arms and looking smug. “You
implied
it.”

I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “Why are you even back here? Did Dolce and Cabana close or something?”

“It's Dolce and
Gabbana
, you moron. And it's none of
your business why I'm here. This is my house. I can come whenever I want. Why are
you
here, is the better question. Don't you have a house on the other side of the island?”

I lower my gaze to the floor and fight back the rolling tidal wave of emotion that threatens to suck me under. “I like it better here.” I glance at her. “Or at least I
did
until five minutes ago.”