Second Chance Summer (24 page)

As I shoved the bike off me and pushed myself to my feet, I was especially grateful that it was very late—or early—and there had been nobody around to see me wipe out like that. I was more humiliated than hurt, but the palms of my hands and both of my knees
had gotten scraped. I brushed off the dirt and gravel and pulled the bike up. I walked it the rest of the way down the Dip, then back up the other side. I was embarrassed, but mostly I was mad at myself, that I had chickened out on doing something that I’d conquered when I was still in elementary school. When I made it up to the other side, I got back on the bike, looking forward at the road, riding extra quickly toward the beach, as though this would make up for bailing out on the Dip. It wasn’t until I was nearly at the beach that I realized that I could have given it a second try, rather than walking my bike. I could have picked myself up and tried again. But I hadn’t. I had just left. I tried to push this thought away as I steered my bike toward the beach. But unlike so many other times, it didn’t go easily.

Since Lucy had just told me to come to “the beach,” I had no idea what to expect, or if I’d have trouble finding her. But this didn’t turn out to be a problem, because when I got close to the beach, I saw her standing on the side of the road yelling into a cell phone.

“It is so over,” she said. “And you should know, Stephen, that you just lost the best thing you’re ever going to—” She stopped, and her expression changed from fury to disbelief as she listened. “Oh? Is that so? Then why don’t you have the guts to come out here and explain yourself?”

I slowed the bike, feeling very much like I was intruding, even though this confrontation was going down in the middle of the
street. I noticed that the driveway of a nearby house was filled with cars, and I could hear, faintly, the thumping bass of music playing and random party sounds—yells and laughter.

“And I will have you know—” Lucy finally saw me, and she frowned as she lowered her phone and stared at the bike. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” I asked.

“Where’s your car?” she asked. She looked around, swaying slightly, as though it might be hiding behind me.

“I didn’t bring it,” I said.

Lucy stared at me. “Then how are you going to drive me?” Stephen must have weighed in then—I could hear his voice, loud and a little whiny, through her phone. “I’m done here, you asshole,” Lucy snapped, though I noticed she didn’t hang up, but appeared to be listening.

I felt incredibly stupid as I stood in the middle of the road, with my bike, at two thirty in the morning. And I could feel myself getting mad at Lucy for the first time in a long time. Ever since we’d met again, I’d been constantly aware of what I’d done, and why she was mad at me. But she had dragged me out of bed to give her a ride home when she would barely talk to me at work? And hadn’t even been able to specify that I should bring a car?

Even though Lucy was still on the phone, I felt the need to defend myself. “For the record,” I said, raising my voice to be heard
over Lucy’s phone call, “you didn’t tell me you needed a ride—or ask me to give you one, by the way,” I said. “All you said was ‘come to the beach.’ So I biked here.”

“Well, I would have been more specific,” Lucy said, “but I’m in the middle of breaking up with this
complete moron
—” She yelled these last two words into the phone, and Stephen might have finally had enough, because a moment later, she lowered the phone. “He hung up on me,” she said, incredulous. “Can you believe it?”

Actually, I could, but thought this might not be the moment to tell her this. “Was he in there?” I asked, pointing at the party house.

“Yes,” Lucy said, huffy, as she picked up her purse from the ground, dropped her phone into it, and rummaged through it. She came up with a bag of Skittles, and ripped open the top, tossing a handful back like they were pills and not candy. She kept the bag in her hand as she closed her purse and slung it a little too vigorously over her shoulder. “I storm out of the house and he doesn’t even have the decency to follow me. Just stays where he is and
calls
. What a loser.” But as she said this last word, her bravado seemed to crumble a little, and she glanced down the driveway, biting her lip. “God,” she muttered, her voice shaky. “And I really liked him too. I thought we’d at least be together through June.” She looked at me, and my bike, and sighed. “I guess I’m walking. Thanks for coming, though, Taylor.” She gave me what I’m pretty sure was supposed to be a smile, then turned and headed up the road, weaving slightly.

I wheeled the bike around and caught up with her. As safe as Lake Phoenix was, I wasn’t about to let a tipsy Lucy wander home on her own. Not to mention the fact that she looked about ready to give up halfway there and take a nap next to a tree. “I’ll walk you home,” I said, as I got off the bike and walked alongside it.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, just as she stumbled over a rock on the side of the road, which sent her veering into my bike. She didn’t protest after that, and we fell into a rhythm, walking next to each other, the bike in between us. We continued on in silence, the only sounds coming from the cicadas around us and the gravel crunching under my tires.

“So,” I said after a second, glancing over at her, “do you want to talk about it?”

Lucy stopped at that and turned to me, and I stopped as well. “Talk,” she repeated. “To you.”

I could feel my face heating up, and shook my head and started wheeling my bike again to cover it. “Never mind,” I said. “Forget it.”

Lucy fell back into step with me, and as we walked on and the silence grew more uncomfortable. I found myself wishing that I had, in fact, brought my car. There were so many more things to distract you in cars. I wouldn’t have been feeling this awkward if I could have turned up the volume on the radio and pretended it wasn’t happening.

“Thanks for offering,” Lucy said finally, sounding half-genuine
and half-sarcastic. “But it’s not like we’re friends anymore, Taylor.”

“I know,” I said. I looked down at the bike, concentrating on wheeling it in a perfectly straight line, trying to ignore the lump that was threatening to rise in my throat.

“And whose fault is that?” Lucy asked. Since I knew the answer to this, and suspected she did too, I didn’t say anything, just tightened my grip on the handlebars for a second before letting them go again. “You shouldn’t have just left like you did,” Lucy continued. “Without any explanations or anything. It was a really shitty thing to do.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” I asked a little sharply, surprising myself. I glanced over at her and saw that she looked taken aback by this as well. “Do you think I don’t feel bad about it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Lucy said, sounding annoyed. “It’s not like you’ve, you know,
apologized
or anything.”

She was right. I had tried, but halfheartedly. Just like I’d done with Henry, and then blamed my lack of courage on circumstances that had swept those potential moments away. I took a breath and stopped walking my bike. I’d been given, and ignored, too many opportunities to change. So I decided to take one, there in the middle of the road, with the moonlight streaming down over us and casting our shadows on the ground. “Lucy,” I said, looking her right in the eye, “I’m really, really sorry.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she
said, starting to walk again, weaving a little in the road as she concentrated on shaking another handful of Skittles into her palm.

“Okay?” I asked, half-running alongside the bike to catch up with her. “That’s it?”

“What did you want me to say?” she asked, yawning and covering her mouth with her hand. “I accept your apology.”

“Thank you,” I said, a little stunned it had been that easy. But I realized, as we walked on, that we weren’t going to revert to being friends again. She may have accepted my much-too-late apology, but it wasn’t like she’d forgiven me.

“I’m sorry too,” she added after a moment. I turned to her, confused, and she shrugged. “I’ve been a total bitch to you at work.”

“Not totally,” I said, but I could hear that I didn’t exactly sound convincing. Lucy looked over at me, we both burst out laughing, and for just a moment, it was like we were twelve again. I nodded at the bag of Skittles. “You don’t eat them by color anymore?”

She blinked at me, then, remembering, smiled. “Nope,” she said. “Not for years now.” She peered at me in the darkness. “Why, do you?”

“No,” I lied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was just… asking.” Lucy arched an eyebrow at me but didn’t say anything. I looked away, as though concentrating on the road, and realized we’d reached the top of the Dip. You either lived on one side of the lake or the other, and the Dip was pretty much the dividing line. This
had been the spot we’d always parted ways when we had ridden somewhere together, usually with our extra-long, very complicated hand-claps. But Lucy continued on, heading down the hill, away from her house. “Where are you going?” I called.

Lucy stopped and looked up at me. “Your house,” she said, as though we’d decided this in advance. “I can’t go home like this. My mother would kill me.”

I wasn’t sure my mother’s reaction would be any less extreme if she discovered me sneaking in at three a.m. with an intoxicated Lucy, but at least I would be clearly sober. I began to walk my bike down the hill after her, then stopped, feeling my heart start to beat a little bit faster, my adrenaline pumping in anticipation of what I was about to do. “Meet you on the other side,” I called down to her as I slung one leg over the crossbar.

“What?” Lucy asked, turning to look at me. I pushed off, pedaling full-speed down the hill. I passed her quickly, and made myself pedal even as I could feel gravity pulling me down faster and faster, forcing myself ignore the instincts that told me this was dangerous, that I was going too fast, that I was going to get hurt. I just kept pedaling, and before I knew it, I had reached the bottom of the hill, and my momentum was beginning to carry me up the other side. But I knew it wouldn’t last, and I started pumping my legs harder than ever. Sure enough, the climb began to get very hard very quickly, and I could feel my calves burning with the effort to bring
me—and my mother’s ridiculously heavy bike—up the hill. But I didn’t think about giving up this time. Not only did I have Lucy watching me, but I’d already given up on myself once tonight. I could feel my breath coming shallowly, but I forced myself, gasping, to the top of the other side. Once I’d made it, I stepped down off the pedals and let myself collapse over the handlebars, breathing hard.

I looked down and saw Lucy making her way up the hill. But even from far above her, I could see that she was clapping.

“Shh,” I reminded Lucy as I kicked off my flip-flops on the porch and crossed to the door, taking my key out of my pocket.

“I know,” she said, stifling another yawn. “Don’t worry.”

I turned the knob slowly, and pushed open the door an inch at a time, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. I glanced at the clock on the microwave as we stepped inside and saw that it was 3:05 a.m.—not a time I wanted to be waking up either of my parents.

“Wow,” Lucy said, not as quietly as I would have liked, looking around, “it looks just the same.”

I eased the door shut behind us. “I know,” I whispered as I crept past her, motioning her down the hall to my room. “Come on.”

“No, I mean it looks
exactly
the same,” she repeated, even a little louder. In his basket by the window, one of Murphy’s ears twitched, and I realized the last thing I needed was the dog waking up and starting to bark. “It’s weird.” Her eyes fell to the
ground, and the sleeping dog. “When did you guys get a dog?” she asked, now not even whispering at all, but just talking in a normal volume.

“Today,” I murmured. “It’s a long story.” I took another step toward my bedroom, hoping that she would follow me. But Lucy was still looking around, her mouth hanging slightly open. I realized as I watched her that she must have been feeling the same thing I had when I’d come back—like entering an odd sort of time machine, where nothing had changed in the last five years. If we’d been coming up here all this time, undoubtedly the house would have changed with us. But instead, it was perfectly preserved from the last time she’d been in it—when we’d been very young, and best friends. “Lucy,” I said again, a little louder, and this seemed to snap her out of whatever reverie she’d been in.

She nodded and followed me down the hall, but stopped short halfway to my room. “You’re kidding me,” she murmured. She pointed at one of the framed pictures hung along the hall, where Lucy and I, at ten, smiled out at the camera, our mouths stained red and purple, respectively, from the popsicles we’d no doubt just consumed.

“I know,” I said quietly, standing next to her. “It was a long time ago.”

“It was,” she replied. “God. Wow.”

I looked at the two of us in the picture, standing so close, our
arms so casually thrown over each other’s shoulders. And in the glass of the frame, I could see us reflected as we were now, seven years older, standing several feet apart. After looking at it for another minute, Lucy continued walking down the hall again. And not until she opened my door did I realize that of course she didn’t need me to show her the way—that at one point, she’d known my house as well as her own.

Lucy changed into the T-shirt and shorts I found for her, and I made the trundle bed with the extra sheets from our linen closet. When she came back from the bathroom, I had changed for bed as well and was experiencing a very strong sense of déjà vu. I had spent years in this same spot, with Lucy in the trundle bed looking up at me, as we talked for hours, long after we were supposed to have gone to sleep. And now here she was again, exactly the same, except for the fact that everything had changed. “This is weird,” I whispered as she climbed into the trundle bed, pulling the covers up around her.

She rolled on her side to face me, hugging her pillow the same way she’d done when she was twelve. “I know,” she said.

I stared up at the ceiling, feeling strangely uncomfortable in my own room, all too aware of every movement I made.