The Summer of Lost Wishes (15 page)

Oh, thank the ocean and the sands and
everything in this little beach town for the huge gust of relief
that just flooded over me. Then I crack up thinking about Rooks
overanalyzing every word I’ve said, every text I’ve sent, every
motion of body language. I’m not alone in my craziness after
all.

“You’re good,” I say. Our waiter arrives
with a giant plate of tortilla chips and salsa before I can say
anything else. I wait for him to leave before I speak again. Rooks
pops a chip into his mouth.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” I
assure him.

“That’s good news,” Rooks says. “I don’t
have anyone to have to live up to now. No matter how much I suck,
you’ll never know otherwise.”

The smirk on his face makes me want to melt
like the hot salsa on our table. I don’t think he has any clue how
cute he is. He’s probably known as a bad boy back home, a
reputation that doesn’t really fit him, in my opinion. The girls
most likely lust after him but don’t dare think of dating him
because he’s one of those dangerous heartbreaking types.

“But you’re leaving,” I remind him,
completely crushing the moment.

“Maybe not,” he says. “I’ll find a way not
to. If my dad talks to my mom and tells her how much ‘progress’
I’ve made, maybe she’ll let me stay with him.”

I reach for a chip and dunk it in the salsa.
“Don’t get my hopes up, Carter,” I say.

The last thing I need is lost wishes of my
own.

We stand next to the front counter, waiting
for the host to swipe Rooks’ debit card on the register. The guy
motions to us that it’ll be just a moment, and then he turns his
back to us to finish jotting down the order that’s being called in
over the phone.

“Mr. Carter?” a lady asks, walking around
the counter. “Hector didn’t even tell me you were back. Are you
here all summer?”

She hasn’t introduced herself, but she has
to be Hector’s grandmother. She wears a flowing skirt with a swirly
pattern and a black shirt that has the Casa Garcia logo in place of
a pocket. She takes our receipt and swipes Rooks’ card.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’m staying with my
dad. I’m sort of hoping I can make it a permanent arrangement.”

He glances at me and smiles. “This is Ms.
Rosa, Hector’s grandmother, or his Abuela as you’ll hear him
say.”

Then he turns back to the counter. “This is
Piper, by the way,” he says, introducing me. “She just moved in
next door to my dad.”

The lady nods in acknowledgment and says
it’s nice to meet me, but that daunting feeling that she’s judging
me for living in the Calloway Cottage sneaks up into my chest like
it does every other time I meet someone here.

“Do you have your rewards card?” Ms. Rosa
asks, eyeing Rooks.

He opens his wallet and glances through the
few things he has and then sheepishly shakes his head in response.
The lady tsks and shakes a finger at him before she laughs.

“Because it’s you, I’ll get you another,”
she says, reaching under the counter for what looks like a business
card. “You remember how this works. You get five stamps, you get
free salsa. And I know you want free salsa.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rooks says.

She grabs a pen from a cup, pops the lid
off, and dips it onto an inkpad. That’s when I realize it’s a stamp
and not a pen.

“One down, four to go,” she says, handing
the card to Rooks.

“Thank you,” he says, handing the card over
to me. “I’m going to let Piper keep up with it. She’s better with
these things than I am.”

I take it as she tells him to come back very
soon, but my heart drops again. This time, there’s no splatter
because it’s dead before it hits the tile flooring. I don’t move,
even after Ms. Rosa walks away and after Rooks asks if I’m okay. I
just hold up the card so he can see for himself.

The stamp is a symbol I’ve seen a few times
already. It’s the rose.

I would run away with you. I would go in a
heartbeat. The rest of it doesn’t matter. If I knew that you would
leave with me, I’d make the plans right now. I truly believe these
kinds of things don’t happen but once in your lifetime. I have
never felt as strongly as I do when I’m with you.

We could leave after graduation. We could
toss our caps and everything else into the air and let it fall
without any laid out structure. No plans. No carved out futures. No
one else making our decisions for us.

We could hop a train or drive until we found
a place to stay. Then we could leave again. We could travel until
we found the place where we truly belong, where we could be
together.

I’ll do it. I’ll end this relationship with
Hanna. I won’t marry her. I’m not worried about my family’s
reaction. It’s my future. It’s my life. I deserve to be happy, and
they should want that for me. I know doing this is what will make
my life worth living. I’ll face whatever lies ahead. It’s a risk
I’ll take to always feel the way you make me feel.

I hate the thought of doing that to my
family, to just leave them after all they’ve given up for me.
They’ve fought to get where they are. They’ve worked so hard to
give me a better life. Running away with nothing more than a
goodbye letter in my bedroom would be so hard on them.

But I know your repercussions are worse. You
will be walking away from a perfect life. I never thought I’d meet
anyone who would be willing to do this for me. It’s like the
falling stars are sparkling around me – finally – and all of those
lost wishes have been recovered from the well and given a second
breath of life.

Do you remember that night, sitting in the
parking lot at the beach? The night it was raining so we stayed in
your car? You were talking about our future, and you always said,
“When.” Never “if.” That’s when I was certain this was real. That’s
when it felt like it was more than a dream. I’ve always known this
would end after graduation, after you married Hanna. I know what
we’ve been doing is wrong, but when I’m with you, when we’re
talking and laughing, I know that everything is so right.

“I never thought we’d find her,” I say for
the five-hundredth time in the last two days. I hand the hammer to
Rooks, who doesn’t look down from the stepladder.

He beats another nail into the wall. Mom
wasn’t happy about the deer heads going up before her big open
house, but she was pleased that I compromised on letting her use
blues in the color scheme for my bedroom. I even let her paint the
accent wall with Iceberg Blue, and that was a huge compromise. The
deer heads stay.

“It makes sense, though,” Rooks says,
handing the hammer back to me. “She said they couldn’t be together
because the world wouldn’t let them. This was fifty years ago. It’s
not like modern times. No one says anything about Hector and
Natalie, but fifty years ago, there was no way the mayor’s child
would’ve been dating someone of another race. Rosa knew that.”

I lean back against the wall and watch as
Rooks positions Delilah in place, carefully posing her above where
my bed will be as of this afternoon. Mom is having the new kitchen
cabinets put in today, and our furniture is being delivered late
this afternoon. As of tomorrow, I won’t be sleeping on that air
mattress any longer.

“Alright,” Rooks says, looking down to me.
“Where’s Oliver?”

It makes me laugh. Weeks ago, when he first
saw Delilah and Oliver, he seemed appalled at their awkward country
weirdness, but Rooks is pretty good about embracing the awkward
country weirdness that accompanies me.

I retrieve Oliver from the box where I’ve
left him for safekeeping and hand him over to Rooks. He places the
flannel-covered deer head about seven or eight inches over from
Delilah. They look chic and majestic. I still don’t understand how
my mom can detest them so much.

“You know, I kind of like them,” Rooks says
after he steps back onto the floor and admires his handiwork. “I
mean, honestly, how many girls in Florida have fabric-covered deer
heads on their bedroom wall? It may have been trendy in Tennessee,
but this is totally unique here.”

“Maybe I should use that line on my mom,” I
tell him.

For the first time since we’ve moved into
the Calloway Cottage, it feels like it’s really ours. Having my
closet fully finished doesn’t hurt, either, though. I don’t want
renovations to end because that means summer is nearing its end,
but I am also more than ready to just have a normal house with
finished rooms and furniture.

“Speaking of your mom,” Rooks says, turning
away from the deer and toward me. “What does she have on the agenda
for you today? Wait – let me guess. Analyzing which plates look
best with her placemats?”

I shoot him an evil eye because he knows I’m
beyond over Mom’s design insanity. She received a phone call last
night from the mayor of Chesterfield, and they accepted her bid.
She dashed out the door early this morning to raid Hobby Lobby’s
beach crafts. I’m not sure if this job is technically an interior
design job, since it’s more party décor, but it’ll give her photos
for her portfolio.

“Actually, I need to go downtown today, and
I’m sort of hoping you’ll give me a ride,” I tell him.

Before Mom’s divorce, I was driving my
then-stepdad’s extra car. It was older and he kept it for insurance
purposes and as a backup vehicle, but when they split, the car
stayed with him. I don’t know if Mom will even debate buying a
second car once she’s done paying for renovations. Every bit of her
inheritance from Grandma has gone into this house.

“And what exactly are we going downtown
for?” he asks.

“A costume,” I tell him. “You’ve seen the
flyers plastered everywhere, right?”

He nods. “You can’t miss them,” he says.
“Coral Sands is all about their memorial celebration.”

The memorial celebration, hosted at Town
Hall by the mayor, reminds me of a town prom. We received an invite
in the mail, but it was simply addressed to “Current Resident.”
Still, I wonder how it felt to address an envelope to our address
when an invite hasn’t arrived at our house in the history of its
existence.

This year’s theme is a masquerade party.
Guests are encouraged to dress up and wear masks. The invite
specified that this is not an event of mourning but an annual
gathering of this town as a reminder of ‘the young lives lost that
night’ and is intended to celebrate them and honor their memories.
I’m not sure if Seth would approve of everyone laughing and
drinking champagne while wearing masquerade masks in his honor. In
fact, I feel like he’d be disgusted.

But Seth McIntosh isn’t here to gawk at us
and all our inappropriateness. So I’m going.

“There’s a costume shop near the hardware
store,” Rooks informs me once we’re driving through downtown. “We
can start there if you want. I think they actually have a contract
with Town Hall to order costumes each year that fit the theme.”

“Sounds good to me,” I tell him.

Town is busy today. The restaurants are
crowded, with cars parallel parked on the streets because the
parking lots are full. A group of people hurry across the street at
the crosswalk, holding beach towels, coolers, and boogie boards. I
wonder if people actually come here just for the memorial
celebrations.

Rooks taps on his steering wheel as we wait.
“Any idea of what you’re looking for?” he asks, even though he
probably knows nothing about costumes or dresses.

“Not gray or silver,” I say. I already know
all eyes will be on the new girl who moved into the beloved
couple’s home. I’m not making it worse on myself. “I figure it’s
too shark-like. I’m not even taking that risk.”

“Smart move,” he says as we get a green
light. “I’ll wait and see what you pick out before I get
anything.”

“You’re dressing up?” I ask, a bit
surprised. “You do this often?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, but I’ve
always wanted a jacket with coattails, sort of Phantom of the
Opera-ish, but not…because it’s cliché and all guys take that
route,” he says. “I’m hoping you’ll be creative and it’ll open up
my imagination.”

He pulls into the parking lot of Cornelia’s
Costume Shop. Purple sparkling fabrics hang in the window like a
bohemian wardrobe. A pink and orange scarf is intertwined with the
purple cloths. This place looks like a gypsy tavern, and I kind of
like it.

“Looks like a crowd,” Rooks says, glancing
at the other cars in the parking lot.

They’re probably last-minute shoppers like
me. If Mom had actually told me about the invitation and the theme
earlier, I might have started Googling ideas or window-shopping
sooner. Her excuse was that the Town Hall party is the same night
as her Chesterfield decorating, so she didn’t give it a second
thought – and she didn’t think I’d care to go. Maybe if Mom had
spent more time observing me than analyzing Rooks, she’d have
caught on. But she gave me her other credit card this morning and
didn’t set a budget, so she’s completely forgiven.

“It’s now or never,” I say, grabbing my
purse. “Let’s go.”

A windchime hangs near the entrance, slowly
swaying when we walk inside. I prefer it over the usual ‘ding!’
that most businesses use. The shoppers are mostly female, all
searching for the perfect mask to match their dresses or
costumes.

I decide to look at the masks first. I’d
rather grab one now before they’re picked over. If all else fails,
I can wear a shimmery black dress. It’ll match anything. Rooks
follows me over to the wall of masquerade masks. A girl and her
friend glance at us but return to their conversation about whether
the butterfly decoration on a mask will be annoying or not by the
end of the night.

Cornelia has every kind of mask I could
dream of – metal lace patterns, steampunk masks with clocks and
gears, fantasy masks with butterflies and sparkles, masks with lace
and pearls, others with peacock feathers, and any color you could
imagine seeing in a fish tank of the most tropical fish on the
planet.