A Summer Remade (12 page)

Dad looks at mom, a secret language passes between them. They may have a divorce decree with freshly-inked signatures, but there are some things time can’t erase. “Monday night. The inspection is Tuesday morning. We’re set to close Thursday if everything goes smoothly.”

I do a quick calculation, my foggy brain desperate to catch up to speed. My heart plummets. I have twenty-four hours left on the island.

Drew.

I step back and pull out my phone, turn it on. Sure enough, Drew had texted me goodnight. My fingers itch with the need to text him all that’s transpired since our parade driving and rainy kisses, but instead I text a single word:
Night
.

Morning is so far away, yet much too close. I’m not ready to say goodbye to him.

“I think we should all try and get some rest. We have a long drive back tomorrow, and the ferry leaves in just a few hours. I’ll sleep with you in the master. Dad can take the spare room.”

My dad nods his approval, but my heart is an erratic mess of emotions I can’t decipher. With one last round of hugs and promises to stay in better communication, even once I’m back at the dorms, I shuffle into the bedroom with my mom.

Only twenty-four hours left with Drew, and I have to waste the next precious few on sleep.

‡

M
y parents leave
the cabin before the sun has a chance to greet the island with a proper hello. The wooden chest full of pictures and keepsakes is on the way back to the mainland too, along with several other sentimental items I begged my dad to take. He did, without so much as a sigh.

The instant his taillights are out of sight, I bolt from the cabin’s front porch steps and run down the trail to the Culver’s house. I can’t wait another minute to talk to Drew.

The back door’s unlocked. The kitchen lights are on, a banana peel and empty energy drink are on the countertop.

“Dang it,” I say to the empty room.

He’s out for his morning run. His phone sits next to his car keys on the small dinette table, the same table we shared our first ever Pop Tart dinner on my first night on the island. I run my finger across the dark screen, touching it because I can’t touch him. I asked him once why he doesn’t run with his phone, why he doesn’t drown the miles in beats and music. His response was typical Drew: “Because I like the sound of nature.”

I trace the outside edge of his purple and gold University of Washington phone case. And as I make my second pass, the phone buzzes. I jump back, my chair nearly toppling over.

Coach:
Saw your latest scans. Sorry, son. I don’t want to push you, but I need an answer on the Asst. position. The school needs to post an ad if you decline.

The words float on Drew’s screen for several seconds before they disappear. I curl my fingers into my palms, refusing the urge to pick up his phone and reread the text. And even though I know it wasn’t meant for my eyes, my mind has already gone to work, piecing together facts of a complicated puzzle. A few words here and there. A few snapshots of time. A few strung fragments of a text message.

The back door swings wide and a sweaty, shirtless Drew barrels inside, jolting to a stop when he sees me sitting at the table. His surprise morphs quickly into an open mouth grin. But I can’t bring myself to share a joy that’s only surface deep.

“Morning. You’re up early, want to go grab some breakfast? Just give me a minute to—”

“Drew.” The conviction in my tone sounds more like an over-protective parent than a doting girlfriend.

The light in his eyes dims along with his smile.

“Your coach just texted you.” I point to his phone on the table, and as if on cue, the text flashes again on the bright, tiny screen, reminding him to check his missed calls and messages.

He reads the text without moving a single inch closer.

“Your shoulder. It’s why you’re not rowing this summer, isn’t it? Why you can’t row. You’re hurt.” And so am I, that he didn’t tell me. That he led me to believe his injury was old and insignificant.

Drew’s double blink is the only indication he’s heard me.

“All this time, all your mini sermons of not allowing my feelings to get the best of me, of accepting the hand I’ve been dealt, of focusing on what I can control, and yet you’ve been hiding from the truth, too.”

He turns, faces me dead-on. “It’s not permanent. I just need a little more time to heal.”

But the way his voice quivers, the way his gaze darts to the table again, tells my heart otherwise. And I wish so badly I could go back to living in the same world Drew lives in. A world of ideals.

But I can’t. Because he’s the one who taught me to face reality.

I reach for him, but he steps out of my grasp. “He offered you an assistant position—like an assistant
coaching
position?”

“It’s not for me,” he says gruffly, looking everywhere but my eyes. “I’m one of the crew. I’m a rower, not a coach.”

“But if you can’t row, isn’t the next best option to—”

“I’m not quitting, Joslyn. That team is my life.”

The pain in his voice presses hard against my chest. I don’t want Drew to hurt. I don’t want him to be anything other than the positive ray of light I’ve known him to be for weeks, but I can’t encourage his denial. The same way he’s never encouraged mine. A true friend doesn’t allow you to live a lie. I soften my voice to just-above-a-whisper, try to give him another chance to explain. “What do the scans of your shoulder show?”

For a moment I think he’ll answer me, maybe even pull out a chair and sit down at the table to explain it to me in terms I might understand. But a shadow dulls his eyes, his jaw clenching.

He won’t speak it out loud. Because then he’d have to believe it. He shakes his head. “You’re not my doctor, and I’m not your patient.”

The muscular ridge of his back strains as he takes a step toward the hallway, away from me.

“So, who am I to you, then?” I pause long enough to realize he’s not going to answer. “A summer project? A distraction that kept you from facing the truth?”

He stops walking but doesn’t turn around.

“Rowing isn’t your identity, Drew. Yes, it’s a huge part of who you are. But it’s not all you are.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrow. “I’m done talking about this with you.”

I think back to last week, to the words he spoke to me before our redo kiss. “‘Maybe it’s time to stop holding on so tightly to everything that was and try to accept what is.’” I point at him. “Those were your words. Do you really think I can’t relate to what you’re going through? Do you really think I don’t know what it’s like to have my entire life shaken and turned upside down?” I purse my lips, gentle my voice. “Please, let me help you the way you’ve helped me.”

His shoulders slump forward in a way that makes me think he’s about to accept my offer, come clean and tell me the whole truth without patches or holes. But pride is the killer of all reason.

“I don’t need help. Not from coach and not from you. I can do this on my own.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Ya know, I should probably stick around here today, get some chores done.”

I don’t miss the lack of invitation to join him. Of all the goodbyes I imagined, this scenario with Drew never crossed my mind. Not even once. My vision blurs as he waits for me to respond.

“Fine,” I say, because like Drew, pride keeps me from saying more, from telling him that goodbye today is likely goodbye forever.

“See ya around, Joss.” Drew walks around the corner, disappears.

And then I’m left alone. “No…you won’t.”

‡

I
came to
Lopez Island three weeks ago with nothing more than a suitcase. Yet when I secure the bulging black bag into the trunk of my car, I can’t help but feel I’ve forgotten something. And not the small kind of something that’s easily replaced, like a lost article of clothing or a half-empty bottle of shampoo. The kind of something that completes. The kind of something that brightens. The kind of something that fills a lonely heart with anticipation, suspense, and desire.

The kind of something that’s actually a someone. Drew Culver.

Pivoting slowly, I face my family’s picturesque cabin and take one last mental snapshot. If this summer’s taught me anything, it’s to appreciate every moment. The small, the big, and the life-altering. I tuck each memory into a cherished pocket of my heart, pull down my sunglasses and slip into my car.

I don’t look back.

Five, four, three, two, one.
The tires round the corner onto the main drag, and I exhale. Yet the ache that churns in the hollow of my belly doesn’t dissipate. Neither does the regret that fills my oxygen-starved lungs.

I haven’t memorized the ferry schedule, but I’m willing to risk a wait. Because I tell myself the hard part will be over once I get on board. Once I look over the railing. Once I put the island behind me.

Six over-sized orange barricades block my entrance to the ferry.

The white cardboard clock that hangs from the middle blockade states I just missed the 3:20pm departure. The next one won’t be here until 5:00. Exactly one hour and thirty-three minutes from now.

I park under a large oak tree in the deserted lot and decide to stretch my legs by the shoreline. Maybe there’ll be a nice distraction out on the water I can watch for two hours or maybe I can recite the alphabet a few hundred times, or maybe—

A crusty-sounding bark echoes in the not-so-far-away distance. I whip around. Pete, the infamous guard dog, hobbles alongside his coverall-wearing owner. The pair stops to rest on a weathered park bench a few yards away, and I wonder if Harve’s seen me. If it’s too late to duck-crawl back to my car and feign sleep.

“Joss? That you, kiddo?”

Yep. It’s definitely too late. I shift my weight from foot to foot and wave.

He holds a brown paper bag in the air, shakes it. Pete stretches tall, as tall as a three-legged dog can stretch, and whimpers.

“Come get yourself some donut holes while they’re still hot.”

Harve’s gruff suggestion sounds more like a demand than an invitation, but I move toward them anyway. Chatting it up with Harve wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my last few hours on the island, but then again, neither was leaving Drew without a goodbye.

Drew.

I erase his name the instant it appears in my mind.

“You leaving us?” Harve asks, opening the pastry sack and shoving it toward me.

I look from him to his dog. Pete glowers at me with the same wrinkly expression of distrust he’s worn since we met. And without looking away, I reach into the bag and grab three sticky-warm glazed donuts holes. Pete barks and I can’t help but savor my first bite.

The chipping paint on the tabletop scratches the underside of my thighs as I sit and plant my feet on the park bench. “Yep. It’s time to get back.” The words taste sour on my tongue.

Harve pulls out a donut hole from the bag and tosses it to Pete. Shockingly, Pete’s reflexes for donuts are faster than his well-practiced hobble. He catches it easily, the folds of his skin wagging for a full two seconds after his initial bite. It’s both disgusting and impressive.

“Hard to leave a place like this.” Harve doesn’t look at me, but each syllable he speaks carves a hole in the center of my chest.

“Yeah.”

“Especially during the summer months. This weather is a taste of heaven.”

“Yeah.” Because what else can I say?

“But goodbyes come, no matter if we’re ready for them or not.”

My eyes snap to his, but still, Harve looks beyond me, through me, to a place I can’t reach, to a peace I’ve never been able to locate.

“What do you mean?”

“Goodbyes are like the seasons. Inevitable.”

I scan the trees, searching for evidence of a prank or even an angelic figure with a halo. I see neither, but the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

“Thanks for the donut holes, but I should really get going.” Where? I have no idea. I scoot to the right and my cotton shorts snag against the tabletop.

He ignores me completely and continues on as if I haven’t said a word. “The timepiece float was the talk of the parade. You and Drew make a good team.”