A Summer Remade (5 page)

Sydney:
Did you make it to the island okay? I’m still waiting to hear about the “big talk” on the homestead. Oh, and if you want to see my bridesmaid’s dress, Google “Housewives of the Rich and Tacky.” Call me.

Darby:
You will never believe where I just got hired. Like never ever ever. Call me.

Avery:
I hate flying. I think I’d rather walk to Arkansas. Is that a possibility?

Mom:
Did you get my text? Call me.

Mom:
Just talked to your dad, he hasn’t heard from you either. Please call me.

Mom:
I’m officially worried. You don’t get to text me saying you’re headed to the cabin after everything we’ve talked about and then not answer my calls. NOT okay. Call me.

Dad:
Call your mom.

Head in hands, I groan. The walls of my pseudo-freedom are about to cave in. I pinch my eyes closed, beckoning a calm to cover my anxiety.

“Hey, you ready?”

I sit up, turn my head to face Drew—or rather, to face his abdomen.

“Oh, hi. Is…is everything okay?” I point to the phone in his hand. Why is it always easier to ask someone else what you should really be asking of yourself?

“Yeah, just checkin’ in.” Drew tosses a twenty on the table, then grabs my hand when I reach to throw it back at him.

“I’m paying. It’s done. Now, let’s go finish up what we can at the cabin before it gets dark.”

With Drew’s hand still latched to mine, he leads me through a maze of tables and chairs. Once in the parking lot, he opens the passenger door for me. “Sorry we had to cut the game short.”

The game, the game….oh! The Fry Game.

I buckle my seatbelt. “Maybe we can play it again sometime. With Pop Tarts.”

“Deal.”

*

The sun set
hours ago, and I was ready to give up the second the last sliver of light disappeared behind the horizon. But Drew Culver doesn’t give up—not for darkness or bad odors or even moldy refrigerator shelves. I’m starting to understand why he looks the way he does. He set the goal that we’d finish the cleaning tonight, and it’s been impossible to deter him.

Several times during tonight’s clean-fest, Drew’s stopped to stretch his back, roll his neck, and tug on his left shoulder. And several times, I’ve stopped whatever I was doing to watch.

Random groupings of tea lights and holiday candles line the countertops and tables, and it’s safe to say that every single surface of this one-story residence has been scrubbed and disinfected—except for the carpet in the master bedroom at the back of the house. That is the room that holds the worst of the cat smells.

I’d conquer it some other day. For now, that door can remain closed.

The good news: I can finally take a breath without the urge to rip one of my five senses from my face. I’d say that’s pretty impressive progress.

Walking onto the gleaming kitchen floor, I wince-cringe as I see Drew bent over the sink, scrapping away a science project’s worth of mold from a refrigerator shelf. A job I had planned to save for tomorrow. Because out of all the chores we’ve tackled thus far, this task is likely the most gag-worthy.

At least I caught him before he got too far into it.

I fake a loud yawn, stretch my arms above my head. “Wow. I think I could fall asleep standing up. You’ve got to be exhausted. You were up way before I was this morning. Let’s call it a night, head back to your place. I can tackle those shelves tomorrow.” In other words, please stop scrubbing. You’ve done more than enough for me for one day. Or a lifetime of days.

“Good thing we have a short commute, then. And even better that I drove.” He continues scrubbing, soaking his hands in grime and suds. “This is the last shelf. I’m almost done.”

Awesome
.
Just awesome.

Drew shuts off the water at the sink. But before he can search for a dry rag, I rush into action, two steps ahead of him.

I grab a yellow sunflower-printed hand towel from the drawer next to the stove and grip the end of the fridge shelf. He may have started this yucky project, but
I
should be the one to finish it. “Here, I’ve got this. Please go take a break.”

Drew doesn’t take a step to the side like I anticipate. Instead, he stays put, our hips a hairsbreadth apart.

There’ve been many words exchanged between us today, many joke-filled conversations, yet this moment between us feels oddly different, as if charged by our close proximity.

He lets me take the shelf, but still, he doesn’t move away.

“So your friends, they aren’t joining you here?” he asks.

In a wax-on, wax-off motion, I continue to dry the glass as if it were my only goal in life. To create a streak-free refrigerator shelf.

I feel his eyes search the side of my face with the kind of curious intensity a child has when he’s sent to hunt for hidden treasure. Only there’s no treasure to be found here. The only thing waiting at the X is a lonely girl pretending she can escape her future.

At twenty-one, I’ve become a sad sort of cliché.

“No. Not this summer.”

“What about your family, then? Are they coming up for the Fourth?”

The pulse beat in my throat constricts my voice box. “Nope.”

He lifts the shelf from my hands and sets it onto the counter. He faces me, his fingers curled around the counter edge. They’re my focus point—his hands, both strong and reliable.

“So you’re like what, a summer squatter?”

In typical Drew-style, his happy-go-lucky charm pulls me out of my introspection. I blurt out a laugh. “I guess that’s exactly what I am. A squatter.”

He angles his head, nods. “I thought so—you have the look.”

Based on first impressions alone,
squatter
is a compliment.

A lull spans between us, and I wonder what Drew sees when he looks at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Because it’s this look that makes me want to spill my sorrows, trust him in a way I’ve yet to trust myself.

I open my mouth—

“The island’s a great place to sort out whatever needs sorting,” Drew says.

Even in the dim lighting, the sincerity of his eyes matches the kindness in his tone.

And though I’m certain my parents felt the exact opposite was true, Drew’s words washed me in calm and filled me with courage. “I’m glad you think I can sort from here because you might be the only one.”

“What about you? What do you think?”

I have no idea what I should think. This particular topic of running off to the island to escape my family drama hasn’t exactly been opened up for discussion with my friends. Sure, I could say there wasn’t time to call them before I left, or that I didn’t want my problems to interfere with their busy schedules, but neither of those excuses is the truth. My friends would make time for me. I just simply hadn’t asked them to.

Drew’s thumb slides across the back of my hand and a shiver waltzes slowly down my spine.

“I think you’re brave—coming out here on your own.” He exhales and shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and then tucks his hands into his pockets.

The absence of his hand on mine feels like cold disappointment.

“I wish I
felt
brave.”

“Feelings rarely tell us the truth.”

The candle closest to the sink flickers. Then, in an instant, we’re standing almost entirely in the dark, relying only on a candle a room away, on the dining room table.

But I’m not scared. Not with Drew here.

“What do you mean?”

He shifts his body again, only this time I can’t tell where or how.

“Feelings aren’t concrete—they’re fickle, easily swayed by circumstance.” He exhales, his breath sweeping across my cheek. “If you let feelings drive you, you’ll run out of steam before you ever reach the finish line. They lie to you—cheat you from seeing what’s real. Sometimes we have to outsmart our emotions in order to deal with our junk.” I think he taps his temple before bumping my shoulder with his.

Then he pushes away from the counter. “Let’s head out. I have to catch the ferry first thing in the morning.”

“You do?” I hate the needy whine that exits my throat, but I hate even more that he won’t be around tomorrow.

He reaches back for me, offering his hand, as if to guide me through the dark house.

I give it to him.

“I’ll be back by dinner. Hope you can survive that long without me,” Drew says.

“Har har.”

But little does he know I’ll be counting down the hours.

‡

J-

Don’t do anything crazy today. See you later.

Drew

I
tuck the
note inside the back pocket of my jeans, lock Grandma Culver’s front door, and Huffy-bike-it-up to my cabin. The sun is shining, the breeze is crisp and light, and all in all I feel as if Drew Culver’s Secret To Positivity is within my grasp.

Whether he’s aware of it or not.

I practically bounce up the porch steps into my cabin, then pull back all the curtains the moment I’m inside. The scent of pine, lemon, and mold-killing bleach still hangs in the air, yet not even the aroma of clean can overshadow the inviting comfort of home.

This
. This is the place I remember.

Room by room, I check our work from the day before, and room by room, I add another course to the repayment dinner I plan to make for Drew. Hopefully, I’ll be able to cook it here at the cabin, but that will require a visit from the utility company, and I’ve yet to receive an update as to their timeline. On second thought, given the gleeful dose of serotonin to my brain, I’d make him dinner over a campfire if need be.

Nothing’s going to derail me today.

I stand in the middle of the living room, stare down the hallway at the master bedroom, and make a declaration. One I dreamed about last night after Drew’s little pep talk on feelings and goals.

Well, I have one now. A goal, that is.

And it’s not to eat cold pizza every night and cry into my pillow.

This little cabin was once the epitome of family. My dad built that kitchen table, my mom knitted that afghan draped over the back of the sofa, and I dented that wall next to the bathroom with my pink Barbie jeep.

If I can fix this old neglected house, then maybe, maybe I can fix my broken family too.

*

The morning starts
off with a humbling, yet happy, selfie that I send to my mother. Sure, I haven’t been the best at communication since “the talk,” but as my new plan continues to morph into a masterpiece, being on both of my parents’ good sides is non-negotiable.

Mom’s reply to my picture:
Nice to see you smiling. Cabin looks great. Still need to talk to you. Soon.

I text back,
I’ll call you tonight,
and continue with my slightly over-zealous task at hand.

Sweat trails the side of my face as I yank the frayed edge of carpet from the tack strip in the corner of the master bedroom. It smells like a litter box in here, one that hasn’t been changed in a year or two. But thanks to my impeccable memory, I remembered the hardwoods underneath.