Boys of Summer (23 page)

“Hi, Mr. M.,” Julie says as we slip by him to the boys' bedroom.

He barely looks away from the screen as he calls out, “Hi, Julie.” Then he goes back to yelling at the TV. “Citrus marinade? Amateur!”

“He really needs to get back to work,” I whisper as I deposit Jasper onto the top bunk. Julie lays Jake down on the bottom, and I kiss them both good night. We retreat toward the hallway, but a tiny groggy voice stops me just short of the door.

“Mikey?”

It's Jake. I step back toward the bunk bed. “Yeah?”

“Where are you going?”

“Julie and I are going to take a walk on the beach. But don't worry. Dad's here if you get scared.”

Between the two of them, Jake is the one who gets the worst nightmares. He's also the one who still occasionally wets the bed, which is the reason he's on the bottom.

“I like Julie,” Jasper murmurs from the top bunk. His face must be smashed against the pillow, because the words come out garbled and nearly incomprehensible.

“Me too,” Jake agrees.

I turn and flash Julie a smile. “You have a fan club,” I whisper.

“She's so much better than Harper,” Jasper murmurs.

I freeze on the spot, my stomach instantly clenching. It's a good thing the bedroom is dark, because I'm pretty sure my face is as white as a sheet right now.

“Okay, good night.” I quickly shut the door.

I hurry Julie back through the house and out to the front porch. “I'll be back in a bit,” I tell my dad, but he's too absorbed in his show to hear me.

“Sorry about that,” I say once we're outside. I take a deep breath, unsure how to proceed. I knew it was only a matter of time before her name came up, before I was forced to talk about her. I guess now is as good a time as ever.

“About what Jasper said,” I begin anxiously.

But Julie stops me with a tender hand on my arm. “I know,” she admits softly.

I blink at her in surprise. “You do?”

“The twins talk about her sometimes. At the club.”

“Oh.” I try to make my voice sound completely neutral
and unaffected, even though my mind is reeling. I want so badly to ask what they've said about her, what kind of secrets they've unknowingly revealed about this part of my life that I've worked so hard to keep hidden.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Julie tells me anyway.

“They said she's the girl who used to climb through your window at night.”

I bark out a laugh. “I didn't know they knew about that.”

“And that she hates Ned.”

“Who's Ned?”

Julie shoots me a confused, almost worried look. “Your dog.”

“Oh! Right. The dog. Sorry. He's had a few name changes.”

A cool breeze blows between us, and I immediately notice the tiny goose bumps that appear on Julie's arm. I run back inside to fetch her one of my hoodies. She slips it on gratefully, zips it all the way up, and pulls the hood over her head.

I have to admit it's difficult to see her in it. Harper used to love wearing my sweaters. She was always stealing the softest ones and refusing to give them back, until I had nothing left in my closet but the hard, crunchy old stuff that the twins had spilled stuff on a hundred times.

“How do I look?” Julie asks, posing like a model.

How does she look?

She looks incredible.

She looks adorable.

She looks like everything I'm not sure I'm ready for her to look like.

“Comfy,” I finally respond, and she giggles.

“I
am
comfy!”

“Well, there you go.”

We start walking back toward the beach. Julie chatters incessantly about some of the kids at the camp, particularly the crazy ones, but I'm only half listening while I attempt to build up the courage to continue our previous conversation.

It isn't until we reach the sand that I'm finally able to say, “Hey, I'm sorry about the boys. About what they told you.”

Confusion flashes over her face.

“About . . . ,” I continue, but I can't even bring myself to say her name. Why am I here with this beautiful, amazing, vivacious girl if I can't even say her name?

“Harper?” Julie says it for me, and it's even stranger coming from her lips.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds like someone has been hacking at my throat with razor blades.

“You don't need to apologize,” Julie says sympathetically. “We all have a past.”

I nearly trip over my own two stupid feet. That word. It's like a dagger in my chest.

Past.

We all have a past.

Is Harper really my past now? But how can that be, when she has always been my future? The thought of Harper being just a fading spot in my rearview mirror is making it hard to breathe. Sure, she told me this time it was over for good. Sure, we've managed to avoid each other for weeks. But that's just what we do. That's what
she
does.

Eventually she'll come back, right?

But is that even what I want anymore?

The last few weeks, hanging out with Julie, have been amazing. They've been refreshing. They've been
fun
. Harper can be fun too, but mostly Harper is just complicated.
That's the thing about Julie. She's so very
un
complicated. And yet here I am, walking the beach with her, thinking about Harper.

Thinking about the past.

I guess I've always just assumed that Harper would become my future again. That she'd never
stay
buried in the past. It's always been a given with us. But now it seems the likelihood of us actually getting back together is getting smaller with each passing day.

This is definitely the longest we've ever been split up. Harper's little “breathers” have never lasted more than a week, two at most. But it's been nearly two months since she stood in the Cove, our special spot, and told me it was over.

And for the first time all summer, I think I might be starting to believe that she meant it.

“Ooh!” Julie squeals, running ahead. She bends down and digs something out of the sand. “This could be it!” She unburies a small white seashell and holds it in her palm. Then she reaches into the pocket of her khaki shorts and pulls out another white seashell that looks almost identical. She compares the two, side by side, and her face falls. “Nope. Not it.”

She drops the newly uncovered shell back to the ground and dusts off her hand.

“What was that?” I ask, catching up with her.

She holds out her open palm. “This is the first shell I found when I got to the island. I've been searching for its other half.”

“Its other half?” I ask, intrigued.

She continues walking. “Yeah. You know, all clamshells come in a pair. They were once complete before they broke
apart and scattered along the beach. I've heard it's good luck if you can find two halves that are a perfect match. It's my goal to find the match to this one before the end of the summer.”

She looks at me and smiles. “What?” she asks, and I realize my expression must be inscrutable.

“Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head. “I've just never heard anyone talk about shells that way before.”

“Well, that's because you've never met anyone like me before.” She does a little twirl, and I have to laugh.

“That's very true. You are the only person I've ever met who says good night to the ocean.”

She frowns. “That makes me sad. The poor ocean. Nobody says good night to it.”

I'm not sure what comes over me right then. Maybe it's because of what Mamma V said to me in the kitchen. Maybe it's because of what Jasper said to me in the boys' bedroom. Maybe it's because Julie just shared a tiny piece of herself with me. But I suddenly feel this intense desire to share a piece of
me
with her.

A piece she's never seen.

A piece I've been purposefully avoiding on every single walk we've taken.

“Do you want to see something?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

She tilts her head, a playful smile lighting up her eyes. “I don't know. Do I?”

I grab her by the hand and start leading her down the beach. Toward the place that has been forever linked with my past. A secret that I haven't shared with anyone since I first took Harper there when we were thirteen years old.

It's been a long time since I've even been to the Cove
myself. I was afraid of its memories. Afraid of the ghosts that might still be lurking there.

But I'm too old to believe in ghosts. I'm too old to be haunted by nightmares.

I think it might finally be time to chase those demons into the past, where they belong.

IAN

I
pace the sidewalk outside of Coconut's Market, fairly certain this night is going to end with both of us in jail. Then, just when I'm about to dash inside and run some kind of interference, Whitney prances breezily out of the store, with a bottle of wine and a smile.

My mouth falls open. “How did you do that? Old Man Finn laughed in my face when I tried to buy a bottle.”

She shrugs. “Easy. I gave him a blow job.”

All the blood drains from my face.

Whitney bursts out laughing. “Relax. Jeez. What kind of girl do you think I am?”

I'm still too speechless to answer. Whitney must interpret it horribly, because her smile vanishes and she snaps, “I was kidding, Ian. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

She struts past me, making sure to ram me with her elbow as she goes.

Damn it. Now she's upset.

This happens far too often. We'll be having a fantastic time, and then she'll make some kind of lewd joke like that, and I, being too boneheaded to know how to respond, ultimately end up offending her.

I run to catch up. “Whit,” I say. “Wait. I'm sorry.”

“For what, Ian?” she challenges, raising up the wine bottle like she's going to smash it over my head. I fight the urge to duck, knowing it will only piss her off more. “What are you sorry
for
?”

For speaking,
I think, but I don't dare say that.

“I . . .” I falter. She puts her hand on her hip, waiting for me to screw up and say the wrong thing again. “I . . .” I surrender with a sigh. “I don't know, okay? I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know why you get so worked up about this stuff. But I don't know what to say. I've never been with a girl like you. I—”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “A girl like me?” she echoes. “What does that mean?

I balk, sensing that I've stepped even further into dangerous territory. “A girl as . . .” I stop, every variation of that sentence sounding ridiculous and cheesy in my head.

A girl as amazing as you.

A girl as beautiful as you.

A girl as used to guys fawning over her as you.

“A girl as easy as me?” Whitney finishes, a dagger-sharp edge to her voice.

“Wh-what?” I sputter, almost too shocked to speak.

Is that what this is about? Is that really how she thinks I perceive her? Is that why she thinks I'm with her?

I take her hand. Thankfully she lets me. I lead her over to the bench in front of Barnacle Books and sit her down. We were just in here yesterday, picking out books for each other. I'm making her read
The Outsiders
, and she's making me read
Sense and Sensibility.

“Whit,” I say softly, hoping I can make her understand. It's pathetic, really. I can form poetry into a chorus, but when it comes to everyday speech, I can never seem to get the right words out. “What is this about?”

She turns her head away from me, but I can see the misting in her eyes before she does.

“I don't want you to see me that way.”

“What way?”

“The way everyone on this island sees me. People can change, you know?”

“I know,” I say ardently, releasing a breath. “God, do I know.”

She turns back to me, curiosity blooming in her brilliant brown eyes. “So you didn't ask me out because of my reputation for being the island superslut?”

I laugh bitterly. “Do you think I would still be here, a month later, if I had?”

That seems to stump her. She unscrews the top of the wine bottle and takes a long, hearty sip. Then she offers it to me. I decline. I need her to know exactly what I'm feeling, and I need a clear head to make that happen.

“The reason I asked you out was not because you're the same Whitney Cartwright I've known all my life, but because you're miraculously this totally different person. You . . .” I falter again, the words slipping through my mind faster than grains of sand through fingertips. “You fascinate me.”

She swings her eyes to me again, and now I can see the moisture in them. Pooling on the surface, ready to spill out. “What?”