Sixteenth Summer (29 page)

“The Flatiron Building,” Will piped up. “It’s the third most famous …”

Will trailed off as Sophie’s teammates began chanting again and my sister, as always, got sucked into the center of her social circle.

Through the crush of girls, I gave Will a
don’t sweat it
smile.

He returned it with a smile I’d learned to recognize. The one that meant
I’m crazy about you
.

Me too
, I thought with a deep, shuddery breath.
Me too
.

Then I went back behind the counter to make Sophie a Diet Coke float with chocolate chip ice cream, and scoop up some Pineapple Ginger Ale for Will. His favorite.

T
he next thing I knew, I was waking up and it was August 28. It was a day when all I wanted was routine. I wanted to go with Will for a lazy swim and a long, luxurious bike ride. I wanted to go to work and have him show up at nine like he always did.

But there was nothing routine about this day. Instead, there would be Will returning Zelig to the bike shop and packing and cleaning the cottage and having his last Dune Island moments with his family.

And me there for all of it, my heart threatening to explode.

In the morning, I went to Will’s house. When I got there, his T-shirts were in a neat stack on the bed. I
loved
Will’s T-shirts, so soft and worn and perfect-fitting.

When Will left the bedroom to help his mom with something in the kitchen, I sat down next to the T-shirt stack and gave it a little pat.

Then I laid my cheek down on it. The shirt on top—a light blue tee with a faded navy crew neck—was as soft as always. But without Will’s torso inside of it, it didn’t move me at all.

In fact, it made me feel unspeakably empty.

“Anna?”

I bolted upright to see Will standing in the doorway, trying not to laugh.

“Shut up!” I said. “Hey, at least I wasn’t
smelling
your shirts. They always do that in the movies, have you noticed?”

“I know,” Will said shaking his head. “Cheesy.”

“So do you want to say good-bye to The Room?” Will said, pointing across the hall to his mother’s orange-and-brown lair.

“Eh, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ll say good-bye to your mom and Owen, though.”

They were eating breakfast on the deck. As we walked through the tchotchke-clogged living room to the back door, I felt a wave of grief wash over me. This house, with a suitcase by the door and another splayed out on the dining room table, already felt stale and empty. Lifeless. Will-less.

Out on the deck, Owen took a break from a massive bowl of cereal to give me a bear hug.

“Hell of a summer,” he said, shooting Will a not very Owenish look of concern. “Anna, I will think of you every time I see a ghost crab.”

“I think I’ve just been insulted,” I said with a laugh.

“Definitely not,” Owen said, giving me his usual devilish grin. “Definitely not.”

Ms. Dempsey’s good-bye hug was more fragile. When we looked at each other, both our lower lips were trembling.

“Oh, Anna,” she said, her voice filled with lots of things—sympathy and worry, but also joy and maybe a vicarious twinge.

“Are you glad you came back?” I asked her. “Was the summer what you hoped for?”

“I think I’ll need to ponder that for a while before I know,” Ms. Dempsey said. “But you know what? I think so.

“And it was
lovely
knowing you, my girl,” she added, her smile looking more mommish now. “Now, you guys go on. Have a good day.”

She gave my hand a quick squeeze.

I wondered for the first time if Ms. Dempsey knew exactly what I was going through; if she’d fallen for a boy on Dune Island, too, long, long ago.

If I’d had more time maybe I would have asked her. But there was so little time left. And Allison and Zelig had one last ride in them.

“Are you ready?” Will asked.

I nodded eagerly, and with a last little wave to Will’s family, I followed him down the steps to the road.

We rode up and down Highway 80. We swooped back and forth across the highway, passing each other at the road’s center line. It was a habit we’d developed during our many bike rides that summer, in which the destination had mattered so little that half the time, we’d just given up on it and kept pedaling.

We’d become experts at that center-of-the-road crisscross, even high-fiving sometimes as we passed each other. But today we were clearly off our game. At one point, we came so close to each other, we almost crashed. Will skidded to the side of the road and had to jump off his bike to avoid falling. He took a few stumbling steps, then stopped himself with his hands to keep from face planting into the gravel.

We looked at each other and shook our heads at our own patheticness.

I motioned northward with my head.

“Let’s go, huh?”

Will nodded, picked up his bike, and we headed to the North Peninsula.

Our beach.

I was happy to see that it looked as deserted as ever when we got there, maybe even more desolate than usual with its sunfried dune grasses and the
CLOSED
sign on Angelo’s door. (Angelo always took his vacation between the tourists’ departure and Labor Day.)

I unfurled my desiccated wrap from around Allison’s handlebars and dropped it on the sand near the water. I quickly peeled off my shorts and tank top. Underneath I was wearing my blue flower-print two-piece, because it was my favorite—and I knew it was Will’s favorite too.

We were silent as we waded out past the breakers. Then, once we were up to our necks in the water, we circled each other, our faces somber. Will swallowed hard. Then
I
swallowed hard.

But just as I thought we’d both buckle under the weight of all these
lasts
—last bike ride, last swim, last date—Will lifted his feet and swam splashily toward me. And I remembered—in the water, you’re weightless.

So I floated too. And then we were floating together, kissing and kissing, our arms and legs tangled up, hanks of my long, wet hair sticking to Will’s bare shoulders. I didn’t quite know where he began and I ended. I was only aware of his lips on my lips, on my neck, on my shoulders, his hands skimming over my body, memorizing it, while I did the same.

I love you, I love you
.

We said it over and over again.

I felt a quick flutter of my old desire—to just duck beneath the waves, do my mermaid kick, and head out to sea. This time I wanted to take Will with me.

But instead, I looked at the sun, which was already going slanty in the sky, and told Will that it was time to go.

We’d floated a good bit away from our shoes and clothes, and the walk back to them gave our swollen lips a chance to start returning to normal.

We rode back to the boardwalk together, but I headed for home before Will went to return Zelig to the bike rental shop. For some reason,
that
was a “last” I couldn’t bear to watch.

While Will had a last Dune Island supper with his mom and Owen, I took a long bath to get ready for our date that night. As I combed out my hair and put on makeup at the vanity, I opened my little keepsake drawer, dug beneath the note paper and the sea glass, and found that little plastic toothpick from the Dune Island Beach Club.

It was hard to imagine how guarded and clueless and terrified I’d been on our first date; hard to fathom the fact that I hadn’t
always
known Will, and loved him, the way I did now.

It was even harder to believe that I’d known him for less than three months.

The fact that after tomorrow I might never see him again was the most difficult to envision. I didn’t want to, anyway. Like Will always said—there’d be time for that later.

Instead, I slipped on my silver bangle and a swishy,
long-skirted white sundress and headed out the door, feeling the same flutter of comfortable excitement I always felt when I left for a date with Will.

And I went right on feeling fluttery and excited until Will and I sat down for dinner that night. We’d decided to go to Fiddlehead, one of Dune Island’s fancier restaurants. (Will had promised to eat light with his family.) We sat at a low-lit, imposing table, complete with burning candle, basket of artisanal bread, and massive, leather-bound menus.

The place was beautiful.

The menu was impressive, too, all iced platters of raw oysters, high-grade steaks, and buttery pastas. The ambiance was pure, manufactured romance.

It was also purely
wrong
. For us.

“I feel like I have to whisper in here,” Will whispered, leaning across the table.

“I feel like I should be wearing a corset,” I responded.

I threw my head back, looked at the bronze-painted, pressedtin tiles on the ceiling, and felt miserable.

And I didn’t want to feel miserable tonight. We didn’t have
time
for that. So suddenly I stood up. I grabbed my purse from the back of my chair and rifled through it, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. I tossed it on the table.

“What are you doing?” Will sputtered.

“That’s for the bread and the waters and a tip for the server,” I said, grinning at Will. “You’ve already eaten with your mom and Owen anyway, and I’m not hungry. Let’s go!”

Will got to his feet so fast, he almost tipped his chair over.
We gritted our teeth to keep from guffawing into the ambiance, then dashed out the door.

We made a quick, surreptitious stop at The Scoop for a soft cooler with a long strap, an ice pack, and a couple of pints of ice cream.

And then, holding hands, we headed south.

“Where are we going?” Will said as we walked down the sandy sidewalk that led from the boardwalk toward the lighthouse.

“I can’t believe I never got around to taking you here,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s a clear night.”

“Where?” Will almost yelled.

“You’ll see,” I said. “We’re almost there.”

Before we reached the lighthouse parking lot, we veered left onto a gravel road, which culminated after about a quarter mile at …

“The water tower?” Will said, peering up at the giant, oblong tank on top of a crisscrossing network of steel stilts. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s great during the day, but it’s magic at night.” We walked around the tower until we reached its ladder. I kicked off my sandals, slung the long handle of the ice cream cooler across my chest, and started climbing.

“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” I thought to ask when I was halfway up the ladder.

“I’m a New Yorker!” Will scoffed.

“There
are
a few tall buildings there, aren’t there?” I laughed.

We crab-walked up the curved side of the water tower until we
were in the center of the tank, which was spacious and fairly flat.

Then we sat with our backs to the lighthouse and the ocean. We gazed out at the skinny, bent-leg shape that was Dune Island. In the moonlight, the swamp grasses undulating in the breeze looked almost mystical, like a fluttering golden cloth. The swamp pools were like tiny islands themselves, black shapes stretching out toward the mainland, looking like a work of abstract art.

“See what I meant about the shapes in the pools?” I said to Will. “They’re better than clouds.”

“Huh,” Will said, squinting at the landscape. “All I see are a whole lot of Jesuses!”

I burst out laughing and threw myself at Will, hitting him so hard that he fell backward. He laughed too, and coughed a bit when he hit the tank.

We lay there for a moment, with my top half laying on his, looking into each other’s eyes. And then we were kissing, our bodies pressed together as close as we could get them. But after a moment, the sobs that I’d held in so valiantly all day broke free. I buried my face in Will’s shoulder and cried so hard, I could barely speak. He stroked my hair, held me tightly, and didn’t try to quiet me.

“I can’t do this,” I cried.

It was the same thing I’d said to him the night we broke up. Then I didn’t think I’d had the strength to be with Will.

Now I didn’t think I could be
without
him.

But I had to.

The thought threatened to set off another bout of tears, but
instead I turned to Will and put my hands on his shoulders. I looked into his eyes, which were drawn downward by a new sadness now, and got pragmatic.

My curfew was at eleven. I had ninety minutes left with Will. And I didn’t want to waste them.

I swiped the tears off my cheeks. Then I peered over Will’s shoulder at the swamp and said, “I actually do see a shape. I think it’s a canoe.”

Will nodded slowly. He understood what I was doing. So he looked too.

“Um, I see a turtle over there,” he said, pointing at a round patch.

“Oh, please,” I scoffed, “turtles are the easiest ones to spot. Hey, do you see that trombone?”

“Seriously? A trombone?” Will laughed. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“I know,” I said, snuggling into him, my arms wrapped around his waist.

“I can picture you at your school in New York,” I said. “I’m seeing a blazer with a crest and a striped tie.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Will said, “but we don’t even wear uniforms.”

After a pause, Will said, “I wonder if I’ll be different now. At school. At life. You know, after you.”

I squeezed Will a little harder and thought of my own life before this summer. I’d held so much, and so many, at a distance lest they prevent me from breaking away from Dune Island. Would
I
be different?

I hoped so, at least in some ways.

I looked into Will’s eyes again.

In a good way
, I thought before I closed my eyes and kissed him.

W
hen it was too dark to see anything but Will’s watch, which said ten forty-five, we carefully climbed back to earth.

“We forgot to the eat the ice cream,” Will said, pointing at the cooler hanging from my shoulder.

“I know,” I said. I handed it to him. “Take it home with you. For your mom and Owen. Maybe they’re still awake.”

We held each other for a long, long beat. Our kisses felt endless, but also way too brief. Tears streamed from my eyes, but I managed not to sob for this moment.