Boys of Summer (13 page)

I
wake up with a fog around my head. My vision is swimming and my temples throb.

It feels like the University of Pennsylvania marching band is practicing right inside my brain.

Emotional hangovers. That's what my therapist calls them. It feels like you've consumed all the booze in a twenty-mile radius even if you haven't had a drop to drink.

I've had one every single morning since my dad died.

“Grief can be just as intoxicating as alcohol,” my therapist told me.

I made a joke that I'd rather just have beer. At least then you have a fun night to blame the headache on. He did not appreciate my humor.

It also doesn't help that I got my face smashed in last night and then I barely got any sleep. I spent nearly the whole night working on my song, tweaking some of the lyrics and chord progressions and practicing it over and over again. For the first time in months, I felt inspired by something, felt like I was actually creating something worthwhile. It might just be the best thing I've ever written.

Too bad it's about someone I can't stand.

Never in a million years did I ever think Whitney
Cartwright would serve as my muse. But apparently the girl infuriated me to the point where I became a decent songwriter.

I push myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom, my usual morning queasiness following me like a shadow. I check my reflection in the mirror, cringing when I see the aftermath of my one-sided fight with douche pants. I admit it's bad, but it's not
that
bad. It could have been way worse. If Whitney hadn't stepped in. Or rather,
kicked
in. My lip is busted, my cheek is bruised, and my left eye looks like it's been crying red food coloring all night, but hopefully my face will be healed in a few days.

I pull on swim trunks and a T-shirt and wander to the kitchen, passing Whitney's door on the way. I consider knocking to see if she's awake, but then I think better of it. She'll come out of there soon enough. And then maybe I can actually talk some sense into her and convince her to call the police about what happened.

I head into the kitchen to make some coffee. I pour the grinds into the filter, fill the reservoir with water, and flip the switch. I watch the slow drip, drip, drip of the coffeemaker as it fills the pot. It starts to lull me into a trance, until the spell is shattered by the sound of the landline phone ringing. I look around for someone to answer it. Even though I've been living here for more than a week, it's not really my place to answer the phone.

It stops ringing. Then immediately starts again.

With a sigh I pick it up. “Hello? Cartwright residence.”

“Ian.”

My whole body freezes as all of the light and energy immediately gets sucked out of the house.

I consider hanging up. I consider throwing the phone into the pool. But I know I can't do that.

“Mom,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“Good morning, my love. How are you?”

I search her voice for signs of intoxication. Would she really start drinking this early? Who knows? Thankfully, she sounds relatively sober.

“Why are you calling here?” I ask, keeping my tone formal and impervious.

“Because you haven't been answering your cell. Or returning any of my texts.”

I feel my hand grip tighter around the receiver. She's right. I haven't. And for a very good reason. I've been trying to avoid this very conversation and this very feeling that's knotting up my stomach.

“How's Grayson's?” she asks cheerfully, and I know exactly what she's doing. She's trying to butter me up before she drops the bomb. Before she starts talking about
him
. “Are you having a good time?”

“Yes,” I reply tightly.

“Your grandparents and I miss you.” She lets out a laugh. “They've started watching some horrific show.
Battle of Kings
or something. It's so violent. I can hear the bloody battles from my room! But they seem to enjoy it. It's all they can talk about.”

A faint smile spreads across my lips at the thought of Nana and Papa sitting through one of those episodes. Can their hearts even survive all that brutality?

“It's
Crusade of Kings
, Mom.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Did you need something?”

She sighs. “Yes, actually. I could really use your help with something.”

I plop down onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter and run my finger over the flawless marble countertop. “With what?”

“I was hoping you could come by today and help me clean out some boxes in the garage.”

My spine stiffens.

Clean out boxes.

That's code for “dig up the past and reminisce about better days,” when my father was alive and we were a real family. Not these broken pieces that once made up something whole.

It feels like my family used to travel the world on this happy, colorful merry-go-round, bobbing up and down on beautifully painted porcelain horses, throwing our heads back in laughter. But then my dad's death cranked the lever up to full speed, spinning us faster and faster until we could no longer hold on. Until we were both flung off the ride in different directions. My mom landed in a bottle of chardonnay. And I landed here. At Grayson's house. With nothing to keep me company but my guitar and a collection of
Crusade of Kings
reruns on demand.

“Your grandparents are too old to be moving all of that stuff, and—”

“I can't,” I tell her hastily. “I'm busy today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“I'm busy tomorrow, too.”

She falls quiet. I hope that means she got the message. I'm not interested in going down memory lane with my sobbing three-sheets-to-the-wind mother. I'm not interested in unpacking the past. The past is better off staying sealed in boxes.

“Fine,” comes her terse response a few seconds later. “I'll do it myself.”

I grip the phone more tightly, feeling the familiar guilt and tension settle atop my shoulders, weighing me down like a ton of bricks.

I should help her.

I shouldn't be so hard on her.

She lost someone too.

But just as I'm about to change my mind and tell her I'll stop by, she says, “You know, Ian, you shouldn't be avoiding your feelings like this. It's not healthy.”

And then I remember why I left. Why I'm staying here. It's to avoid statements like that.

I have a burning desire to fling the accusation back at her, asking if I should just get smashed off my face every night like she does. Is
that
the best way to own up to my feelings? And she thinks I'm the unhealthy one? At least I'm not making a fool of myself in front of the entire island every night. At least I'm dealing with my pain in an artistic, creative way.

She's just a walking cliché.

But I know I can't say any of that. No matter how angry I am, she's still my mother. And I know she's in mourning. But that doesn't mean I have to sit in the front row and watch as she self-destructs.

“Okay,” I say into the phone. “Well, thanks for the call. This has been pleasant, as always. Good-bye.”

Frustrated, I hang up and slam the phone back into the charger.

Just then Whitney comes striding into the kitchen wearing shorts and a tank top. She freezes when she sees me, and then turns her back to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot I just made. She suddenly becomes super-interested in a pile of mail on the counter.

I roll my eyes and push past her, grab a mug from the cabinet, and fill it.

“You're still here,” she intones, flipping open a clothing catalog.

I sneer and take a sip from my mug, but it's way too hot,
and the damn coffee burns a hole in my tongue. “Shit!” I swear, and spit it out into the sink.

Whitney does little to hide her smirk. “That's the thing about coffee,” she says breezily. “It's best served hot.”

I fight back a bitter retort and stick my mouth under the faucet, letting the cold water run over my tongue. Whitney watches me with a disturbed expression. “Oh, Ian. When did you get to be so classy?”

I shut off the faucet and try my coffee again, this time making sure to blow on it first.

My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text message from my mom. I delete it without reading it and stuff the phone back into my pocket with a huff.

Whitney cocks an eyebrow at me as she flips another page of her catalog. “Girl trouble?” she asks.

I snort. “You wouldn't understand.”

She grabs her coffee and takes a sip. “Why don't you try me?”

“Why don't we talk about last night instead?”

She flips another page. “You mean your face? It looks pretty bad. Did you fall out of bed?”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“That!” I say, growing impatient. “Don't pretend like nothing happened.”

“Nothing
did
happen,” she snaps, shutting the catalog. “Not to mention the fact that it's none of your goddamn business, so just stay out of it.”

“Fine,” I agree tightly. “I'll stay out of yours if you stay out of mine.”

“Gladly.” She pours her untouched coffee down the drain, drops the mug into the sink with a
clank
, and storms down the hallway to her room.

Agitated and all riled up, I trudge out the back door to the patio and stare at the magnificent view, hoping it will help steady my erratic breathing. The crystal-blue water of the infinity pool sparkling in the morning sun. The ocean glistening just a few feet beyond. The sound of seagulls fishing for breakfast echoing in the breeze.

And yet I can't bring myself to see it. All I see is a pool that will no longer feel soothing to swim in. An ocean that will never again wash away my troubles as easily as it once did. A beach that my dad will never set foot on again.

My father's death has ruined this island. Ruined everything that I used to love.

The wind picks up, and I hear a bizarre slapping sound. Curious, I walk around the side of the house. Whitney's bedroom window is wide open, and the curtains are blowing wildly, smacking against the wall.

I feel my teeth gnash together as I lean into the open window and glance around the empty bedroom. The bed is unmade, there are heaps of clothes on the floor, and Whitney is nowhere to be found.

As someone who's made a habit of sneaking in and out of windows, I immediately recognize the signs of a hasty exit.

GRAYSON

I
dream about the accident. It's been a common dream lately. Except instead of stumbling dazedly out of the wrecked car, holding my shattered, throbbing arm in my hand, the door is stuck. I can't open it. Then the car catches fire. It flares up all around me, stinging my eyes and burning my skin.

I wake up sweaty and breathless, with an ache in my arm that feels like my flesh really is on fire.

I get up and scrounge around in the bathroom for some Advil. The bottle says to take two. I pop six into my mouth and swallow them dry. They burn going down. Like a lump in my throat that will never go away. A mistake that I'll never be able to forget.

My head hasn't stopped pounding since last night. It started shortly after Harper stuck her tongue in my mouth. I've tried to tell myself that it was all
her
fault. That she's completely to blame. That this is the very reason I've never liked Harper Jennings—because she sticks her tongue in other guys' mouths while her on-again, off-again boyfriend (my best friend!) nurses a broken heart less than a mile away.

I continually try to delude myself into thinking I'm blameless in this whole thing.

But then, without fail, the full memory—the truth—comes barreling into my mind like a high-definition freight train.

I kissed her back.

Then I just kissed her.

Who does that? Who kisses their best friend's ex-girlfriend? Who is that shitty a person?

Unfortunately, the answer is obvious.

I'm on a real roll this year.

I hear my phone vibrate, and it takes me a good five minutes to locate it in my room. It's buried under a pile of clothes. I check the screen to see I missed a call from my mother.

Good,
I think bitterly.
I wouldn't have answered anyway.

Then I notice I have four unread text messages. All from Harper. My pulse kicks it up a notch as I open the app and read them one by one.

I think we should talk.

I'm kind of freaking out.

Grayson! Text me back!

Fine. I'm coming over.

My gaze darts to the time stamps. The last one was sent more than fifteen minutes ago. I start to panic. She can't come over. She can't be in this house. Ian is still crashing in the guest room. What if he sees her? What if she starts yelling at me and he overhears? What if he pieces it together and tells Mike?