Boys of Summer (24 page)

“You fascinate me,” I repeat, this time with more authority. “Ever since you came back here. With your glasses and your new look and your bags of books.”

She snickers. “I fascinate you because I know how to read?”

“No. You fascinate me because I feel like I've been looking at you my whole life and I've never seen you before.
And I'm just wondering what was wrong with me all that time.”

“Nothing,” she mumbles, taking another swig from the bottle. “It wasn't you. It was me. I was just being the girl that I thought everyone wanted me to be. The pretty Cartwright. The one who got her mother's looks and nothing else.” She deepens her voice, “ ‘You win with the hand you've been dealt,' that's what my father always says. So that's what I tried to do, my whole life. But that was never me. I mean, for the longest time I thought it was. I thought all I cared about was having the latest and greatest eye shadow palette or designer handbag or knowing who John Mayer was dating at all times. I always thought I would turn out just like my mom. I'd marry some rich banker and have this cushy life with infinity pools and big closets. And then . . .”

Her voice breaks a little. She fights to regain her composure.

“And then my mom left,” she says, suddenly sounding so fragile. “And I realized it was all a sham. She wasn't happy. She didn't
want
those things. She tolerated those things. Just like I did.”

She takes another sip of wine and glances up at the stars. “I remember this one day after she left. I was sitting in the backseat of my friend Willow's car. We were driving to the mall. She and Lydia were arguing over who would get to buy the latest Jimmy Choo fringe bootie. Because God forbid they
both
own a pair. I remember thinking, ‘Why the fuck does it matter?' And then I answered myself. And the answer was suddenly so obvious to me: ‘It doesn't.' ”

It's not the first time Whitney has talked to me about her mother. She brought it up a week ago, and I was shocked to learn the real reason Mrs. Cartwright wasn't here this
summer. I couldn't believe that Grayson never told me. Whitney explained that the family had agreed to keep it a secret. They didn't want the whole island gossiping about them behind their backs. And I get that, but I still wish he had confided in me.

“Why'd you stop coming back here?” I ask. It's not the first time I've asked Whitney this either. I remember posing this same question the night I dove through her window to find douche McNugget on top of her. She didn't answer me then, and after a long silence I'm afraid she's still not going to answer me now.

But then she takes a deep breath and another swig of wine and says, “I think the whole thing got away from me. It's slippery, you know? The slope from Pretty Girl to Slutty Girl. It's easy to fall down it. It's easy for you to try to hold on to one title and suddenly find yourself wearing the other. Without even realizing it until someone—or the whole damn island—points it out.”

All at once every mean thing I've ever said to Whitney comes spiraling back to me, and I feel sick to my stomach.

She watches my reaction carefully, as if she can read every thought. As if every memory is being projected right across my face. “Yes,” she confirms. “You did it too.”

“Whitney,” I begin, but she quiets me with a shake of her head.

“It's okay. You weren't the only one. But it's one of the bigger reasons I stopped coming here. I felt like my reputation was sealed. Like the label was stamped into my skin from the day I was born. There was no going back. No one on this island would ever see me as anything but Grayson's slutty little sister.” She stops and picks at the label of the wine bottle with her fingernail. “After my mom left and I finally figured out who I really
wanted to be, I decided it didn't matter anymore what people thought of me.”

“You're right,” I tell her. “It doesn't.”

She chuckles quietly. “Yeah. I know. But sometimes that's easier to say than it is to believe.”

“I was an ass,” I tell Whitney. “I'm sorry.”

She smiles the weakest of smiles. “It's okay. But yes, you were.”

We share another laugh, but it's not the same. It's not jubilant and carefree. It's heavy and sad.

“You've changed a lot too,” she says.

I cock an eyebrow. “Oh really? How so?”

She scrutinizes me like she's sizing up a horse she's thinking about buying. “You're much cuter than you used to be. Or maybe your hair is just longer.”

I playfully bump her leg with mine. She glances down at my ratty swim trunks and T-shirt.

“Your choice in clothing hasn't improved much, though.”

“Hey,” I tease. “I'll have you know, I almost bought a suit for you.”

“No, you didn't.”

I sigh. “No, I didn't.”

She chuckles. “You make me laugh.”

I act offended. “I didn't make you laugh before?”

“No. Before you just made me want to punch things.”

I can't help but chuckle too. “Likewise.”

“You look at me like I'm a person.” Her voice is suddenly quiet and somber. When I turn my head to look at her, she's staring back at me with such intensity, such expectation, it makes me uneasy. Like she's asking too much of me. Asking for things I don't have to give.

Things I may never be able to give again.

“Yeah,” I say with a teasing snort. “A person with terrible taste in books. I mean seriously, what is with this
Sense and Sensibility
crap? Is anything
ever
going to happen? I mean, when you told me Victorian times, I thought there'd at least be
one
duel. But no. There's not even a bitch slap.”

She's suddenly laughing again, and then she's fake bitch slapping me. I whip my head back and hold on to my cheek like it's on fire. “Now
that's
what I'm talking about!” I say with a wicked grin.

The breeze picks up, playing in the small hairs that have escaped her ponytail. I reach up and brush them back.

“You've grown up,” she says softly after a moment. “A lot.”

I let out a dark laugh and let my hand fall away from her face. “Death will do that to you.”

She looks surprised by my admission. I admit, I'm probably just as surprised. If not more. It's the first time I've mentioned my father since we started hanging out. Being with Whitney these past few weeks has been heavenly. It's everything I've needed to take my mind off the worst year of my life. I'm not sure why I brought him up now. Maybe because she was so honest with me first. Maybe because pain always manages to rise to the surface, no matter how hard you try to push it down.

Maybe because it's time.

I take the bottle from her and tip it back, letting the powerful red liquid pour down my throat. Whitney bites her lip, looking hesitant. “I'm sorry, Ian. I never told you how sorry I am. Your father was a great man. I have really fond memories of—”

“Don't do that,” I interrupt sharply, wiping my mouth.

She frowns, not understanding. “Do what?”

“Don't do what everyone else does. Don't tell me you're
sorry and talk about how amazing he was. I know he was amazing. I don't need people to remind me. That doesn't help.”

She looks taken aback. And I know I should feel bad for lashing out, but I don't. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everyone treating me like this fragile creature that they can't talk to. My dad is the one who died, not me. And I'm tired of everyone treating death like it's an incurable disease that's going to claim me next.

“I don't know what to say,” she admits, taking the wine bottle back. “I'm bad at this.”

“No one's good at this.”

“What do you want me to do, Ian?”

“I want you to be Whitney.”

She gives me a devilish smirk. “The new one or the old one?”

And she thought she wasn't good at this.

I match her smile. “Maybe a little of both?”

She places the bottle of wine down on the ground and leans into me, her whole body turning seductive, like only Whitney can do.

When her lips meet mine, I can taste the tartness of the wine mixed with the sweetness of her scent. It's debilitating. It's stimulating. It's so intoxicating.

As we melt together and the sour thoughts in my mind quickly ferment into something good, something drinkable, all I can think is:

With lips like those, who even needs wine?

GRAYSON

I
sit in the sand, leaning against a sea-weathered log, while Harper lies with her head in my lap. I run my fingers absentmindedly through her hair with one hand while the other plays with my phone. She's staring silently up at the stars. She does that a lot. Stares at the sky. I think she thinks the answers are up there somewhere and if she just looks hard enough, eventually she'll find them.

This has been the majority of our summer together. Yes, we kiss. A
lot.
But we also just do this. And it's pretty freaking amazing, I have to say.

It took a while to find a spot where we could be together without the threat of all the inquisitive eyes. I never knew how hard it was to hide on Winlock Harbor until I started secretly hooking up with my best friend's ex.

Downtown is out of the question. The main beach is even worse. My house is a minefield, with Mike working on the roof and Ian camped out in the guest room. My father's boat stopped being an option after he got sick of the ferry and started taking it back and forth to the mainland for work. I don't know what he's been doing, but he's been there an awful lot. Not that I'm going to ask. The Cartwrights are a better family when you
don't
ask questions.

And then finally, a few weeks ago, Harper took me to this place. A quiet, hidden alcove tucked away from the beach that she swears no one knows exists.

I couldn't believe I had never seen it before. I've been coming to this island every summer for practically my entire life. I thought I'd combed the whole thing a dozen times. And yet I'd never seen this place.

When I asked her how
she
had found it, she got very quiet and cagey for a minute. “I don't really remember. I guess I just stumbled upon it one day,” she said with a shrug.

But it doesn't really matter
how
she found it. What matters is that it's here.

It provides us with the privacy we need to be these people we've become. To live this life we've somehow constructed with each other.

To hide.

“Remember that time when we were fifteen and we all got drunk and went skinny-dipping in the ocean by your house?” Harper asks.

I feel my face growing warm at the memory. Despite my vow to be respectful to Mike and
not
constantly check out his girlfriend's body, she was
right
there. And she was completely naked.

“Yes,” I say warily, unsure where she might be going with this.

“Remember how we went diving under the surface at the same time and bumped into each other?”

“Vividly,” I say with a sarcastic tone.

“When we resurfaced, you yelled at me and told me to watch where the hell I was going,” Harper reminds me. “You were, like, so angry at me.”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, setting my phone down in the sand. “That's not really why I yelled at you.”

She tilts her chin up so she can question me with those bright blue eyes of hers.

I sigh. “Figure it out, Harper. You were naked! And we touched. Things
happened
to me. I needed to run interference. I couldn't let you—or Mike!—know that . . .” I let my voice trail off, hoping she can infer the rest.

She does. She starts giggling. “I always wondered about that.”

I tickle her. “Oh, bullshit. You so knew. You were such a flirt. In fact, I think you bumped into me on purpose.”

“I certainly did not,” she vows. “Actually, I was a little afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me?” I repeat dubiously.

“Yes!” she insists. “You always hated me.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn't
hate
you. I highly disapproved of your life choices.”

She pushes herself up and leans toward me, those irresistible pouty lips only inches from mine. “You
hated
me.” She breathes the words with a delicious air of teasing and seduction.

I lunge for those perfect lips and capture them with my own. She lets out a soft moan and melts into me. I roll her onto her back and position myself on top of her, pushing my tongue further into her mouth.

I don't know how long we stay like that, our mouths moving hungrily against each other. That's the thing about Harper. It's so easy to get lost in her kisses. To let them swallow me whole and erase everything else that's happening in the world.