Boys of Summer (29 page)

“No one. Never mind.”

But she's not having it. She leaps off the bed and reaches for the phone. In a panic I dive for it, accidentally shoving her onto her side as I scoop up the phone.

“Ow,” she moans as she hits the carpet. “What the hell, Ian?”

“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling anxious and guilty and completely out of control.

Whitney pushes herself to her feet. “Who was calling you? Are you hooking up with someone else?” She has her hands on her hips now, and I can tell she's about to make a much bigger deal about this than it is.

“What? No. I'm just hooking up with you.”

But this response only seems to make everything worse. She scowls down at me. I push my fingertips into my eyelids, trying to regain my composure. I don't have the emotional energy to deal with this right now. “It was a wrong number,” I say, hoping the iciness in my tone will put an end to this once and for all.

Of course, it doesn't.

Because it's Whitney we're talking about. Things aren't over until
she's
done.

She narrows her eyes at me. “No one reacts that way to a wrong number.”

“Just drop it, Whit,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Fine,” she agrees, surprising me. I wasn't expecting her to give in so easily. Which is probably why I'm so unprepared for what she does next.

In one swift motion I feel the phone being ripped from my hand. By the time I blink again, Whitney is already on the other side of the room, scrolling through my call log.

“Whit,” I warn. “Stop. Give it back.”

“No,” she says. “I want to know who was calling you.”

“It's not what you think,” I start to say, but it's too late. She's already found it. Not just the last call. But
all
of them. Two months' worth of ignored calls coming from the same number.

Her mouth drops open. “Ian,” she says, but her voice has lost all the accusation it had only a moment ago. Now it just sounds sad and disheartened. Like I've let her down.

I almost wish the call
had
been from another girl. Because anything would have been better than that look.

I lower my gaze to the ground. It's the only safe place left.

“Ian,” she begins again. “What is going on? Why haven't you answered any of your mother's calls?”

“Because I don't want to talk to her, okay?” I can feel myself getting riled up again. I can feel the control of my temper slipping. I need to get out of here. I need fresh air.

I open my bedroom door and walk out into the hallway. I keep going until I'm outside. Until the scorching August air is in my lungs. But it does little to calm me. Especially when Whitney appears beside me a few seconds later.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. She knows she deserves an explanation.

“She's . . . ,” I try, sputtering for the right words before
realizing they don't exist. “She's driving me crazy. All she wants to do is talk about my dad and reminisce about my dad and look at photos of my dad. It's exhausting. I don't want to do any of those things!”

“Why not?” she asks gently.

“Because it won't do any good!” I shout, startling her. I take a deep breath, trying to shake out my clenched fists.

This is what comes from talking about it. This is why some things are better left unsaid. When I open my mouth again, it takes all my strength to keep my voice steady. “Looking at photos or watching home videos won't bring my dad back.”

Whitney is suddenly in front of me, trying to meet my averted gaze. “You have to do something,” she says.

“I am,” I insist, forcing a smile. “I'm hanging out with you.”

She bites her lip. “That's not what I mean. If you don't talk to someone about it—”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, not you, too. Look, I don't need another therapist. I already have one. And I definitely don't need another nagging mother. So why don't you stop trying to be both and just be my girlfriend, okay?”

I don't realize what I've said until the word is already out of my mouth. Until it's zooming between us like a helium balloon that someone has let the air out of.

I've just broken our unspoken rule. I've defined the relationship. And I'm not even sure if it's a definition I agree with. It just tumbled out. Along with every other wrong thing that I've stupidly said this summer.

I cast my eyes away from her, afraid of seeing her reaction.

“Girlfriend?” she repeats tonelessly.

I take a deep breath and lift my head, braving a glance at her. To my utter disbelief she's smiling. Actually, she's
trying to
hide
a smile and is failing miserably. I feel my stomach clench.

Is this what she wants?

Is this what she's been waiting for all summer?

Suddenly I'm having trouble breathing. The giant backyard of the Cartwrights' mansion is feeling claustrophobic. I can't be someone's boyfriend. I can't be someone's anyone. I can barely take responsibility for my own emotions, let alone someone else's.

This whole thing is starting to feel like a Jenga tower. For the past two months we've been so cautious. Easing the pieces out, stacking them ever so carefully on the top. Too afraid to say the words, make the promises, commit to something. Too afraid the whole thing will come crashing down around us. But like any game of Jenga, sooner or later there's not enough pieces left to support the construction. The weight is too much. The foundation is too weak.

Eventually every tower falls.

“Is that what I am?” she asks, more smile breaking through. More air pushed right out of my lungs.

She grabs my hand and gently strokes the length of each finger.

I shift uneasily on my feet. “I don't know. I can't really think about that right now.” Then I pull my hand away from hers and start down the steps. “Let's go to the beach.”

GRAYSON

I
've been waiting for Harper to meet me for the past thirty minutes, and she still hasn't shown. She's not answering her phone or responding to any of my texts, which is strange, because she was texting me like a fiend up until about twenty minutes ago, and then she just stopped. The little bubble said she was formulating a response, and the text never arrived. Like someone ripped the phone right out of her hand.

We haven't talked much since our fight, and for the past week, ever since Mike showed up at my front door with my phone, we've kept our distance from each other. I'm not really sure what to do. Bottom line is we need to talk, which is why I suggested we meet on my father's boat today.

Now I'm just waiting here like a chump.

I check my phone for the tenth time. With a frustrated exhale I finally come to terms with the fact that she's not coming. I tap out one final text to her.

If you don't want to see me anymore, how about you have the guts to tell me instead of just not showing up?

I hop off the boat and trudge through the marina toward town. As usual, Ocean Avenue is packed with people, every store open and overflowing. The tourists all want to make the most of the last few weeks of summer before Labor Day comes and we all head back to the real world.

It's an unusually hot day today, so the longest line by far is at Scoops, the local ice cream parlor where Harper had a job three years ago. Mike, Ian, and I hung out there every day that summer. Mike and Harper would flirt relentlessly across the counter, and Harper would occasionally dish us out free scoops when her boss was out running errands.

Those were the simpler times. Before life turned into this big hot mess.

Today the line spills out onto the sidewalk and snakes around the corner. I'm just squeezing past the front door when it swings open and two people walk out, laughing and licking ice cream from oversize waffle cones.

I have to do a double take to make sure my eyes are not playing tricks on me, but no. It's them.

Mike and Harper.

Looking like nothing ever split them up.

Harper sees me and freezes. Mike immediately looks to her, then to me, scrutinizing our reactions. I know this is a test. If either one of us reacts strangely, the game is up. He'll know that all the bullshit I dished out about Harper and me being just friends was exactly that—bullshit.

I paint on the breeziest smile I can muster.

“Hey!” I put my fist out for Mike to bump. He does, but it's a measured movement. And he doesn't launch into our secret handshake like he usually does. “What a surprise. What are you two doing here?”

I try to shoot Harper a look of contempt, but I can't
manage to do it. Mike's scrutiny is too intense.

“We just randomly bumped into each other,” Harper says with a winning smile. Unlike mine, hers looks 100 percent organic. “And we started talking, and then one thing led to another and we decided to come by Scoops for old times' sake.”

Mike takes a lick of his mint chip cone and beams at her.

“So, you two,” I begin, but I'm not sure how I'm going to finish. And now I'm just standing here, pointing back and forth between them over and over again like an idiot.

This is why you're supposed to think before you talk. This is why you should plan out entire sentences before you start them.

I clear my throat. “Everything's fine between you?”

Harper bats the air. “Oh yeah. Everything's great. We were just talking about that one time when Mike and I got trapped in the walk-in freezer and had to take off all our clothes so we could keep each other warm with body heat. Remember that?”

And now she's laughing. And Mike is joining in. And they're laughing
together
. Touching each other's arms like they need help staying upright because they're laughing so damn hard.

“When your boss found us . . . ,” Mike tries to say, but he can't even finish. He's too bent over in hysterics.

“There went my summer job!” Harper says, practically crying.

I try to join in, but my laugh ends up sounding like a chipmunk with a speech impediment. “That was hilarious!” I say, but it's too loud. Too fake. Both of them stop laughing and shoot me equally curious looks.

“You okay, buddy?” Mike asks.

“Fine,” I say, once again trying to make eye contact
with Harper, but she either isn't getting it or is purposefully avoiding me.

“Anyway,” Harper says, “we were just going to head down to the beach and hang out. It's so freaking hot! I can't imagine doing anything else. Do you want to come?”

She says this like it's nothing. Like we hang out together all the time. Harper and her ex and the guy she's been secretly hooking up with all summer.

And that's just the thing. Any other summer, this
would
be nothing. This would be normal. This would be just another day on Winlock Harbor. Which is why I really have no choice but to paint on another over-the-top, cheesy grin and say, “Sounds fun! Just like old times.”

So it's settled, then. The three of us take off toward the beach. One big happy family. And as we go, all I can think is,
Well, this should be interesting.

MIKE

W
ell, this should be interesting
, I think as Harper, Grayson, and I stroll casually to the beach. Harper walks in the middle, and for a minute I'm terrified she's going to link arms with both of us and start skipping merrily down the street like we're characters in
The Wizard of Oz
. Who would that make me? The tin man because I have no heart? The lion because I have no courage? Or the scarecrow, because this might just be the stupidest thing I've ever done?

I wasn't able to follow Harper for long. After a few blocks she popped into another store and started browsing like she had nothing better to do on this scorching hot August afternoon than peruse the shops. And maybe she didn't. Maybe that was her plan along.