Boys of Summer (32 page)

It ends the bad way.

She yanks her hand free so hard, I stumble backward. “Get away from me. All of you! Just leave me alone!”

“All right. What's going on here?” A large, booming voice comes from behind me. I turn to find Officer Walton making his way into the circle.

Even though I know this will only further humiliate Ian, I can't help but feel relieved at Officer Walton's arrival. He has been friends with my dad since high school. He's almost like a second father to me.

“She's just had too much to drink,” I tell him. “We need help getting her home. She's harmless but she's resisting us.”

Officer Walton nods, giving me a sad but understanding look. Then he turns to Ian and his mom. “Okay, Mrs. Handler. Looks like the party is going to have to end early for you. Let's get you home.”

I cringe, praying that she'll cooperate. That she won't try to shove him, too. That could get messy.

Officer Walton approaches her cautiously. She watches him like she's a trapped animal. When he tries to take her gently by the arm, she loses it again.

“Don't you dare touch me! My husband is a command sergeant major of the United States Army! He'll eat your face for breakfast!”

“C'mon now.” Officer Walton tries to be nice. “Don't be like that. We're all trying to handle this like grown-ups. So why don't you let these nice boys walk you home?”

Mrs. Handler turns her angry glare back to Ian. “Nice boys,” she repeats spitefully. “My son is an ingrate. He doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about anything but himself.”

I can't bear to look at Ian. The pain on his face is too much. I look to the sand. Fortunately, Office Walton decides that enough is enough.

“Okay,” he says, resigned. “I tried to do this the easy way.” He walks up to Mrs. Handler, roughly pins her hands behind her back, and secures zip ties around her wrists. She fights him at first, trying to wiggle out of his reach. He has no choice but to wrestle her to the ground until she's facedown on the sand.

The crowd gasps. This is probably the most action Winlock Harbor has seen . . . well, maybe ever. Ian covers his eyes, unable to watch. My stomach wrenches for him.

“Are you ready to go home now?” Officer Walton asks her.

She nods, spitting sand out of her mouth. Officer Walton helps her up and turns to Ian. “Help me walk her down the beach, will you?”

He nods and scrambles forward to take hold of her other elbow. I run to his side. “I'll come,” I tell him.

But he shakes his head. “Don't. Stay here.”

“I can help.”

“Mike,” he says sternly. There is no room for argument. “Please. Don't come.”

He looks at me then, and I can see the shame and hurt swirling in his eyes like thunderclouds. I know the last thing he wants is for anyone to witness the rest of this debacle, and I can't say I blame him.

He rips his gaze from mine and, with the help of Officer Walton on her other elbow, starts marching his mother down the beach.

I watch them until they've almost completely disappeared around the bend and the crowd has dispersed, returning to their beach chairs and towels. But I can't just sit back down and go on with my afternoon like nothing has happened. My body and mind are too riled up. I need to do something. I need to get away from here.

Julie comes running up to me, but before she can say anything, I blurt out, “Do you want to get something to eat? I'm starving.”

She looks concerned for a moment but eventually nods. As we walk toward the clubhouse, I search the beach for Whitney, but she's nowhere to be found.

In the beach club kitchen, Mamma V cooks us up a feast. She even packs it into a picnic basket for us, and we take it to a deserted lawn in the back. When I unpack the basket, I can immediately tell how much Mamma V likes Julie. She would never have gone through so much effort for Harper.

“Are you okay?” Julie finally asks after I've nearly finished off half a rotisserie chicken without muttering a single word.

I'm still completely shaken by the incident on the beach,
and the look that I saw in Ian's eyes as he told me not to go with him.

It was like he had lost. Lost at being a son. Lost at grieving his father. Lost at life. That look has been flashing through my mind ever since, and I can't help shake the feeling that I could have done something. I could have helped. Even though he didn't want me to. Even though he pushed me away.

“I'm okay,” I say, gazing off in the direction of the beach. The sun is already starting to set, making for another magnificent Winlock Harbor sunset. “But I'm worried about Ian. He's not doing well. I . . . I feel bad for him, you know? He's been through so much. He doesn't deserve this. I want to help, but . . .”

“But you can't help someone who doesn't want it,” she finishes the thought for me, as if she's living right inside my head. As if she can see my thoughts as clearly as she sees her own.

“Yeah,” I agree miserably.

She scoots closer and puts an arm around me. I rest my head against her shoulder, and she gently runs a hand through my hair. It feels nice, but it also feels off somehow. Almost foreign. Like it's not the right hand. Not the right shoulder.

“I'm here if you want to talk about it,” she says. “Anytime.”

“Thanks.”

It only takes a few minutes for the emptiness to bloom in my chest. It starts small. A tiny pinprick. Harmless and ignorable. But it quickly grows and grows until it threatens to swallow me whole.

Sadly, I know exactly what this feeling is. It's longing. It's missing someone. It's knowing who you would normally call when something like this happens.

And then it's realizing that person is no longer yours to call.

Julie is sitting next to me, ready and waiting to receive all of my anxiety and thoughts and emotions with open arms and open ears, and all I want to do is talk to Harper. This amazing, beautiful, openhearted girl is right here, right now, and all I want to do is jump headfirst into the past and run back to the girl who has broken my heart a thousand times.

Because she's also the girl who's put my heart back together a thousand times. She knows where all the pieces go. She knows how they fit. How
I
fit.

And right now that familiarity, that sense of belonging somewhere and to someone, is consuming all the space in my mind.

“You know what,” I say to Julie, gently taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “I'm not really feeling well. That whole thing just kind of shook me up. I think I'm just gonna head home.”

Julie bites her lip. It's the first time I think I've ever seen a side of her that didn't exude confidence. “Are you sure? Do you want me to come with you?”

I shake my head, but it's too quick, too decisive. “No. That's okay. I just need to be alone.”

I cringe at the words. So familiar. Except they were never mine to say. They were always Harper's.

And they're always a lie.

“Okay,” she agrees, and I see the disappointment written all over her face. It twists the knife that is already protruding from my gut.

“I'll text you tomorrow,” I promise her.

“Okay,” she says again, but this time the word feels hollow and meaningless.

I give her a quick kiss on the cheek and jump to my feet. I slide my T-shirt on and start walking down the beach to
the Cove. I count my steps and the seconds—127—before I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap out my text to Harper.

I need to talk to you. Can you meet me at our place?

I hold my breath. I count out another 127 seconds, but she doesn't respond. I stop and watch the screen of my phone, waiting for the little bubble to appear to let me know she's typing, but it never does.

I feel my heart sink. What am I doing?

Julie is back at the club, ready to be there for me, to listen to me, to talk to me, to maybe even be
with
me, and here I am, chasing after a girl who never stops running away.

Grayson was right. When is enough going to be enough?

I stare one last time at my phone and make a decision I should have made months ago.

Today.

That's when enough is enough.

Right now. It ends right now.

With a newfound determination I turn back toward the main beach. Away from the future I always thought I wanted, and toward the future that might have been waiting for me all along.

But I freeze when, out of the corner of my eye, I see that abandoned future. I see Harper. And my heart leaps into my throat.

Because, as usual, she's not alone.

Because every fear and paranoid delusion that I've had for the past week has now been confirmed.

Because she's standing right in front of the entrance to the Cove, kissing my best friend.

IAN

B
y the time Officer Walton and I get my mother to the house and up the stairs to her bedroom, she has completely passed out. Her head has lolled forward against her chest, and her feet are dragging behind her. I can't decide which version is harder to transport—the ranting, belligerent drunk, or this.

My mother is tiny, but she's heavy. The only reason I've been able to make it all this way is because my rage has been fueling me.

I'm nearly breathless when we finally drop her into bed. Officer Walton rubs sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. I can barely look him in the eye. I'm so mortified.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, flicking my gaze toward him just long enough to convey my gratitude. “And I'm sorry for this.”

He nods. “Your father was a good man. He served this country well. I would do anything for him. And you two.” He nods to me and my mother. I feel my stomach twist. I hate how he says “you two” like we're some kind of team. Like we're in this boat together. My mother has done nothing but humiliate me and herself all summer. I don't want to be anywhere near her fucking boat.

“Thanks,” I mutter again, but this one is far less heartfelt.

“Well, I guess I'll leave you. Call me if you have any more trouble.”

“Will do, sir.”

He turns to leave, but stops just short of the door. “Can I say something to you, Ian?”

I don't know why people ask that. It's such a stupid, pointless formality. It's not like I'm going to refuse. It's not like I'm going to say, “No, you can't say anything to me. Just leave.”

I nod.

“I know it's probably not my place, but your mother is hurting. And I'm willing to guess you are too. Maybe you should go a little easier on her.”

My fists tighten as another burst of anger hits me.

He's right. It's
not
his place. What the hell does he know about anything?

But thankfully, I'm smart enough not to lash out at a police officer. I mumble another “thanks” before he finally leaves.

And I'm left alone with the sound of my mother's labored breathing.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It's Whitney. She's left me numerous texts asking if I'm okay, asking if she can help, asking if she can come by.

I don't answer any of them. Because the answer is no.

She can't come by.

She can't help.

And I'm most definitely not okay.

All summer I've tried to convince myself that I could be, but I'm just now realizing how delusional that was.

My father is dead. And that will never be okay.

The house is quiet. Almost too quiet. And it isn't until
this very moment that I realize I haven't heard a single peep from my grandparents. I check the clock on the nightstand. It's barely even eight o'clock. Are they already asleep? Or did they slip down to the beach to watch the sunset?

I would have thought that with all this commotion of dragging my mother up the stairs, they would have emerged to see what was happening.

I creep down the hall to their bedroom and push open the door. The bed is made but the room is empty. I wander down the stairs and stop dead in my tracks when I see what has become of the house. I guess I didn't notice it before because I was too busy shuffling my mother's barely conscious body up a flight of stairs, but the entire first floor is a complete disaster.