Boys of Summer (36 page)

“Does that mean you've made up? Are you moving back in?”

She bites her lip, looking anxious. Those short-lived hopes crash and burn in a fiery mess.

“No,” she says regretfully. “We've been meeting with a divorce lawyer. We're signing the papers this week.”

“But—” I try to say, but my voice threatens to crack again, so I shut my mouth.

I think back to the argument I had with my father in the kitchen. I accused him of avoiding the issue. Of not accepting that my mother was really gone. When the whole time he
was
accepting it. He was dealing with it. He was going through a divorce. And he was probably hurting. He simply hid it all too well. Just as I've been hiding the constant pain in my arm from him.

Fake it till you make it.

I guess I learned from the best.

“Grayson,” my mom says gently. “Your father and I just aren't meant to be together anymore. I felt trapped in my marriage for too long, and I finally found the courage to do something about it. Yes, I handled the whole thing terribly. I realize that. But it doesn't change how I feel.”

I nod, sniffling. My mom pulls a tissue out of her bag
and hands it to me. I wipe feebly at my nose, feeling more and more like a little child by the second. But maybe sometimes we all need to feel like kids again. To remind us of what's important. To remind us how to get up when we fall.

“But I want to see you,” she says earnestly. “I know you're starting football camp at Vanderbilt next week, but I'm still hoping we can be in each other's lives.”

I bow my head in shame, thinking about the registration e-mail that's now nothing more than recycled bytes of data. The deadline has long since passed, but it doesn't matter. The truth has been slowly settling in all summer. I've just been too stubborn to see it.

I've been too stubborn to see a lot of things.

I don't know what I'm going to do in the fall, but I know it won't be football.

“Yeah,” I say hesitantly, lifting my gaze to look my mom in the eye. “About Vanderbilt. There's something I need to tell you.”

MIKE

J
asper won't get out of his bed. He's on the top bunk, pressed against the wall with his head under the covers.

I really don't have time for this today.

My shift starts in twenty minutes. Now that the roofing job at the Cartwrights' is finished, I've had to double up on my hours at the beach club to keep the bills paid. My dad's leg is finally getting better. He's no longer on bed rest, so he can actually move around the house now, but he needs physical therapy and it's not cheap.

To be honest, I kind of miss the roofing job. Over the summer months, I started to feel more and more comfortable up there. I started to really enjoy it. And there's no better view of the Locks than from the rooftops.

“C'mon,” I urge Jasper, losing my patience. “You need to get dressed.”

“I don't wanna go!” he screams from under the sheet.

I sigh. “I thought you loved going to the kids' camp. The schedule says today they're doing a snorkel lesson.”

His head pokes out from under the sheet. “In the ocean?” he asks, his eyes widening.

I shrug. “I don't know. And neither will you unless you're there.”

This seems to do the trick. Jasper leaps from the top to the bottom bunk in a death-defying monkey move that makes me cringe. I fully expect him to cry out in pain. All we need in this family is another broken leg.

But he lands elegantly with a bounce and springs off the bed like an Olympic gymnast, then darts to the bathroom. “I want teeth brushed!” I call after him. “I'll be smelling your breath!”

I pour some kibble into the dish for the dog, who for the past two weeks has been called Jules. I don't have to be a child psychologist to figure that one out.

I get the boys dressed and fed and out the door in record time.

“Bye!” my dad calls from his place on the couch. Then, just as I'm closing the door, I hear him screaming, “A hash! You're making a
hash
? Can you be any less creative?”

When we reach the beach club, I try to scoot the boys in the direction of the kids' camp, but Jake, always the shrewd one, stops and gives me an accusing glare. “Why aren't you coming with us?”

“Because,” I tell him calmly—kids can smell fear—“I'm late for work, and it will take me twice as long to get there if I have to walk you through the clubhouse first.”

It's not a total lie, but he doesn't buy it for a second. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You never come with us anymore. Did you and Julie have a fight?”

I sigh. “No.” At least that much is true. “We didn't have a fight. We just . . .” I trail off. I'm not getting into this with a six-year-old. I can barely understand it myself. “It's complicated, okay?”

“We like Julie,” Jake declares.

“Yeah,” Jasper agrees, suddenly standing by Jake's side in a matching arms-crossed stance. “Julie is fun.”

“I can't argue with you there,” I say.

They're right. Julie
is
fun. She's the most fun I've had in a long time. I just haven't been able to bring myself to see her or call her for the past two weeks. Not since I totally ditched her that day to find Harper, who, as it turned out, had found someone else.

At least that question is now answered. Harper always felt like an eternally open-ended parentheses in my life, just waiting to be closed. But I'm starting to realize that the ambiguity of it all was one-sided. Harper closed her parentheses months ago. Maybe even years ago.

I guess I just never believed it. I never wanted to.

Until I saw Grayson sticking his tongue down her throat.

It's been a hard few weeks. I was able to forgive Grayson, but that doesn't mean I don't get a little nauseous every time I think about it. And I still haven't been able to talk to Harper. She texted me a few times after the fight, but I never responded, and eventually she stopped trying.

I have a feeling that wound will heal only with time.

“Why don't you like Julie anymore?” Jake asks, crashing into my thoughts.

“Yeah,” Jasper echoes, holding down their unified front.

“I do like Julie,” I tell them. “I like her a lot. Like I told you, it's complicated.”

Jasper snorts and whispers something into Jake's ear, who in turn snorts as well.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Jasper says, which makes Jake snicker.

“Tell me,” I demand, suddenly feeling silly for wanting so badly to be let in on the secret of a pair of six-year-olds. I turn to Jake, giving him a warning look. He's always been the easier one to crack.

“Jasper says you're being stupid,” he tells me.

I look to Jasper. He nods tightly. “The stupidest.”

I roll my eyes and turn both of them around by their shoulders, give them pats on the back to send them into the club. “Go. I'm late.”

They march diligently forward, and I watch them disappear behind the main clubhouse door.

“I'm not stupid,” I mumble to myself before turning and stalking off toward the garden shed.

That night the boys and I come home to a loud clattering in the kitchen. “Wait here,” I whisper to them in the entryway, convinced that this is the first house burglary in the history of the Locks.

“No!” Jasper whines. “We want to help catch the robber.”

Obviously he came to the same conclusion that I did.

“It's not a robber,” I say urgently. “Now shush.”

“If it's not a robber,” Jasper challenges, “then why do we have to shush?”

“Just shush,” I tell him. “And stay here.”

I eye my father's closed bedroom door and wonder if he took another painkiller. Is he really sleeping through an entire breaking and entering?

I take a deep breath and creep toward the kitchen, realizing way too late that I'm not armed and I'm definitely not equipped to take on a criminal. I could barely hold my own in a fight with my best friend.

I startle when I hear another loud clang, and push myself flush with the wall so I can peer around the corner.

“Where does your mother keep the damn cheese grater?” a voice calls out, and my whole body sags in relief. I walk into the kitchen to find my dad—with his crutches—rifling
through the pantry. The kitchen is a disaster. It looks like he's emptied the contents of every single cabinet onto the countertops.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He turns to me with a big, impish grin. “I'm cooking dinner.”

“
You
?” I ask skeptically. “Are cooking?” My father barely knows how to pour his own cereal. I don't think he's touched a single frying pan in his entire life.

He turns back to the pantry. “Well, I would be if I could find the dang cheese grater.”

I pull out a drawer next to the oven and place the cheese grater on the counter for him.

He snaps his fingers. “The one place I didn't look.”

“So,” I say, treading lightly. “
Why
exactly are you cooking?”

He grabs a chunk of hard white cheese and starts chafing it against the grater with surprisingly decent skill. “Well, I figure if those bozos on the TV can do it, why can't I?”

Ah. The cooking shows. That's what this is about.

Admittedly, I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten dinner yet and I was planning to just fix some sandwiches for me and the twins. I peer curiously over my dad's shoulder, trying to discern what he could be making.

“Nope. Out! Out! Out! I'll call you boys when it's ready.” He shoos me out of the kitchen. “Would you watch over Picasso's shoulder while
he
was working?”

I feel the urge to tell my father that he is probably quite far from mastering a blank plate the way Pablo Picasso mastered a blank canvas, but I resist. After all, this new interest in the culinary arts could turn out to be a good thing. It sure beats him sitting around doing nothing.

My mom arrives home a few minutes later while I'm helping the twins change out of their swimsuits. I hear the front door close, followed by footsteps that practically screech to a halt when another crash echoes from the kitchen.

I run out to find my mom clutching her phone in her hand, trying to steady her shaking fingers long enough to dial 9-1-1.

Apparently she came to the same conclusion that the twins and I did. She nearly jumps when she sees me, and I smile and ease the phone out of her hand.

“Dad's cooking,” I explain.

She stares at me for a good ten seconds with a blank expression, as though I'm speaking Korean.

“Like, with food?” she confirms.

I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah. Apparently.”

Her confusion quickly morphs into panic, and her eyes widen. “He's going to burn down the house.”

She marches into the kitchen, only to march back out a moment later when my dad doles out the same order. “Nope! Out you go! Would you hover around Leonardo da Vinci in
his
workshop?”

My mom frowns at me. “Da Vinci?” she whispers.

All I can do is shrug.