Boys of Summer (37 page)

An hour later my mother, the boys, and I are seated around a set table, staring blankly at each other while my father yells out, “Five more minutes!”

“He said five more minutes twenty minutes ago,” Jake grumbles under his breath so my dad can't hear. Even the twins seem to be respectful of my father's efforts, which I actually find quite fascinating. If it were me or my mom in that kitchen, they would be throwing tantrums at my feet
begging to be fed something because they were positively dying of hunger.

“And ten minutes before that,” Jasper reminds the rest of us.

I nod, my stomach practically caving in on itself in protest. “I know. Let's just be patient.”

“I'm sure it'll be worth the wait,” Mom puts in, but I can see in her eyes that she's just as distrustful of this whole escapade as the twins.

Jake sighs and pushes his fork around with his fingertip, while Jasper makes a game out of using his knife to fish out the slivers of ice cubes left in his glass.

Finally, after another half hour of “five more minutes,” Dad emerges with plates full of steamy, hot food that admittedly smells amazing. My mom and I share a look of relief across the table.

“What is it?” Jasper says, crinkling his nose slightly.

“Cacio e Pepe!” my dad announces proudly.

“What's that?” Jake asks with a scowl. “It sounds French.”

“It's Italian. Roman, actually. And it's delicious.”

“What does it mean in English?” Jasper asks, crossing his arms like he's about to stage a formal demonstration.

“Mac and cheese,” my dad says, raising his eyebrows in a challenge.

Two sets of genetically identical eyes light up at once, and they immediately dive in with the fervor of a pair of vultures devouring a dead carcass on the road.

“They made it on one of my shows today. It looked so good, I had to have it,” my dad explains, watching contentedly as the twins gobble up their creamy pasta. “And after calling every restaurant in town to find out that no one on this island makes it—or has even heard of it—I Googled
a recipe, called up Coconut's Market, got Old Man Finn to deliver the ingredients to me, and presto!” He motions toward the plates.

My mom watches me as I wind the pasta around my fork and take a tentative bite. I'm not sure what I'm going to get. I don't exactly trust the twins' culinary palettes. After all, they think the pasta that comes in a can is quality stuff.

To my astonishment and delight, it's incredible. Creamy and flavorful and so divinely rich. I take another bite. My mom joins in.

“What do you think?” Dad asks us.

“Ohmygodsogood,” I mumble with my mouth full.

“Wow!” Mom says, doing little to hide her surprise.

My dad claps his hands together excitedly. “Yes! I knew it!”

“You've been holding out on me all these years!” Mom accuses.

Dad looks so damn pleased with himself, I'm afraid he might fall over and break his other leg. “Well,” he says, smoothing the sides of his hair like a member of
Jersey Boys
, “I had to make sure you were marrying me for my good looks, and not my culinary skills.”

Mom barks out a laugh. “Joke's on you, then, 'cause I actually married you for your money.”

“What money?” Jasper asks, and we all burst out laughing.

Dad kisses my mom on the head as she continues to shovel pasta into her mouth. I can't help but smile as I watch them together. No matter what has happened to this family—broken legs and overdue notices and surprise twins—they've never turned on each other. They've always tackled each obstacle as a team. As partners.

“I made plenty,” Dad says, sitting down to eat. Enough
for lunch tomorrow.” He gives me a pointed look. “I even made enough for Julie, in case she's coming by later.”

I don't miss the air of hopefulness in his tone. Or the fact that both twins look up in unison and stare expectantly at me with long strings of cheesy pasta hanging from their mouths.

“Yeah,” I say haltingly. “I don't think she'll be coming around.”

“Ever?” Dad asks.

I shrug and cast my gaze to my plate. “I dunno.”

“He's being the stupidest,” Jasper informs our parents.

Mom laughs. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” Jake confirms. “We already told him that.”

I roll my eyes and keep eating, hoping Dad will just drop the topic. And magically he does.

At least for now.

After the twins are asleep and I've showered all the noxious weed killer and grass smells off my body, my dad knocks on my door.

I'm already in bed with a book, and the lights are off, apart from the small reading lamp on my nightstand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, and I know he's looking to continue the conversation we half started at dinner.

I shake my head and flip the page. “Not really.”

Dad nods, backs out, and starts to close the door again.

“Do you think I'm being stupid?” I ask before the door is fully shut.

He chuckles and limps into my room, then sits down on the corner of my bed. He finds my foot under the covers and gives it a squeeze.

“It depends on the context.”

I put my book down, not even sure where to start.

“It's Harper, isn't it?” he asks. “You can't quite let her go. But you have to if you want any future with Julie.”

I blink back at him. “How did you know?”

He smiles. “I was eighteen once too.”

I look at him, thinking about everything he's been through to get here. He gave up a whole life on the mainland just to be with my mother. One summer vacation here, and he was hooked.

I let out a long sigh. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever regret moving to the Locks?”

He doesn't even hesitate. “Not for a single second.”

“Really? Even though you know how much more there is out there?”

“There's nothing wrong with spending your life here, if it's where you know you belong. I knew I belonged here the moment I met your mother. The question is, where do you belong?”

I don't answer. Because I'm not sure I'm ready to say the truth aloud. For the past six years I thought I belonged with Harper, wherever that led me. New York, Paris, London, Los Angeles, the moon. I would have followed her anywhere. And she probably would have kept doing the same thing to me that she's been doing for six years.

Because even though I always thought I was so sure of her, she was never sure of me. She might not be sure of anything. And I can't hang my entire life on “maybe.”

Especially when the certainty of what I want is becoming clearer every day.

My dad squeezes my foot again and stands up. He starts for the door, nearly disappearing into the shadows of my bedroom.

“I think I could love a life here,” I whisper to him. To the shadows. To myself.

Even in the faint light, I can see him smile.

“Then there you go,” he says. I hear the squeak of the door opening. “And don't worry about what the twins said.”

I tilt my head questioningly.

“They're right. You are being a little stupid.” He chuckles. “But I'm sure it's just a phase.”

I laugh too as he bids me good night and closes the door.

I set my book on the nightstand and switch off my reading lamp. In the darkness I think about everything that's happened this summer. Harper ending things for good, Julie trying to save me from drowning in the ocean, working on the Cartwrights' roof, long walks around the island with Julie, finding Grayson's phone at the Cove, watching Ian's mother flip out on the beach, seeing Grayson and Harper kissing, punching one best friend in the face, and then saving another best friend's life.

Then I think about what Mamma V said to me in the kitchen that night after the Movies under the Stars party.

“Don't you forget where you're from, mister. There's no shame in working hard. No matter what color your collar is.”

And I realize that what I said to my dad is true.

I could have a life I love here.

I think I already do.

IAN

T
he ferry releases a deep warning blast into the early morning fog. Two minutes until departure. Whitney turns to me, her eyes misty. “I can stay another day,” she says.

I shake my head. “You should go. School starts next week. And I'm sure you have lots of shopping to do.” I flash her a goading grin as she socks me in the arm.

The past two weeks have been tense between us. Between the fight we had and the whole episode on the bridge, neither one of us quite knows what to say or where to step. We texted almost every day, but mostly we've kept our distance from each other. Or maybe she's kept her distance from me. I don't know. I just know that now is not the time to start a new relationship. I'm still trying to mend old ones.

And survive the loss of others.

“I know you don't want to hear it,” Whitney says hastily, like she's afraid if she doesn't get it out, she'll lose her nerve, “but I really am sorry about your dad. I just want you to know that. He was a good man.”

I feel the tears prick my eyes, and I fight the instinct to blink them away. I've been blinking them away all summer, and it has only led to disaster.

“Thank you,” I whisper to her in a thick voice. “And yes, he was.”

Then, suddenly her lips are on mine. Warm and urgent. I realize how much I've missed the touch of her kisses in the past two weeks. How much I've missed the way they seem to make all the clamoring and shouting in my head fade to background noise.

I don't know what the kiss means. But it feels unlike any of our other kisses. It feels sad. It feels truthful. It feels like good-bye.

Whitney and I shared a thousand moments this summer. We lay in each other's arms for hours. We talked until we ran out of words. And yet I could never see her as a permanent part of my life. I couldn't allow myself to be someone important to her.

Whitney pulls away first. Tears are already falling down her cheeks. The look in her eyes tells me she gets it. She knows. This isn't going to happen. We aren't going to make empty promises of staying in touch and visiting on weekends and video chatting to get through the lonely nights.

Because we aren't the people we need each other to be. At least not in the long-term.

We were stable bridges when all the others were falling apart.

We helped each other cross the deep ravines that were laid out in front of us, blocking our paths, hindering our views of the future.

I needed someone to distract me from my grief. And she needed someone who could see her as more than just a pretty face and a slutty reputation. Someone who could see the person she's always wanted to be.

And now that we're both safely on the other side, I think we know what happens next.

That's the thing about bridges. Once you cross over, there's no need to go back.

Nobody stays on a bridge forever. Eventually everyone continues to the other side.

Even me.

I watch the ferry pull out of the dock. I watch until it disappears around the side of the lighthouse. I needed to do at least that. I needed to see her until I could no longer see her.

I retreat slowly back to my grandparents' house, taking my time. When I walk through the front door, my mom is sitting on the couch, covered in the afghan that Dad and I used to fall asleep under.

“You're up early,” I say. She doesn't respond. I come around the side of the couch and notice that her eyes are closed. She has a cooling mug of coffee on the table in front of her. She must have gotten up and then fallen back asleep.

The living room is clean now. I spent the past two weeks straightening it up and throwing out all the wine. Not that she can't buy more if she wants to, but I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

After the incident on the beach, I called my grandparents—who, as it turned out, had gone to visit friends on the mainland—and asked them to come home. I told them that Mom needed them. I told them that
I
needed them.

I moved back into my old bedroom. The house finally feels full again. It feels
almost
back to normal. Obviously my father's absence is still a big gaping hole in the center of the floor. We all walk around it, trying not to forget it's there, trying not to fall in. But the difference is, now we talk about it. I make an effort to mention him at least once a day. Either a reference to something he used to like, or a quote he used to say, or sometimes I just admit that I miss him.

It's nice. Saying those things aloud. You can say them all you want in your head, but until you let someone else hear them, they're not quite real. And they're certainly not fixable.

Not that I'll ever stop missing my father. But talking about it somehow makes me miss him a little less every day.