Boys of Summer (8 page)

Sure, it was fine last summer and all the summers before that when I could paint on a breezy smile and drink a few beers to loosen up and joke around with the guys. I used to be able to tolerate it. More often than not I even had a relatively good time. But everything is different this summer. Not just with me. Mike and Grayson seem different too. I can feel it in the stiff way Mike is standing, like a petrified tree, and the way Grayson is staring off into the distance while he mindlessly sips his beer.

There's a dreary fog that has settled over our little group. A weight dragging us down. I have a chilling premonition that if we keep going this way, it's going to drag us right down to the bottom of the ocean.

And I just can't bring myself to fake that smile anymore.

My paint is all dried up.

“Remember that one summer when we smeared dog shit on the bonfire logs?” Grayson is the first to break the ice.

Mike laughs at the memory. “That was hilarious. Everyone was trying to pretend that the entire beach didn't smell like burning crap!”

“And remember that time we dared those tourist girls to skinny-dip and then we hid all of their clothes?” Grayson says.

“What was that?” Mike asks. “Three years ago?”

“Four,” I respond tonelessly. “I remember because Grayson had just gotten his braces off and he couldn't stop licking his own teeth like a pervy porn star.”

Grayson guffaws. “That's right. That was the summer I hooked up with Courtney Willows. She was hot. Whatever happened to her?”

“What's the matter?” Mike teases, nodding at the crowd. “Not satisfied with the selection tonight?”

Mike slugs him in the arm, and I notice Grayson wince just a little too much.

“Shall we start the bets, gentlemen?” Mike asks, scanning the crowd. “I spy a brunette with—”

“No,” Grayson says, and I instantly hear the edge to his voice. Grayson must hear it himself, because his next words are much more playful. “Not tonight. All the best players need some time on the bench every once in a while. Even me.”

Mike laughs, but it sounds strained. I wonder if he's nervous about bumping into Harper here. If he is, he hasn't said as much. So far there's been so sign of her. If she has any heart left, she'll stay far away from here and give the poor guy a break.

My gaze wanders back to the cluster of lounge chairs where Whitney is sitting, except she's not there anymore. The chairs have been claimed by a family of four sharing a plate of nachos. The guy she was talking to is gone too.

I blink and glance around the party, feeling a strange twist in my gut. I quickly shake it away. Why the hell do I care where Whitney goes or who she goes with?

I don't.

The DJ plays “Macarena” next, and the tourists cheer. It wouldn't be a summer pool party without a bunch of old white people pretending they can dance to Latin beats.

“Well, that's my cue to leave,” I say, tossing my empty beer can into the nearest trash can.

“What?” Grayson says. “You can't leave yet. We just got here.”

“Yeah, but
Crusade of Kings
starts in a few minutes.”

“That's what DVRs are for,” Grayson argues. “We can all watch it together tomorrow. Like we always do.”

“You said I had to
come
to the party. You didn't say anything about how long I had to stay.”

“But Mike's not even drunk enough yet to do the chicken dance.”

“Hey!” Mike interjects. “I don't
do
the chicken dance.” He pauses to sip his beer. “I
rock
the chicken dance.”

“See?” Grayson says. “C'mon. You have to stay. We're having fun.”

There's a bizarre anxiety in his voice. I know he probably doesn't intend for me to hear it, but I do. For some reason he seems desperate to act like this is just another summer. And maybe for him it is.

But it's not for me.

I feel a ripple of frustration move through me.

Doesn't he get it? My father is dead. I'm never going
to have just another normal summer ever again. Why does Grayson think he can just bring up all of these past memories—things that we
used
to do—and it will make everything okay?

Reminiscing about the good stuff in the past won't erase the bad. It will only make it hurt worse.

I know the guy is trying, but it's just too much.

“Hey, Macarena!” I hear someone yell, exceptionally loud over all the other voices. I look up to see my mother among the line dancers, one hand raised in the air, the other wrapped tightly around a plastic wineglass. She does the requisite end-of-verse hop to change directions, and chardonnay sloshes over the rim, spilling all down the front of her dress. She laughs like this is the funniest thing ever.

If I wasn't ready to leave a minute ago, I certainly am now.

I wrap a hand around Grayson's forearm and give it a squeeze. “Sorry, man. I gotta go.”

I turn to leave just as my mother spots me. Her face brightens. “Ian! Where have you been? I haven't seen you all week! You have to come dance with us!”

I give her a meager wave and take off toward the beach. My mom keeps calling and calling, her voice getting angrier with each step I take. I cringe with each repetition of my name.

Ian. Ian. IAN.

By the time I'm halfway to the Cartwrights' house, it sounds less like a name and more like a dying bird.

I feel a stab of guilt as I plod down the beach, sand slipping between my feet and my sandals. I probably shouldn't have just left her there. Especially in the state she's in. But I can't bring myself to go back. Plus, I'm sure my grandparents are there. They can help her get home.

That's two disastrous parties in one week. Two nights I've left my drunk mother to make a fool of herself in front of the entire island. Two times I've retreated down this very beach to the soundtrack of fading music and rising waves.

Will every night here be exactly the same?

I don't know why I let Grayson and Mike talk me into this. If I'm going to live the same day over and over again, I'd rather do it locked in a dark room.

By the time I get to the house, I'm already planning to raid Grayson's bedroom in search of the key that will free my captured guitar from the closet, but I freeze in my tracks when I hear voices. Loud, hostile voices. Coming from the window I climbed through just a week ago.

Whitney's room.

“Stop!” Whitney cries out.

“C'mon,” a male voice says. “I know you've done it with half this island.”

“I have not!”

“That's not what people are saying. But don't worry about it. I like girls who know what they want.”

“I don't want this,” Whitney snaps.

“Sure you do.”

I hear a struggle and a few grunts, and then Whitney yells, “Get off me, you douche bag!”

And that's all it takes for me to complete this déjà vu night by diving right back through Whitney Cartwright's bedroom window.

GRAYSON

S
o, how's work?” I ask Mike after Ian leaves.

He shrugs. “Same grass, different day.”

I nod, taking a sip of my beer, looking out at all the people gathered around the beach club pool. “Remember that time we put laundry detergent in the hot tub, and the next day this entire area was overrun with soap bubbles?”

Mike smiles but doesn't laugh. “Yeah. That was funny.”

I prod him with my cup. “And remember that time Whitney had a slumber party and we replaced all the Oreo cookie filling with toothpaste?” I let out a loud guffaw and then cringe at how fake it sounds.

He chuckles halfheartedly. “Another classic.”

I blow out a breath. God, trying to make conversation with Mike is like trying to make conversation with a turtle who refuses to come out of its shell. I wonder if my attempts sound as desperate aloud as they do in my head. I don't know how many more rambunctious stories of our childhood I can rehash before I just run out.

Why is it so awkward? Between all of us? It used to be so easy. We didn't have to reminiscence about old memories, because we were too busy making new ones.

I know Ian's dealing with some pretty heavy shit with his dad passing away and everything. I've been trying to get him to talk about it all week. I've asked him repeatedly how he's doing, hoping he'll open up and tell me what's on his mind. But he always just mumbles a one-word answer and then disappears into the guest room. So I've pretty much given up.

I want so badly to forget about all this crap in our lives and just have a good summer. A last summer. Before we each ship off to our real lives. Before Mike moves to New York with Harper (if they're even back together by then). Before Ian goes off and becomes some hotshot moody solo artist. Before I start Vanderbilt in the fall as their starting quarterback.

Yeah, right.

I can barely even hold a beer in my right hand, let alone throw a perfect spiral. My future feels so derailed, it would take a miracle to get it back on track.

My dad tried to bring it up yesterday, while Ian was locked in the guest room, strumming the world's most depressing chord progression, and my sister was off traipsing around the island doing God knows what with God knows who.

The Cartwrights. If we're not known for our abundance of cash, we're known for other abundances.

“Hey, you wanna toss a few on the beach?” my dad asked. He had already fished the football out of the shed and was passing it back and forth from hand to hand. He threw it to me across the kitchen. It was a perfect throw. It sailed over the island, spiraling beautifully through the air. Apparently my dad still has it, even if I don't.

I tried to catch it left-handed, afraid if I used my other arm, I wouldn't be able to hide the pain. It was ugly. It
fumbled through my useless fingers. I curled my chest around it, but it simply bounced off and knocked right into the spice rack, sending bottles of paprika, curry powder, and cumin crashing to the counter.

It still smells like an Indian restaurant in there.

I tried to pass it off with a laugh, but the suspicion on my dad's face was unmistakable.

“Looks like you could use some practice.” He tried for a joke. It failed.

“Maybe later,” I said, attempting to sound casual as I opened the fridge. I took out a carton of eggs, milk, and every vegetable I could find. I didn't know what I was going to do with it all—make the world's most loaded omelet?—but I needed somewhere to point my gaze. I needed something to do with my hands.

Thankfully, my dad did what we Cartwrights do best: he avoided the issue altogether. He placed the football down on the counter and walked out of the room. After his footsteps retreated, I closed the fridge and stared at the ball.

It said more just by sitting there than my dad ever could.

Thankfully, he got called back to the mainland for some business and left this morning.

I down the rest of my beer and crush the cup. “Want another?” I ask Mike.

He seems distracted by something—thinking about Harper, no doubt—but he nods. “Sure. Thanks.”

I dash up to the bar just as someone turns around with two full cups in their hand and nearly dumps both of them down the front of my shirt. I jump back just in time to avoid the beer bath and look up to see Harper trying to recover her drinks.

Shit.

I feel a flash of anger at the sight of her standing there,
dressed in an as-sexy-as-hell sundress, her lips stained bright pink. Why is she here? She had to know Mike would be here. Is she trying to mess with his head by flaunting her perfect little body at him? And who is that other beer for? Most likely some rebound guy she brought along. This girl is a real piece of work.

“Hey,” she murmurs softly, refusing to meet my eye. For some reason she looks embarrassed, obviously at having been caught lurking around this party. She knows I hate it when she plays these kinds of games.

“Hey,” I mumble dismissively as I step around her to the bar. When I glance back again, I don't see her. Hopefully, she's scurried off somewhere. Hopefully, to the other side of the island.

As I carry the beers back, I silently debate whether or not I should tell Mike that Harper is here. Or should I just try to discreetly lead him away and suggest we go hang out somewhere else?

But I soon realize it's a moot point, because when I reach Mike, I find him staring intently at something on the other side of the pool. His eyes are narrowed and his stance is rigid. I follow his gaze to see Harper sitting on a chair in one of the cabanas, sipping her beer and chatting with Bree Olsen, another local girl who went to school with Mike and Harper.

Well, at least it's not a guy.

I hand Mike his drink. He chugs half of it.

“She had no right coming here,” I grumble, trying to be helpful.