The Season of You & Me (3 page)

We sat side by side on the couch, the movie on, but my mind was on her tight purple tank top. The way it hugged her. The space between her breasts that I imagined pressing my lips against. Not that I expected much to happen. I never knew if my body would be up to speed. I could get a hard-on in chemistry if my pants brushed against me, but with a girl next to me, when it would actually be useful, I couldn’t count on it.

“I always liked you,” she whispered, nipping my earlobe.

And . . . lift-off.

Liv straddled me, her tank top off and perfect breasts there, right in front of me, the way I’d imagined. Soft. Her skin smelled sweet, like vanilla. She rocked her hips against me. My fingers fumbled with the button on her cutoffs, when she reached down and undid them herself. It was happening.

And then it wasn’t.

“Am I doing something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” I said. We kissed some more, but the heat was gone. For me anyway. I stopped, pressed my lips together to turn away, but Liv didn’t take the hint. She ran her tongue across my mouth, pecked at my lips.

“Stop.”

“Bry, it’s okay,” she whispered.

“No, Shay, it’s not.” I turned my face away from her, then realized what I’d said.

That stopped her.

She leaned back, folded her arms across her bare chest. “I’m not Shay, is that it?”

“No,” I said, but
was it
? That had popped out of my mouth so unintentionally.

“Tori told me—”

“Tori should shut her mouth,” I said.

“Look, she didn’t mean—”

“Is that what all of this is? Prom, hooking up—do you want this, or did Tori ask you to do it?” I couldn’t even hook up without help. Anger at Tori replaced humiliation. That I could handle. The other stuff—the fact that Liv wouldn’t look me in the eye, me fucking calling her Shay after all this time, the inability to get out of there quickly—it sucked.

She buttoned her shorts and slid off me, searching for her bra. I handed her the tank top, then moved to the edge of the
couch, ready to transfer back to my chair. The leather was slippery and I face-planted on the floor. Liv shrieked, and was on her knees, ready to help me up.

“I got this,” I said, pushing myself to sitting. My wheels were in reach. I hoisted myself up onto the chair. Liv took my hand in hers and sat down on the end of the couch. Minutes passed. There was a shootout on the television. Liv ran her thumb across the back of my hand. She looked at me then. Her eyes gutted me.

“I don’t think I’m ready to handle this,” she said.

“I’m not asking you to,” I said.

I wrenched my hand from hers.

“Can you open the garage?” I asked. She nodded. We didn’t speak again.

That.

That had been enough for good-bye.

When I got home, Mom was perched on the couch, book in one hand, coffee mug in the other. During the year, she taught language arts to freshmen at Crest Haven High. Before my accident, she used to teach at least one summer-school class or tutor, but she’d decided to take that summer off because she claimed she needed a break. I thought it was a load of horseshit and what she really wanted was to keep an eye on me. She looked up as I came through the front door.

“Hey, how was your swim?”

“Good; feeling pretty strong.”

“Hungry? I’ve got some leftover chicken parm.” She placed the mug down on a coaster and slid a bookmark into her paperback.

“Perfect.”

I went to my room, hung my backpack on the hook near the door. One unexpected side effect of being para was becoming a neat freak. I wanted everything within reach. Simplified. No junk on the floor either. When I was in rehab, my parents converted their office into a new bedroom. It was bigger than my old one, but I missed being upstairs, closer to Matt, our late-night chats across our shared bathroom. But, #wheelchairperk—I didn’t have to share a shower.

“Don’t forget your wet bathing suit,” my mother called from the kitchen. I dug into my bag and pulled out my trunks, then met her in the kitchen. She took the suit out of my hands.

“I can do that,” I said.

She waved me off as she headed onto the deck. “No, eat before it gets cold.”

The chicken parm and a can of Coke were on the table, waiting. Comfort food. I dug in, not realizing how hungry I’d been until dinner was in front of me. There wouldn’t have been anything that good at Liv’s get-together, more reason to feel better about not going, I told myself. Mom came back in, sliding the screen door shut behind her.

“Hey, got something in the mail today for you,” she said,
sorting through a bunch of envelopes that were on the counter. She reached into a large, puffy white package and pulled out a black tee. She fanned it out over the chair to show me. It read “Don’t Mind Me, I’ll Take the Stairs,” and had a wheelchair symbol popping a wheelie down stairs. I smiled. The shirt thing had become a joke between me and Mom, after my therapist gave me a That’s How I Roll shirt on my last day of rehab. My dad didn’t really like the dark humor—he was still convinced I’d walk again one day, and thought we were thumbing our noses at fate. I looked at it like a small act of rebellion. A way to show people I did have a sense of humor. That it was okay to laugh.

“Thought maybe you could wear it on Monday,” she said, taking the seat across from me. There was something in her voice. Something that made me think she knew what Mr. Beckett had said to me.

“Let me guess, you talked to Owen,” I said, twirling spaghetti around my fork.

“Okay, maybe I did,” she confessed. “He wasn’t sure if he was going to tell you.”

“I wish he hadn’t,” I said, shoveling the spaghetti in my mouth.

There was a loud thud outside, then footfalls on the deck. My kid brother, Matt, was about to step into the kitchen when my mother stood up.

“Wait—do not come in the house with those work boots. You’ll get mud and manure everywhere.”

Matt grumbled as he pulled off his boots, then stepped through the sliding screen door a moment later, eyes large as he saw my food. He reached over and snatched the piece of chicken parm off my plate and inhaled half of it before giving it back to me.

“Hey,” I said, but couldn’t help laughing.

“All this manual labor works up an appetite.” It was Matt’s first summer working with Dad in our landscaping business. It shouldn’t have jabbed at me, but it did. It was sort of unspoken that one day it would be Lakewood & Sons, and I’d always railed against it, taking the job at the rec center when I was fifteen almost out of spite. I didn’t mind helping Dad, but I’d never seen myself slinging manure for the rest of my life. There was more to it than that, but it was never anything that interested me. Until the choice was taken away. And while I could still help now, going along on a job would be challenging.

Challenging. I hated that fucking word sometimes.

“Where’s your father?” Mom asked.

“He had to go back out to get gas for the mowers. We have a big job tomorrow,” he said, opening the refrigerator door and pulling out the carton of orange juice. He didn’t bother with a glass.

“Matty, be civilized; I can fix you a plate,” Mom said.

He closed the carton and put it back in the fridge. “No can do, Moms, got plans.”

“Oh really?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah, I thought you’d be out too, Bry,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Liv’s going-away party.”

“Party? I thought it was a couple of people.”

“Started out that way. Nick texted me—they’re moving it back to the house, so I’m gonna hit the shower and go over.”

Nick was Tori’s twin brother. Our neighbor. My friend. Sort of.

“Are you telling me there’s going to be a party next door?” Mom asked.

Matt grinned. “Chill, Mom. Nothing to worry about, we’re just hanging out; we might come over and use the half-pipe too, if that’s okay,” he said.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked.

“A few of the guys. It’s cool, Mom, really. Bry, you should come.”

“Not really in a half-pipe kind of mood, Matt.”

“Ha. You know what I mean. Aren’t you and Liv, like, together?”

I felt my mother’s eyes on me. After the circus that was prom, I’d kept tight-lipped about Liv, avoiding the subject of my nonexistent love life whenever possible. Mom really needed to go back to work.

“No,” I said, and I swear it felt like it echoed around the kitchen.

“Bummer,” he said. “Later.” He thundered through the
house, taking the stairs two at a time. A force. So big and present, it took a few moments for the air to still. Mom sat down across from me. I finished up my plate.

“Why don’t you want to go to the party?” she asked.

“It’s not really a party, Mom. Anyway, I’m tired. I have a big night of
Realm Wars
planned.”

“Look, Bry, it’s none of my business, but it’s summer and I think you should try and maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?”

“Get out a little more. That online game was fine in the beginning, but I hate to think—”

“Look, if I wanted to go I would. I just don’t feel like being around anyone right now. Don’t read more into it.”

She nodded. I felt like shit.

“About before, what do
you
think about what Owen said? Do you think I can’t handle the kids in case of emergency?” I asked.

“Bry, I worry about a lot of things. Every time you get into your car, or I know you’re swimming, I say a prayer. It’s automatic. A mom thing. You, being a camp counselor? No worries at all.”

“Not even a Hail Mary?”

She smiled. “Okay, one. That’s it. You’re going to be great.”

It sounded so easy when she said it.

I WOKE WITH A START, A NECK SPASM SENDING A
jolt of pain down my right shoulder. There was a breeze in the car, fresh air carrying the salty scent of the ocean. I sat upright, still disoriented. Mom had the windows down, which must have meant we were off the parkway, close to my father’s. I kneaded my neck, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and blinked a few times.

“How long was I out?” I asked.

“A good two hours—lucky; this ride always feels about an hour too long.” Nan fanned her face with a stack of advertising mailers from every casino in Atlantic City. This was a multitasking journey. After they dropped me off at my father’s, Mom and Nana were hitting the casinos on the way home.

It was a gorgeous blue-sky day. We were about fifteen
minutes away from the causeway that crossed over into Crest Haven. Fifteen minutes to sun, fun, and adventures that would wipe Gavin out of my memory. Kind of like a lobotomy, with sunscreen.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.

Sometime in the middle of the night I’d realized I was making a huge mistake.
Spending the summer with my father?
All I’d thought about was getting away from Gavin, but being faced with the reality of the trade-off made me want to barf. Why hadn’t I listened to Emma?

We saw my father about three times a year. There were never set days; it was more like whenever my mother had a feeling too much time had passed between visits, we’d jump in our car and take the three-and-a-half-hour trek to Crest Haven.

It hadn’t always been this way.

I had sketchy, almost dreamlike memories of what life was like when my parents were actually married. Some good, like pancake breakfasts at the diner, walks in the park where they each held my hand and swung me every few steps, even one Christmas Eve when we strung our small tree with decorations we’d made out of photos and construction paper, then sat in the dim glow of the lights. Some terrible: Mom and me waiting and waiting at a restaurant for Dad to arrive, epic yelling matches where my father would storm out and Mom would end up crying.

One Saturday morning, about a month after first grade started, I woke up and my father was gone. Saturday had been our jam. Cartoon Network and scrambled eggs, the one meal he claimed he could make really well. I would whisk as he broke the eggs into the measuring bowl. That morning I’d taken out the bowl and whisk, but when I went to wake him up, my mother told me he was gone. “We’ll be fine, Cass,” she’d said, as if that was enough of an explanation. At the time I hadn’t really understood it was permanent.

After that, we moved in with Nana Shirl, and she became my afterschool companion. She taught me to play gin while we sipped weak tea and ate dollar-store hot-pink sugar wafers. My mother went from job to job: waitress, retail sales, checkout person at the grocery store . . . nothing seemed to stick. If I thought the fights between my mother and father were epic, the throwdowns between Mom and Nana made them seem like casual conversation.

During those fights, I’d hide in my room to block it out, since I didn’t really understand how my mother had ruined her life, which is what Nana would inevitably say. I’d imagine calling my father, asking him why no one had asked me where I wanted to stay. And while I saw my father at least twice a month on Saturdays, I never had the nerve to ask him why he left. I just enjoyed being his pal in the moment.

It wasn’t until Dad married Leslie that I spent weekends with them in Hoboken. And even then it was only a handful
of times. Leslie had a job in public relations, which sounded important and glamorous, and we got to see a lot of movies for free before they even came out. Mom never seemed jealous or angry, never made me feel like I needed to choose sides. After Dad remarried she went back to school to train as a dental hygienist, and then found a steady job with regular hours. The fights between her and Nan died down. We settled into normal.

At first Dad was in the picture for the big stuff—birthdays, holidays, an occasional outing to the zoo or the beach—but soon after Leslie had my half brother, Hunter, everything changed. Dad traded his human resources job for teaching and they bought the bed-and-breakfast and moved to Crest Haven. Getting together, even for the big things, was a hassle with the distance. Over time, we just fell out of seeing each other, and once I hit high school, I’d dodge his invitations purposely. Part was allegiance to Mom and Nan, part was I didn’t want to deal with feeling not quite at home. I could get away with most of it, except for my one week during the summer. That was his.

It wasn’t terrible. Dad and Leslie did their best to make me feel at home. Having a little brother as a sidekick for a week was kind of cool too. I had my own room, painted a dusky blue color that I’d picked out, white wicker furniture we purchased at a specialty store, and a bulletin board with shell-shaped pushpins. Dad had even given me an old-fashioned
three-speed bike to get around the island. All of this was supposed to make me feel like I had a place there.

There was always a musty, not-lived-in smell in my room when I first arrived. The top of the vanity stayed pristine. No hollow in my bed to snuggle into. Nothing that said
home
to me. I was always “on” at Dad’s house. My best behavior. Conversation light. At least it felt that way. I knew my mother had told him the reason for my sudden desire to spend the summer, but I didn’t anticipate any heart-to-hearts. Maybe that was part of the appeal.

My mouth went dry as we passed the bait shop I used as a landmark on the way to Dad’s.
ETA—five minutes
. There was a massive shark jawbone hanging above the door. Today it felt like I was driving into it, helpless. Was it too late to turn around? Now that I was out of school, avoiding Gavin would be easier, Ems had been right . . . but then there was Nate, the baker’s son from Sugar Rush . . .
Don’t shit where you eat
. Another one of Nan’s favorite sayings. I was screwed.

We turned the corner of my father’s street, only to get stuck behind a horse and buggy, the driver holding on to the reins as she spoke to her passengers and pointed toward a row of brightly colored houses on the street. One of my first years visiting, Dad and Leslie had sprung for a kid’s carriage ride where the tour guide explained the architecture of Crest Haven. We learned about conical witches’ hats roofs and widows’ walks and gingerbread trim. I loved the way the town
looked, like a place out of another century. My mother tapped the wheel with her index finger and sighed.

A few moments later we pulled up in front of a big white Victorian monster of a house, complete with gingerbread latticework and a mansard roof. The sign out front read, “Ocean Whispers . . . A Seaside Retreat,” which sounded like a rehab clinic to me, and there I was, checking in to get over Gavin. A small iron fence surrounded the property, setting it apart from the other inns on the street. The wraparound porch had a row of white rocking chairs, which were vacant but moved gently back and forth in the breeze. Dad sat on the top step, but stood up when he saw us. Mom maneuvered into a spot reserved for check-ins and cut the engine.

“I don’t know about this,” I said, watching as my dad and Hunter trotted down the steps. Hands tucked in khaki shorts, lime-green polo with the collar up, my father looked like he just walked out of a Vineyard Vines ad—dressed to impress. Hunter was at his heels, holding a toy airplane over his head, dipping and weaving it through the air as they walked.

Mom and Nana both turned back to me. “What?”

“I think . . . I’m not sure I want to stay.”

“Well, you picked a heck of a time to tell us,” Nana said.

“Ma, not helping,” my mother said, then reached for my hand. “Hey, you’re here now. Give it a week—like normal, okay? If you want to come home after that, we can talk about it. I have a feeling you won’t want to.”

I nodded. Hunter peered into the car and grinned. He’d grown so much since Easter break. I smiled back at him, the feeling of dread lifting a little. Mom and I stepped out of the car. Nan rolled down the window and waved at Dad. That was the most greeting he would get from her.

“Cassidy,” Dad said, opening his arms as I walked over to the sidewalk. Before he could hug me, Hunter got between us and flew his airplane right into my abs with a dramatic-sounding “Pppsshhh
wwwrr.”
The plane dropped to the ground and he jumped back, making hand gestures that I guess represented a crash. He gave me a once-over.

“Your hair got long,” he said.

“And you grew about ten inches,” I said, tousling his mop top.

“Did not,” he said.

“Okay, maybe two,” I said. He threw his arms around me and squeezed. Hunter gave good hugs. He finally let me go, picked up his toy plane, and walked toward Nan, who was waving out the window for him to come over. My mother joined us at the back of the car, opened the trunk.

“Much traffic?” Dad asked, stepping off the curb to get the bags.

“Nah, I think we were ahead of it.”

Mom tugged the duffel out of the trunk. I took it from her and slung it over my shoulder. Dad had my suitcase in his hand. This was really it.

“Leslie made some lunch. There’s more than enough if you and Shirley want to stay for a bit.”

My mother closed the trunk and crossed her arms. “Shirl’s fingers are itching to get at the slots. We’re staying over in AC tonight. Making a mini break of it.”

“You’re always welcome here. Owner’s discount.”

Mom chuckled. “You know how I feel about B&Bs.”

“It’s really not so bad,” my father said, smiling. A beat passed between them, a shared memory, maybe? Something I wasn’t privy to. Not long ago, after Mom had one of her seasonal decluttering episodes, I’d found a black-and-white photo strip of them in the trash. The kind you used to be able to get from an arcade photo booth. They must have been at the beach—Mom was in a bikini top, Dad was shirtless. They both looked so young and happy. They were even kissing in one of the shots, which should have skeeved me, but it made me sad. Now they stood before each other, pretty much strangers with one thing in common—me. Did anything last?

The front gate to the inn creaked. Leslie trotted over to where we were standing. She was younger than Mom, but not by much. Once it was clear that Les was in the picture for good, she and Mom became friends—not like me and Em were friends, maybe more like distant relatives who were pleasant with each other at the yearly family reunion.

“Sorry, was just finishing up a check-in,” she said, giving Mom a loose hug. Mom patted her back before they pulled
apart. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“Thanks for the invite, but no. We have to get back on the road before traffic gets too heavy,” Mom said.

“We’re so happy Cass is staying with us for the summer,” Les said, giving my hand a squeeze. Mom opened her arms to me. I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around her. Her mouth was right by my ear.

“Remember, I’m a phone call away.”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“You’re going to have a great time.”

“I hope so,” I said. I made my way around to the passenger side of the car. Nana sat like the queen in the front seat, fanning herself with the mailers. I bent over to kiss her cheek. She grabbed my hand and slipped something scratchy into it.

“Enjoy yourself, but not too much,” she said, winking.

“Will do,” I said, opening my hand. Two twenties.

And they smelled of Jean Naté.

We watched and waved as the car sputtered around the corner, then we went inside. Dad carried my suitcase. I carried my duffel. We climbed up the three flights of stairs to my room. I shouldered open the door and was greeted by the not-lived-in musty smell, even though the curtains billowed in the breeze. The bed was made, the wardrobe was open with empty hangers waiting to be filled. My stomach lurched as we tossed the bags on the bed.
You chose this, Cass
, I reminded myself.

“Why don’t we leave this and have some lunch. You must be starving after that ride. We have chicken salad. Your favorite.”

Leslie’s chicken salad with pecans and red grapes
was
my favorite, but my eyes tingled with the threat of tears. I needed a moment to collect myself, take it all in.

“Um, I’d like to unpack first, if you don’t mind,” I said, stalling.

I walked over to the vanity. My name, CASS, was spelled out in a mix of blue sea glass and broken clam and scallop shells. I ran my finger along the C and laughed.

“Hunter did that,” Dad said.

“I love it.”

“You’ll have to tell him,” he said. “Take as long as you need to unpack, we’ll be downstairs.” I waited until he was on the second-floor landing before closing the door. I pulled out my phone and called Emma. She picked up on the second ring.

“Come home,” she said.

“I, I . . . Ems.” My throat closed up around her name. I leaned against the door and slid down, hand on my forehead.
The whole summer; what had I been thinking?

“Cass?”

I took a breath. “I think I made a huge mistake.”

Our late lunch became an early dinner, and after, I asked my father if it was okay to take the bike out. Hunter heard and begged to come along. I bit my tongue. I knew the polite thing
would be to say,
Sure, come along
, but I wanted to be alone. I widened my eyes at Dad, hoping he would understand. He nodded.

“I need you to stay here, Hunter,” he said.

“But why?”

“I can’t finish the chocolate peanut butter ice cream on my own. Cass will be back soon.”

“Can we have a game night then?” he asked. Dad looked to me—this was the bargaining chip to bike solo. Game night didn’t sound like complete torture.

“Sure,” I said. Dad checked the tires and filled the back one with air, and then I was off. It was still too early to ride my bike on the promenade—only pedestrians were allowed during the busy hours—so I rode alongside it on the street, going all the way down to the end, replaying my conversation with Emma in my head. She’d talked me off the ledge, or at least helped me come up with a game plan. Of course I was freaking out; getting over someone was not as simple as changing the scenery. It was a start, but I needed more direction.