The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  “Are you sure?”

  Even Wes knows that’s not where the tibia is. But he’s not sure how to let Cooper down gently.

  Neither does Zay. “Not even close.” He shrugs off his backpack. “Both my moms watch all those medical dramas. Rescue-hospital-anatomy-investigation. I know more about bones and diseases than I do about music.”

  “Wicked,” Cooper whispers with raised eyebrows.

  Zay peels open the paper bag and pulls out a tinfoil-wrapped hamburger. “If I was Nico, it’d be wicked. I just feel like a boring-ass Wikipedia.”

  Wes slumps on the stool. Thanks, Zay. He didn’t need the reminder that he only has two months to make something happen. Nico’s going to Stanford. He’ll be over three hundred miles away—a five-hour drive on a good traffic day, which is never in California.

  And here Wes is, distracted from finishing his list. Drinking tea Nico bought for him. Watching Nico and Anna laugh between the aisles.

  And wait a damn minute…

  Nico leans toward her. He rolls his eyes, smiles so hard. Anna’s pale, thin fingers wrinkle Nico’s vintage Stanford Rowing T-shirt. Nico reaches to brush the California poppy braided into her wavy hair. They laugh and laugh. Little touches are accompanied by whispers and squinty eyes. All the things from those romcoms Wes devours.

  Nico and Anna?

  Nico and Anna!

  He’s been back for less than two weeks and Wes’s never noticed this. But he was gone a month and, well, that’s a long time. People fall in love in less than twenty-four hours—at least that’s what Reddit has taught him—so how could he not expect Nico to possibly find someone other than him to be interested in? How could he expect Nico to be interested in him at all, since he’s never said anything?

  A cold hand tightens around Wes’s heart. An ache throbs behind his right eye. His hands tremble. Is he breathing? He thinks so. But his stomach’s so knotted, he’s not sure he’s inhaling properly.

  Anna and Nico. Nico and Anna. AnnaNico.

  Eyes closed, Wes braces one palm flat on the counter.

  Just breathe. Just breathe.

  “Here.”

  Wes blinks one eye open. Ella waves a sheet of paper in his face from across the counter. Despite his current state, it’s not an advertisement for a shady clinic that specializes in possible heart defects and therapy for crush-related anxieties.

  “What’s this?” he asks, scanning the paper. His vision finally recalibrates. It’s an email addressed to Mrs. Rossi. There are a lot of bold and italicized words.

  He snatches it from Ella’s loose grip.

  “What is this?”

  Ella clears her throat. “A month ago, I found this while cleaning Mrs. Rossi’s office—”

  “You were snooping,” Wes accuses.

  “Technicalities.”

  “No. Invasion of privacy.”

  Ella ignores his claims. “Read it, Wes.”

  He does. Wes reads it once, then again. He reads until all the words start to make sense. His eyes refuse to leave one section of the email:

  “…due to the lack of profitable revenue delaying timely property payments, the Tea Leaf and Coffee Cup House is extending an offer to settle all properties and rights listed in the current proprietor’s contract in order to renovate the existing space into a brand-new expansion of our current super-licious franchise…”

  Wes pieces together a few key points: One, Mrs. Rossi is behind on property payments for the bookstore. Two, some first-grader-named coffeehouse franchise wants to buy her out. Three, the aforementioned coffeehouse really needs to terminate their promotions consultant because “super-licious” is not a word and poor marketing. And finally, this place, his childhood home, the space he’s felt most himself, is going to be shut down. Permanently.

  “This can’t be right,” he whispers.

  “It’s right there in writing.” Ella stabs her index finger at the paper. Her nails are painted dark purple. Wes has no clue why he focuses on that, other than the fact that he needs a distraction from an impending meltdown.

  “What’s up?” Zay asks between bites of burger.

  Ella seizes the paper back from Wes and thrusts it at Zay. “Read and tell boy genius over here what it means.”

  Zay studies the email with squinted eyes. Over his shoulder, Cooper reads too.

  Wes’s palms are sweaty. His heart beats at an odd rhythm.

  Thump. Pause, thumpthump. Double thump, pause.

  Sweat dribbles down Wes’s temple. His throat’s dry. He reaches for the tea, but his hand’s shaking; his vision is blurred by a thin wall of dampness.

  Wes will not cry. He’s an adult. Managing situations like this is a part of growing up.

  “Looks legit,” Zay says, frowning.

  “Tea Leaf and Coffee Cup House?” Cooper says slowly. “Bogus name.”

  “It’s atrocious,” Ella groans. “But real.”

  “No. She would’ve told us,” Wes says to the counter. Making eye contact with anyone would unleash the tears he’s fighting. He doesn’t even blink. “Mrs. Rossi would’ve said something.”

  “Well, she didn’t,” Ella snaps. “She didn’t say a damn thing.”

  Wes wants to scream. He wants to stand up, heave the stool over his head, and shatter one of the storefront windows. He also wants to curl up in a corner so he doesn’t puke. His head’s fuzzy, as if he’s swimming but drowning.

  Thing is, Mrs. Rossi’s kept this a secret. From him. From the one person who spends more time caring for this bookstore than he does for his own future. Once Upon a Page, for better or worse, has been his past, his present, and it’s always hung neatly in the photo Wes has had in his mind of what his future would look like.

  When Wes finally looks up, Ella’s rubbing her temples. “I need a drink.”

  “You’re underage,” Cooper murmurs as if it’s a secret.

  “Thanks, Obvious Police.” Ella turns to Wes. “She gives me all this shit about being late and not caring… but this.” She pokes the paper again. Wes’s heart lurches. “She’s the one who doesn’t care. How could she not tell us?”

  That cold hand tightens around Wes’s chest. But his mind manages to backtrack. “Wait. You knew about this.” He squints at Ella. “You knew while I was gone. Every time we talked, you never mentioned it.”

  Ella sucks in her bottom lip.

  “And since I’ve been back, you haven’t said a damn word. You brought up all that Book Attic bullshit, but not this.” His breaths are clipped, but he lets the anger rise. “How could you not say anything? You know how much this place means to me.”

  “I didn’t want you to have a breakdown.”

  “Mission unaccomplished then.”

  “Wes, you—” Ella cuts herself off, looking away. “You can’t handle things like this.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No.” She meets his eyes. “You. Can’t.”

  Wes finally blinks. The first hot tear slides over his upper lip, catches on the scruff along his chin. He needs to shave. He can’t believe that’s what his mind chooses to focus on.

  “I love you. You’re my best friend.” Ella reaches out for his hand, but he drags it back, shaking. She frowns. “This is reality. A fucked up one, but it’s real.”

  Wes watches her walk away. Again. He sniffs as another stinging tear traces the tip of his nose before falling off.

  “Wes? You okay?”

  Zay’s voice sounds muffled, distant. Wes’s impressed that he can stare at Zay while not breathing properly.

  “You look like you’re gonna blow chunks.”

  Then Nico’s at the counter, examining him with concern. “Wesley?”

  Anna’s next to him.

  “Háblame,” Nico whispers to Wes.

  Talk to me. Wes knows that mu
ch Spanish. He also knows that, no, he doesn’t want to talk to Nico. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

  He stands on shaky legs, his head spinning. Bathroom. He has the tiniest grasp on his bearings. Nudging past Zay and Cooper, Wes escapes from behind the counter. His feet feel heavy, but he walks. He moves as quickly as his body will allow.

  “Wesley?” Nico calls out.

  A fraction of Wes’s brain wants to finally tell Nico, confess everything. But confessing his mind-numbing crush on Nico won’t save the bookstore or fix this newly splintered piece of his future. The internet didn’t need to teach Wes what he already knew about love; it doesn’t solve all of life’s problems.

  Instead, he says, “Give me some space, Nico. Damn. I’m fine.”

  It’s the biggest lie he’s ever told Nico, but Wes is so done.

  Chapter Eight

  A quick but frantic Google search on his phone informs Wes that he’s either just survived a heart attack, acid reflux, or a possible panic attack. Further research on WebMD and a brief YouTube tutorial eliminate the first two ailments.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  He’s been reciting this to himself for three minutes, eyes closed. It’s helped, though his brain is still a little fuzzy. And, unfortunately, the bathroom is wearing its favorite perfume—eau de bleach.

  Of all the places to hide, Wes isn’t sure why he chose Once Upon a Page’s crib-sized bathroom. He didn’t think he could make it upstairs to the loft. It is the closest room except Mrs. Rossi’s office, and Wes isn’t going in there. What if he found something else? What other ugly, life-altering secrets was she hiding from him?

  That underwater sensation returns. Blinking hard, he stares down at his phone.

  Find an object to focus on.

  The bookstore’s sad bathroom doesn’t have much in the way of decor. There’s a sink, a mirror with a zigzag crack in the bottom right corner, one of those tropical-scent wall plug-ins that hasn’t been changed in a year, flyers for previous store events, and the standard toilet with the lid down where Wes sits. Oh, and a faded blue poster of The Great Gatsby cover: depressing, disembodied eyes staring at Wes. He hates that book. He also hates Chaz, the former employee who pinned it to the mint green wall. Chaz, the clinical kleptomaniac who only stole nude photography books.

  Pervy hipster.

  Wes focuses on a bottom corner of the poster. It’s beginning to curl like a Fruit Roll-Up. That corner’s a rebel.

  His phone directs him to: Go to your happy place.

  Yeah, sorry Google, but Wes’s “happy place” is now officially a gateway to hell.

  Breathing deeply, Wes tries to locate somewhere else in his clogged brain, another place he’s most himself. Every answer ends in Nico. Anywhere with him, having conversations with their eyes and laughing until it hurts.

  Does he have that with Anna?

  Wes finds himself on Google again. His hands shake as he searches “ways to know if your crush is not into you.” What is he doing? Suddenly, he’s on BuzzFeed, then Teen Vogue. He’s browsing Reddit Relationship Advice. Wes finally draws the line at Quora, but not before he’s compiled a new list:

  Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!

  It’s not his best work. There are only five bullet points, and Wes is already frowning at the first one:

  1. If your crush doesn’t laugh at your jokes, RUN!

  It doesn’t apply to Wes and Nico, but multiple sources suggest he pay attention to minor things like that.

  The bathroom door nudges open. Wes forgot to lock it. And Anna isn’t polite enough to knock, but she doesn’t swing the door wide. She peeks her head in, ensuring Wes isn’t using the toilet for its intended purposes.

  Wes sighs, which is obviously an invitation Anna uses to enter, closing the door behind her. She leans against it. Wes pointedly stares at the wall adjacent to her.

  “So.”

  “Yeah?” Wes sighs again.

  “That was quite the exit.”

  Wes nods solemnly. He doesn’t feel so bad about storming off, but more about the way he snapped at Nico. It was a definite infraction of the best friend code. Thing is, that’s a direct result of crushing on a friend. The lines get blurred.

  He’s a horrible human being.

  Correction: he’s a horrible human presently trapped in a tiny bathroom with his crush’s crush.

  Wes’s brain, ever ready to take a dive into a pit of fire, zones in on how cute Anna is. She’s a surf goddess, all seashell bracelets and floral wrap dress and hair unbrushed without appearing dirty. Even the bathroom’s substandard lighting fails to wash out the color in her cheeks or the blueness of her eyes.

  “Did you read the email?” Wes asks.

  Anna nods, her mouth falling.

  “Did you already know?”

  Anna shakes her head.

  Wes figured she didn’t know. It wouldn’t make sense. Why would she train to manage a store that wouldn’t be around at the end of summer?

  “If Mrs. Rossi hasn’t mentioned this to any of us, maybe it’s not final?” Anna suggests.

  Wes rubs his forehead. It’s conceivable. Mrs. Rossi’s a fighter. “Yeah,” he whispers, trying to believe every one of those four letters.

  “Um.” Anna’s fingers twist the ends of her hair, as if she’s nervous.

  “What?”

  “You were kind of hard on Nico, don’t you think?” she says.

  Wes inhales loudly through his nose. He’s attempting not to be impatient with her, but Hello, Nico has a thing for her, not Wes. It’s number two on his new list:

  2. If your crush shows signs of being into someone else, ABORT!

  “It’s fine,” he says. Those two words are becoming his favorite lie.

  “He doesn’t seem okay.”

  “We’ve argued before.”

  Another fact. Usually, their beefs were over meaningless things. Once, they argued over a photo Wes posted on Instagram. Nico yelled, and Wes shouted and he swore Nico fractured his thumb when he punched his bedroom wall. It was ugly. It was also two months after Nico’s father died. Wes hadn’t recognized that Nico was stumbling through the stages of grief.

  He hadn’t realized that the photo, of Wes and Nico and his sisters on the beach, also included Mr. Alvarez in the background, laughing with his tongue out.

  Wes whispers, “We’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aren’t you two,” Wes pauses when he notices he’s eye-level with her breasts. Jerking his head up, he says, idiotically, “Aren’t you two, like… you know?”

  Anna arches an eyebrow, confused.

  “A thing?”

  “Uh, no.” Anna’s shoulders shake as if she’s restraining a laugh. “Nico’s cute in a very book-nerdy way, but I’m not into him.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, no.” She pulls fingers through her hair, detangling the ends. “There’s this girl…”

  Wes sits up. He doesn’t know what it is that excites him when someone’s anything other than straight. Maybe it’s because people are taught that straight is the default, which makes him an exception. An unnatural exception according to a few too many politicians on television. How do people still think like that? How are people still holding on to immoral values and ignoring the fact that sexuality and gender are fluid?

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” Wes plays with his own curls.

  “Yes, I’m bisexual. Sorry I didn’t put it on my application.”

  Wes blushes. “No, I mean, uh—”

  “I’m kidding, dude.” Anna’s laugh is this smoky, raspy noise that takes a few rounds to fall in love with. “Also, Nico’s not into me either.”

  Huh. Strike one, BuzzFeed.

  “You weren’t worried, were you?” Anna inquires.

&
nbsp; “What? No.” In a failed attempt to be nonchalant, Wes hugs his knees, pffting at Anna’s insinuation. “I’m just looking out for my BFF. I screen all applicants that could turn into potential love interests.”

  “Uh huh. Sure thing.”

  Wes cocks his chin. There’s no way Anna can see through his façade. He’s too smooth. He says, “Yeah, well, good talk,” while Anna stares at him as if he’s full of shit.

  It’s okay. She’s not the first person to solve life’s mysteries while he flounders.

  When she leaves, Wes’s thumb hovers over the delete option on his new list. “No,” he whispers to himself, locking his phone. Anna and Nico might not be a thing, but that doesn’t mean Wes doesn’t need this list too.

  It’s a fail-safe, that’s all.

  * * *

  At twilight, the scene around the Santa Monica Pier is euphoric. From Wes’s view on a bench, he can see the deep blue-black water stretching toward endlessness. In his peripheral vision, the arcade’s blinking neon lights are fuzzy pinks and blues. The slap-crack from the air hockey table is as loud as the screams from the West Coaster, the pier’s rollercoaster. The lights twinkling off Pacific Park envelop the area in a hypnotic glow.

  Wes inhales deeply. Sugary cotton candy, fresh churros, sundrenched wood, briny sea water—everything comes at him at once. He smiles.

  Anna’s the one who suggested they come down to the pier. Cooper, Kyra, and Nico agreed to tag along. Zay had a family dinner. Wes doesn’t want to think about where Ella probably is. They haven’t talked since she crushed his reality with that email.

  Nearby, a couple leans against the railing that overlooks the beach. They’re attempting to take a selfie while kissing. It’s awkward and adorable. Wes is uncomfortably jealous.

  He looks at the famous Route 66: End of the Trail sign everyone poses in front of. A father hoists his daughter onto his shoulders while someone snaps a picture on their phone. Wes wonders if, in ten years, that daughter will remember this moment beyond photographic evidence on social media? How does the brain decide what memories to keep permanently and which ones to copy-and-paste when needed? Which ones do people delete in order to create space for new ones?