The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  He’s pissed. Perfect. Wes loves a furious Leo with his bowl of cereal in the morning.

  “I called. And texted,” Leo grumbles after spitting his phone onto the green sofa.

  Wes hums. He fell asleep watching YouTube on his phone last night. It’s dead and drowning in his sheets.

  “My bad.”

  “I went to the bookstore too.”

  “Day off,” Wes says by way of explanation.

  “Mrs. Rossi told me.” Leo fixes Savannah’s books on the coffee table before flopping onto the sofa. “I can’t believe she still dyes her hair pink.”

  Wes can’t believe his life sucks this hard before ten a.m. Reluctantly, he sits next to Leo. He scrubs at his prickly jaw—he really needs to shave—as Leo unpacks two plain bagels and mini cream cheese tubs. Manners activated, Wes waits until Leo offers him a bagel. He doesn’t postpone stealing a cream cheese and a plastic knife, though. He’s starved.

  “We’re going surfing,” Leo tells him after Wes is one-third into the bagel.

  “What?” Wes asks, mouth full.

  “Surfing. You and me. Eat up and get dressed.”

  “Yeah, no.” Wes yawns, tugging a hand through his tangled curls. “That’s not happening.”

  Apparently, Leo’s ignoring the words coming out of Wes’s mouth. He checks the time on his phone. His wallpaper is an engagement photo of him and Leeann. It’s sickeningly cute. They’re standing in front of a lit-up Ferris wheel at night. Wes can’t believe the heart eyes and smile on Leo’s face. It’s so… human.

  “Ten minutes,” Leo announces, barreling through his own bagel. “We’re hitting Zuma.”

  Zuma Beach is off the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu: a massive landscape of wide sands, clean water, and legendary surf. It’s just late enough in the morning that the real pros have already caught a few gnarly waves for the day. Plus, it’s the middle of the week, so it shouldn’t be too crowded.

  “We’re not going surfing,” Wes says defiantly.

  “We are.” Leo slurps his coffee. It’s saturated in cream, a pale brown hue. “Leeann says you want to talk.”

  Shit. Wes did this to himself.

  “I do,” he begins, but Leo interrupts him.

  “Then we surf and talk.”

  Wes tears into his bagel. Leo’s face is dead serious. He’s dressed in an old Pepperdine T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. This is casual Leo, a side Wes rarely sees anymore. And he still looks more put together and attractive than Wes in his prom tux.

  Come on universe, give me a break.

  “Eat up,” Leo instructs. “ETD nine minutes.”

  Did Leo really just ETD Wes? As if he’s on such a time crunch that he can’t say “estimated time of departure.”

  “Eight minutes.”

  Annoyed, Wes drops the last half of his bagel. He stretches until something satisfying pops in his back.

  “Ohmygod.”

  Ella peeks into the living room space. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and mismatched socks. Rubbing one eye, hair sleep-ruined, she says, “I thought vampires were only allowed inside if you invite them.”

  “Good morning, Ella,” Leo says with fake cheer. “Does your membership to the Hayley Williams fan club still include a free band tee from Hot Topic and a lifetime supply of black eyeliner?”

  Ella smirks, flipping him off. “I’m making coffee.”

  “Try decaf!” Leo shouts as she fumbles toward the kitchen.

  “We’re going surfing,” Wes yells. “On my day off.”

  “Wonderful. Don’t drown,” she replies over the burbling coffeemaker.

  Leo clears his throat loudly. Wes frowns. He can’t believe he’s standing, preparing to brush his teeth and shower and find beach attire for this event. He and Leo don’t do things together. Brotherly bonding is prohibited. It’s in the Geneva Conventions or something.

  “Six minutes.”

  “You’re the worst,” Wes growls, skulking off to his bedroom as if they’re still children fighting over what television show to watch.

  Fact: Leo, future lawyer and husband, always won those wars.

  As unironic destiny would have it, Leo is commandingly better at surfing than Wes. His body is loose but precise as he glides. His turns are clean. He navigates every wave as if he was born on the water.

  Wes is settled into the warm sands, watching. His forearms rest on bent knees, his wetsuit is already halfway peeled off, and his board lies discarded a few feet away. He sniffs, squinting against the high sun. The waves are cloudy blue before breaking. Fifty feet out, Leo paddles to catch the next one before coasting back to shore.

  “Okay.” Leo jams the tail of his board in the sand to keep it upright before plopping down next to Wes. He drags a hand over his wet face. “Talk.”

  For a future lawyer, Leo’s ability to negotiate a conversation is inferior. He dusts sand off his hands and turns his eyes to the turquoise and gold water. Around them, the aroma of kelp and coconut Sex Wax mixes with that petroleum odor his wetsuit produces. Wes can still taste saltwater at the back of his throat as he says, “Just that easy, huh?”

  It’s as if Leo doesn’t recognize the misconnect between them, as if he can’t see the huge 404 Message Error every time they speak.

  “C’mon.” Leo elbows him. “I’m better than Dad.”

  “True.”

  “So. Talk.”

  Wes’s eyes sting from the water. He closes them, then finally opens up. He tells Leo about Mrs. Rossi and the bookstore and the bone-crushing, unsettling weight of his world ending every time he walks through the door. He explains their plans to save his second home. He spews everything in the most inarticulate way, but he can’t stop himself. He word-vomits all over Zuma Beach until his stomach is empty and his throat hurts.

  And Leo says nothing.

  “Well?” Wes struggles to control the aggravation in his voice.

  “Okay.” Leo chews on his bottom lip, contemplating. “Thanks to my internship, I have a few connections around the city. Do you want me to call BookZone? See if they have any openings in the fall?”

  “What?”

  BookZone is UCLA’s independent campus bookstore. Wes has visited once, but only as a preemptive move to familiarize himself with the future home of his textbook needs. He knew all his other reading material would come from Once Upon a Page.

  “I can make a call,” Leo says as if he’s doing Wes some kind of Godfather-esque favor.

  “No.” Wes shakes his head, curls flinging water everywhere. “I need your help saving the bookstore.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?!” Wes shouts. Stress and anger and confusion have compromised his brain function. “Because it’s my home. It’s an institution. Because it’s what I want.”

  “Life isn’t always about what we want,” Leo says so matter-of-factly that Wes can’t believe this is the guy Leeann’s marrying. “Sometimes, it’s about what’s best.”

  “What’s best is keeping Once Upon a Page open,” Wes snarls.

  “Is it?”

  Wes stares at the ocean. He knows what he has to do and he hates it.

  “I have some of the paperwork. Emails mostly. Can you,” he pauses, the rise of acid in his throat making his eyes water. “Can you please look them over? Dig into some of the legal stuff? Help us possibly get a permit to do an event near the pier?”

  Leo blinks at him.

  “Not for me,” Wes quickly appends. “For Mrs. Rossi.”

  Leo’s eyebrows are pinched. He’s considering. “I’ll try,” he says, sighing dramatically. Before Wes can form a smile, Leo adds, “But no promises.”

  Wes will take whatever he can get from Leo.

  Head lowered, Leo digs his toes in the sand. “I can’t believe you asked Leeann to get in touch with me.�
�

  Wes slumps at the disappointment layering Leo’s voice. “Yeah, uh.” He doesn’t know how to reply.

  “You could’ve called me.”

  “We don’t call each other,” Wes reminds him.

  “Then text.”

  “Leo, I…” Words sink under the noise of the crashing waves. What is Wes going to say? That Leo isn’t that far from the Calvin side of the Hudson tree? That talking to him, whether electronically or in person, has become this mountain that Wes doesn’t possess the skills to climb?

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he needs Leo’s help.

  “Whatever.” Leo elbows Wes again. “Leeann’s very persuasive about these things. She’s going to make a great Hudson.”

  “We don’t deserve her.”

  “We don’t.”

  Leo stands, straining to reach back and unzip his wetsuit. He manages, then dusts sand off his hands. Wes stands too, feeling awkward, like being the only one seated while the rest of the room is giving someone a standing ovation.

  “How’s Nico?” Leo says out of nowhere.

  A squeaky noise escapes Wes’s throat. He turns his head, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Uh.”

  “What’d you do?” Leo asks, accusingly.

  “Nothing,” snaps Wes, but it’s a lie.

  Leo’s skeptical expression unnerves him.

  “It’s nothing. We’re just…”

  Not talking. Or we are talking, but in texts and weak smiles at the bookstore and not at all in the cuddly, playing video games, and laughing at the stupidest things-way. We’re two aliens from different planets learning a new language.

  “We’re lowkey giving each other space,” Wes finally says.

  “Sounds juvenile.”

  “Thanks, Leo.” As if Wes’s conscience hasn’t done a stellar job of reminding him he’s a total noob for being unable to fix this.

  “Talk to Nico,” Leo says sternly.

  Wes sucks air through his teeth. “Like I had other plans.”

  “Knowing you? You probably didn’t have a plan at all. Just a useless list.”

  The limits of Wes’s patience are being tested with every second they share the same air. Unfortunately, ignoring Leo and the bubbling hostility in Wes’s chest are both unavailable options.

  “I will,” he says calmly.

  “Good.” Leo picks up his surfboard, tucking it under one arm. “And I’ll work on this bookstore thing.”

  Wes’s lips won’t part for a thanks, but Leo doesn’t complain either. This is a start.

  It’s not the best one, but it’s a start.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  Wes knows that, in fact, this isn’t necessary. But Ella’s holding a liquid-eyeliner pencil millimeters from his face, so he chooses not to argue. The eyeliner is overkill. So are the five different shirts Ella made Wes try on before she selected the peach-colored button-up he’s currently wearing. Why do friend makeovers look way cooler in the movies than in reality? It took them two hours to get to this phase of things.

  And for what? Wes is only co-hosting Once Upon a Page’s first-ever open mic night. Not by choice, though. He was voted to this position by a committee of his ex-friends.

  Now he’s seated on a stool behind the bookstore’s front counter as Ella “glams” him up.

  “Don’t blink,” she demands.

  Wes doesn’t know why, but he holds his breath while trying to remain frozen.

  “Okay.” She shuffles back, appraising him. “Eight out of ten.”

  Wes exhales. He’s always figured himself for a hard seven, so it’s a mild improvement. He tugs out his phone, opens the camera on selfie mode, and examines himself. Not terrible.

  In the background of his lens, the bookstore looks great. Zay and Nico spent the day moving shelves and displays to open a corner near the front window. Stools, amps, and two microphone stands—all borrowed from Zay’s music friends—are in place. Anna decorated the area with twinkle lights and multicolored streamers from a party supply store. Cooper’s currently setting up bongos for his opening performance.

  Bongos. Dude’s wild.

  Still, Wes hopes it’s a decent turnout for tonight’s event.

  Thankfully, it’s Mrs. Rossi’s evening off. Unless she’s checked the bookstore’s social media—which she never does—she’s unaware of the impending festivities. Wes hopes they can move everything back before her midafternoon shift tomorrow.

  “Oh, wow.” Arms loaded with cups and bags, Kyra pauses near the counter. They couldn’t secure space in Brews and Views to host open mic night but Eugene, the manager, happily donated coffee and pastries for the event. “Hashtag Sexy Wesley.”

  Wes ducks his head, face hot. But Ella’s shoulders draw back, chin lifted. “Thank you.”

  Anna skips to the front counter. “Need help?”

  “Thank you,” Kyra says with a groan.

  Anna eagerly accepts the bags, her face flushed.

  “Okay, Anne Hathaway, move,” Kyra says, bumping Ella out of the way to get behind the counter. “I need to set all this up and then grab the coffees.”

  Wes vacates his space for Anna and Kyra.

  “Coop. Buddy. Homie.” Zay unfolds chairs near their mock-stage. “A little help?”

  Cooper abandons his bongos. Ella whispers, “If he plays those while doing slam poetry, I’m out.”

  Wes chuckles into the crook of his elbow.

  “Also, what is this sad-fest playing?” She glares at the ceiling. “Is this supposed to entice anyone to want to come in here tonight?”

  “It’s R.E.M.,” Wes replies, humming along.

  “R-E-what?”

  “R.E.M.,” he repeats. He scored a copy of Automatic for the People buried in the CD bin. This album’s his alt-rock manifesto.

  Ella’s face scrunches. “Is that some kind of sleep disorder?”

  “The fact that you can recite every lyric to any Fall Out Boy album but don’t know R.E.M. is an injustice,” says Wes.

  “Give it up, El,” Zay suggests, lining up the chairs after Cooper unfolds them. “He’s a lost cause.”

  “I like it,” Cooper announces, crooning along to “Everybody Hurts.”

  “Point proven,” Ella says. “None of this boo-hoo trash will be played during our speed booking event.”

  The logistical nightmare of trying to coordinate Ella’s speed booking date night is Wes’s least favorite topic. At least Kyra’s on board with helping to host the event:

  “As this community’s resident Black lesbian, I can’t let this function happen without some true queer rep,” she said last week. “This will not turn into one of those ‘Straights Only’ romcoms.”

  On the positive side—Ella’s charging reasonable prices and Once Upon a Page’s social media posts about it get the most likes.

  “Which reminds me,” Ella says surreptitiously, eyeing Wes. “You’re coming, right?”

  “Uh.” Wes had other plans, like laundry or watching that baking competition on Netflix. “No?”

  “Oh, yes you are,” says Ella, arms crossed. “We’re putting you on the market.”

  “We are not,” Wes says, appalled.

  “It’s happening. It’s time.”

  “Time for what? I’m cool. I’m content. I’m—”

  “Hung up on someone, submerged in insecurity issues created by the complex fear that rejection by something you desire most might confirm all the flaws you’ve predetermined about yourself?” Ella says, eyebrow raised, daring Wes to disagree.

  He can’t.

  “Doctor Ella Graham, calling you out on your bullshit since the Mesozoic Era,” Zay says.

  “By the way,” Ella stands on her toes looking ar
ound the bookstore. “Where’s Nico?”

  Wes, too caught up in trying not to lose an eye, hadn’t noticed Nico’s not at the store yet. Then again, he’s still on his ‘I’m moving on from this crush, just not today, maybe tomorrow’ bullshit, so he hasn’t been searching for him either.

  He checks his phone. No texts. No missed calls.

  “Uh.” Zay tugs a hand through his thick hair. When Wes looks at him, his eyes drop.

  “I should… coffee,” Kyra stutters, frowning. “I need to grab the coffee.”

  Wes’s head snaps in Anna’s direction. She’s unstacking, then restacking, cups. Cooper’s frozen, a true deer-in-headlights. “What?” Wes asks, annoyed. “What’s up?”

  Silence fills the store, only magnified by the end of the CD. The one noise Wes can hear, on a continuous drumming loop, is his heartbeat.

  “What’s going on?” Ella finally asks, swatting Cooper’s arm. “Speak, pixie elf.”

  Cooper yelps, rubbing his arm. “I know nothing!”

  But he does. Wes can tell by the way he watches Wes with planet-sized eyes. He reeks of guilt and shame.

  “Coop,” Wes whispers, unable to hide the plea.

  Cooper’s nostrils flare. “A girl. He left earlier with a girl.”

  “Details,” demands Ella.

  “Red hair. Five foot seven from a distance. Ethereal. Age estimated at eighteen or nineteen,” Cooper spouts, inching farther and farther from the threat of Ella’s bruising hand.

  “So?” Ella scoffs. “She could’ve been a friend.”

  But she wasn’t. Wes knows by the way Cooper’s staring at the ground and refusing to confirm Ella’s theory.

  “It’s plausible,” Zay confirms from the stage.

  “But you think it was more,” Wes says, voice shaking. He can’t stop it.

  Zay’s face goes neutral. He inhales deeply, then nods.

  “People have friends they’re close to,” Cooper says, diplomatically. “Not every relationship is romantic or sexual in nature. Not every intimate interaction with someone is solely based on physical attraction.”

  “You’re right,” Wes says, but he doesn’t think this is one of those moments. He’s been avoiding Nico. And he’s been actively rereading the list he created in that tiny bathroom at the back of the bookstore.