The Summer of Everything

by Julian Winters

  His cap and gown are still on the desk chair. Posters layer his walls. His shelf of Funko Pop figurines is untouched. His dad’s jersey is pinned next to a UCLA pennant. Spider-Man pajamas are kicked in a corner.

  All the things he’ll begin packing up next week.

  Well, except for the shirtless Nico sitting on the edge of Wes’s bed. Wes wishes he could pack him too. But, for now, he focuses on Nico’s curious expression and artificial lights from outside streaming through his window and the way his heart jumps as if it’s about to O.D. on anticipation.

  They’d casually discussed continuing their date past frozen lemonades.

  Wes suggested the loft. Then his bedroom. Nico grabbed Wes’s hand. And their eyes said everything else: “Yes.” “I want to.” “We can take this slow; no pressure.”

  Now his bedroom door’s locked. The interior lights are off. Wes didn’t ask, but thankfully Nico was bold enough to tug out his wallet and pull out a shiny foil package. A condom. A preemptive measure if things escalated.

  To be honest, Wes still isn’t sure he wants things to escalate. But he’s okay with Nico’s preparedness. He’s okay with the option.

  Nico pats the spot next to him on the bed.

  Wes struggles out of his own shirt, drops it, then eases down next to Nico.

  “This is chill,” Nico says. His hands are clenched in his lap, as if he’s afraid to touch.

  “It is,” Wes agrees. He runs a hand over his curls. Grains of sand meet his fingers. Ugh, gross. He should’ve showered before this.

  This. What is this? What are we going to do?

  As if sensing Wes’s indecision, Nico quickly says, “We don’t have to do anything. At all. We can just talk.” His eyes search around the room. “Here. I can put my shirt back—”

  Wes cuts him off with a kiss. Well, an attempt at a kiss. His lips smack Nico’s jaw. But he finds his way up, sealing Nico’s words behind his teeth. He really likes kissing Nico.

  He also appreciates that Nico knows Wes’s stance on sex and isn’t willing to pressure him into anything. He values Wes’s beliefs. He’s willing to sit in a darkened room, fully clothed, and talk. It’s one of the six million things Wes loves about Nico: they can talk and talk, and nothing has to come of it. No epiphanies. No final destination. Nothing. They can be themselves.

  “And if I want to?” Wes asks against Nico’s mouth.

  Nico slowly leans back, eyes scanning. “We could.”

  Wes doesn’t tell Nico, but he has a bottle of lube. Masturbation is very healthy, thank you, online doctors. It’s there, in his computer desk drawer. Wes is also criminally bad at establishing bulletproof hiding places.

  “But, like.” Nico sighs. “Sex is great…”

  System malfunction.

  In a very tactical decision, Wes has never once asked Nico how many partners he’s had. He’s been aware his brain is not capable of handling that kind of confidential information since that day at the skatepark. He should know Nico’s history, especially if they’re going to do anything. He needs to know if Nico’s been tested. All the essentials. But Wes doesn’t want the other details: Who? When? Was it any good? What does Wes have to live up to?

  Yes, that’s a thought. Comparison, on any level when it comes to people, is inevitable. It’s so ingrained in human psychology that Wes isn’t going to pretend he doesn’t worry about it.

  “… but it doesn’t have to happen,” Nico continues. “It shouldn’t be the endgame.”

  Wes’s mouth curls. “Are you about to say ‘love’ is the endgame?”

  “It is!” Nico laughs. “But not necessarily romantic love. Just love in general. Being capable of extending the walls of your heart to make room for someone else in there. Being vulnerable.”

  Nico’s head lowers. His hands are still knotted.

  Carefully, Wes reaches out. He unties Nico’s fingers. He slides his own between them. “Being vulnerable isn’t easy.”

  “Fuck no. It’s the worst.”

  Wes snorts.

  “This.” Nico nods at the condom between their hips. “It can happen. But it doesn’t have to. I want you to be comfortable.”

  Wes is. When he’s with Nico, even when they’re fighting or not saying everything they should, he’s comfortable.

  He kisses Nico, eyes open for a second, waiting for Nico’s reaction. But Nico’s eyes are already closed, lashes fluttering. He’s sighing hot breath against Wes’s mouth. It’s all very cinematic, but simple. As if they’ve been doing this forever.

  Against Nico’s swollen lips, Wes says it. The words just come out.

  “I love you.”

  He doesn’t regret it. Except for the three hundred milliseconds when Nico doesn’t say anything back. It’s terrifying and embarrassing how, when some words are said, they live outside the mouth and heart. They’re there, in the ether, waiting to be taken or ignored.

  “I love you too, Wesley. I think for a very long time.”

  Wes doesn’t say anything else. He negotiates their bodies until Nico’s lying against the Green Lantern sheets and Wes is crawling on top of him. Pale silver light streaks through the window against Nico’s cheeks. It shines on his scarred eyebrow, the mark Wes left on him. He wants to leave more. He wants to know the shape of Nico’s collarbone under his fingertips. And his hands—Wes wants Nico’s hands to know him.

  He wants to remember Nico’s body while he’s away at UCLA.

  He wants Nico to think of his kiss while in Palo Alto.

  Indecision waves a red flag. Wes doesn’t ignore it.

  He keeps kissing Nico until one of their hands finds the condom in the sheets.

  “Why am I not surprised all you have in the fridge is a half-eaten slice of cheesecake, a gallon of milk that expires tomorrow, and cold Chinese food?”

  Wes guffaws. His back is pressed against the wall his bed’s tucked against as Nico sneaks back into the bedroom. They’re both still shirtless, their chests sweaty, their skin flushed.

  “And orange soda.” He points at the items in Nico’s arms.

  “I’m not complaining.”

  Wes scoots over for Nico when he climbs onto the bed.

  They crack open a carton of beef and broccoli. It smells rank, but Wes is starved. Making out burns a lot of calories. They eat with their hands, soy sauce on their fingers, re-microwaved rice on their lips.

  “This is so bad, but so good,” Nico says, stretching. His foot wiggles on the sheets, unearthing a shiny object.

  The condom’s still there, unopened. Nico doesn’t mention it. Neither does Wes.

  Thing is, Wes wasn’t ready. His body wanted to—and is still a bit angry at him for ignoring that desire—but it wasn’t time. Wes wasn’t having sex because of a moment or because they said those three words. He knows that, by all definitions, Nico’s “The One.” They can share comic books. Nico loves—loves—Wes’s geekiness. But he also didn’t mind that Wes decided not to take it further. He was fine with kissing and trying to trace the shape of Wes’s heart behind his ribs.

  Wes is done with deadlines.

  He doesn’t need a five-year plan.

  The other day, while talking to Calvin, they came to a compromise—Wes will attend UCLA in the fall. He’ll dig deep, study, and give that first year a try. Maybe he’ll like it. Maybe he’ll want to transfer schools. Maybe he’ll drop out. But Calvin wanted him to try, the same way Calvin’s always tried. Wes could give his dad that. He could give himself a chance to succeed or fail or just figure out it’s not for him. It’s not the worst thing.

  And Wes is done with this theory that all eighteen-year-olds are adults who know everything and aren’t virgins and are incapable of having a voice. Wes has one. He’s learning to use it.

  Like now.

  “I need to tell you something.”

 
Nico sits up, attentive.

  “And it’s probably going to ruin the mood,” Wes adds.

  Nico’s hair is pulled in every direction from Wes’s fingers. He’s squinting without his glasses or contacts. There’s soy sauce on his bottom lip. His breath smells like orange soda. The old food isn’t the only thing that’s rank. They could both use a shower.

  Consider the mood already ruined.

  “After I say this, I don’t want to discuss it,” says Wes, frowning. “Not tonight, at least.”

  “Are you breaking up with me before we’ve even made it official?”

  “What? No.”

  Then, because his brain’s finally catching up with Nico’s words, he says, “Wait. Do you want it to be official?”

  Nico rolls his eyes, chugging more soda. “Your ineptitude is hella fascinating.”

  Fuck Stanford, they got a good one with Nico Alvarez.

  “We’re getting off track,” Wes says. “This isn’t about us. And there will be an us. To be discussed later.”

  Nico beams.

  Wes clears his throat. “Mrs. Rossi is sick. She has a brain tumor.” It’s been a week, and this is the first time he’s said it out loud. It aches. No, it tastes like vomit rushing up your throat, but you swallow it; the chunks wad in the saliva in your mouth. But Wes had to tell someone. And Nico’s always been his Someone.

  “Is it…” Nico’s face tightens. “Is it cancer?”

  Wes hesitated to ask Mrs. Rossi that morning. It took him hours and a lot of deep breathing in the bookstore bathroom before he got the words out.

  Mrs. Rossi smiled, patted his hand, and said, “It’ll be okay.”

  “I think so.”

  Nico blinks hard. Wes can see the wheels turning in his eyes. He’s an idiot. He’s leaning on Nico with this secret—the possibility of someone they both love dying—and completely forgetting that Nico’s still living with his own mourning. He’s so selfish.

  But Nico inhales deeply, then says, “All right.”

  “All right?”

  “Yes,” Nico says, confident. “We’re gonna… we’re gonna get through this.”

  And that’s it? They’re going to get through this. It’s the most adult thing Wes has ever heard Nico say. Maybe not all eighteen-year-olds are as screwed up as he is. Maybe some can handle more than people expect.

  They sit quietly. Nico passes Wes the soda can; he chugs it until it dribbles down his chin, onto his chest. A shower is definitely a necessity now.

  “Hey, Wesley.” Nico’s voice sounds far away. “About earlier.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you want to try, uh.” Nico’s back to stammering. It’s cute. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to try the long-distance thing. I mean, it’s only six and a half hours…”

  Which is eight hours in California traffic.

  “But I want to.”

  Wes tilts his head back. He stares at his boring white ceiling. Nico wants this to last more than a moment. He wants it to last as long as Wes will allow it. Everything Wes loves is taken from him before its time. No one’s ever offered him the chance to choose when or how something ends.

  Blindly, his hand finds Nico’s, sticky and warm. “There’s no way I’m turning down that offer. No way.” He squeezes Nico’s hand twice.

  “Hey. Skateboarding, orange soda or…” Wes’s chest inflates with that kind of good feeling he associates with summer and comic books and the rules of Once Upon a Page. “… me?”

  “You’re asking me to go without orange soda?”

  Heart dancing in his chest, Wes sighs. “Forget it.”

  Nico pulls on his hand. His orange-soda breath tickles Wes’s cheek. The smile in his voice is Wes’s favorite song.

  “You.”

  Wes exhales happily. He considers turning his head to kiss Nico. Or just stare into his eyes. Or make a corny joke they’ll both laugh at. But he doesn’t need to.

  This is enough. This is everything.

  “It turns out life isn’t a pile of bad days and then you fall in love with someone who fixes it all. Life is a series of embarrassing, funny, and sometimes brutal moments. Romance might be in there, too. But if you’re lucky, you’ll fall in love with your own amazingness and stumble upon a few kickass people to go on life’s adventures with you.”

  —Savannah Kirk, Laguna Love Blues

  Epilogue

  Wes’s brand-new tux shirt is ruined.

  It only took five hours before he managed to get a Rorschach-style wine stain on it. Forget his boutonnière—that’s a casualty of the dance floor and the DJ’s obsession with replaying that wobble song. He survived an entire best man speech too. The stain came from Grace getting hammered and bumping into him on the way to the bathroom.

  But at least the wedding’s done.

  Leeann Chen is officially a Hudson. Leo’s married. And Wes needs a nap.

  Also, Wes’s phone is missing. Not missing. Taken. Heisted. It’s currently owned by Cooper Shaw, who leads their pack into Little Tony’s Big Slice, gossiping with Savannah Kirk on FaceTime.

  “Is she really that bad?” Cooper asks, awed.

  “The worst,” Savannah announces. “Keep the bourbon away from that one.”

  Wes should never have introduced them.

  Ella, in a green polka-dot dress, fedora, and large dark sunglasses, makes a beeline for their favorite booth in the back. She shuffles in, bookended by Zay and Wes. It took a lot of convincing, but Wes managed to talk Leeann into bumping a few guests off the reception list to make room for his friends. Ella even brought a gift.

  The card read, “To Leeann and Lucifer—may your reign in the Underworld be forever long.”

  “What was that menu?” moans Ella, tugging off her sunglasses. “Did they want us to starve at the reception?”

  “I thought the chicken was good,” Zay says, passing out the plastic menus as if they’re going to order anything other than the usual. His hair’s cut short, a few waves at the top the only remains of his sick, curly Afro. Wes still hasn’t adjusted to it. But it’s also a reminder that more than Zay’s hair has changed in a year.

  “I can’t believe you caught the bouquet,” Ella says accusingly to Kyra.

  Kyra has one arm resting lazily on Anna’s bare shoulders, scanning the menu.

  “That means you two are next,” Zay teases.

  Anna blushes from her hairline to her collarbones. But Kyra smirks, then says, “Don’t jinx it,” before pressing a loud kiss to Anna’s cheek.

  Wes is happy they’re still a thing. Next to him, Nico finds Wes’s hand under the table. Wes’s glad they’re still a thing too. A capitalized Thing.

  “Can we hurry up and order? I can’t be out too late,” Zay says, repeatedly flipping his menu. “My moms have been on me about studying. I’m taking this summer course—”

  Everyone groans. Zay graduated high school early. He started UCLA in the winter and is living his nerdish-musicology wet dreams by taking two summer classes. He’s on a mission to finish college before he’s twenty-two. Wes supports it.

  In fact, he’s behind all their decisions since Once Upon a Page closed.

  Cooper’s living his best life as a soon-to-be high school senior. He’s up at least two hundred thousand social media followers thanks to a certain Savannah Kirk giving him a follow and commenting on all his Bookstagram posts. There’s no blue checkmark next to his name yet, but Wes is betting on @coopsarrow being verified before the year’s over.

  Kyra quit Brews and Views. “Can’t make a living when two competing coffeehouses are on the same block,” she texted him a few months ago. “Who the hell does that? Fuck the Tea Leaf and Coffee Cup House.” She has one more semester in the fall before graduation. In the meantime, she rakes in loads of cash as an online gamer. She’s also move
d in with Anna, who’s a bank manager.

  Huh. Wes didn’t think she’d really pull it off.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Ella says to Zay. “Be a nerd. I have a date tonight, anyway.”

  Wes sputters. “A date-date?”

  Ella rolls her eyes. “Here we go again.”

  Yup. Here we go again.

  Since he’s left UCLA, Wes no longer gets daily updates on Ella’s social life over sandwiches at Fat Sal’s. But before Wes can interrogate her, their waiter arrives with a tray of waters and a sour expression.

  Constantine sighs. “Do you all need a mo’ to figure out what you’re having or what?”

  “Artichoke or spinach?” Cooper asks the table.

  “I’m thinking bacon,” Zay says. “Bacon’s life.”

  “Babe, veggie or Hawaiian?” Kyra says to Anna as they huddle over a menu.

  “So.” Constantine digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket the same way Wes’s dad does when he’s getting a stress headache. “Can we not give me hell tonight? I have plans afterward.”

  “Hey.” Ella wriggles in her seat, back arched, her cheek resting against her knuckles. “Can you give us a sec? Five minutes, tops. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

  And then, she winks. Constantine’s a new shade of red. Wes’s eyes widen, mouth falling open, but Constantine says, “Sure,” and then spins around and walks off.

  “No. Shit.”

  Ella pinches Wes’s thigh hard under the table. He yelps, nearly knocking over all the waters.

  “Ella Graham, are you kidding me?” he almost shouts.

  “Shut. Up.” Ella’s eyes are soft; her lips are pulled into a sweet, self-conscious smile. It’s peak Pining Wes Hudson. His brain can’t digest it. But Wes decides not to grill her.

  She deserves this moment with no judgment.

  Wes turns to Nico, who wiggles his eyebrows knowingly. Nico never misses anything. Well, except that One Thing. Wes kisses him. They see each other every other weekend, but Wes has missed him. He looks incredible in an all-black tux with a rose-colored bow tie. His hair’s slicked back with a single curl falling across his forehead, à la his prom look.