“I talked to my parents,” he says.
“Good.” I was starting to worry I would have to march over to the Belles and tell them myself. Did Zander think they wouldn’t notice when I went MIA for the entire summer?
“You can stay with us.”
Wait, what? “Your parents are going to let your ex-girlfriend live at your house senior year?”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes drift out to the water.
Oh my god. “They still don’t know?” I drop my chin to my chest and roll my head around, like maybe if I work the stress out of my neck, I can work out this mess he’s made too. “Zander—”
“If you stay, it doesn’t matter. We’ll finish senior year together, and we’ll go to college, and it will be just like we planned. I didn’t tell them because it doesn’t matter. We can just pretend like it didn’t happen. It shouldn’t have happened.”
I don’t say anything, because none of it sounds real.
Zander’s voice is soft when it cuts through the silence. “Couples break up and get back together all the time, Liv.”
I could stay in Riverton. I could have the life I always wanted—Zander, our perfect life, his perfect family. But this summer isn’t that easy to forget. And I don’t know if Zander is perfect for me anymore. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not the same person I was two months ago. Because I can’t see myself in those dreams anymore.
* * *
I’ve come to this park at least once a week since I met Aiden, but I’ve never sat out on the lake. The water isn’t as blue as the big lake; it’s more of a greenish brown—but not in a gross way—and it ripples toward the shore, like someone just skipped a giant pebble across it. The lily pads are in full bloom, little spots of pink dotting the shoreline. If it weren’t for my ex-boyfriend sitting across from me, this would be an idyllic setting.
Zander doesn’t say anything as he sets a pole in front of me, laying it across the boat. Or as he casts his line out, slow and exaggerated in his movements, like a video tutorial with no words. He’s facing the water, and I pick up the other pole and do the same. Pressing in the lever, placing my thumb over the thin plastic line, letting it go when the pole crosses in front of my head. My line flings out over the water—not nearly as far as his—and lands with a tiny splash. I keep my eyes on the little white and red circle bobbing in the water where my line disappeared. If I have to be out here, at least I don’t have to look at Zander.
We sit in the boat for hours—until my stomach grumbles in anger and the water flattens like glass. It’s not until Zander opens the little white Styrofoam dish he’s been using to replenish our hooks with—the two of us engaging in a completely silent performance of poles and worms and lines flying out into the water—that we both realize we’ll have to go back at some point.
“I get that maybe I wasn’t the best boyfriend.” He reels in the last of his line and tucks the rod into the boat. “But I do love you. Just think about it, okay?” He chews on his lip, and I smack his knee.
“Stop that.” I hate when he chews on his lip. It makes them rough and horrible. But you’re not kissing him anymore. He would though. If I wanted him to, he’d kiss me. He’s begging me to take him back, telling me how much he wants me. He wants me to live with him this year. And I love the way this feels, him finally wanting me so much more than I want him. I wish I could care more.
“It’s your best option, right? Your only option?”
“Maybe not.” Zander has made a good point. It’s only a year. And I can’t spend a whole year at his house pretending to be his girlfriend, but maybe I can survive a year with someone else. “My mom is in town. It’s a long story—”
“And you’d actually live with her?”
“I am, right now. It’s not horrible.” It’s weird, trying to convince Zander that living with my mother wouldn’t be so bad. But really, this summer has been tolerable. She’s stayed out of my way, mostly. But she’s not staying, so I don’t know why I’m trying to convince anyone it’s an option.
“Why the change of heart? Is it Emerson? You’d stay with her for him?”
“I was going to stay for you.”
“That’s different,” he says.
“You do know I have friends, right? Emma isn’t exactly thrilled about senior year without her best friend. She wasn’t quite as quick to abandon me, you know? And yes, there’s Aiden.” Maybe.
Zander doesn’t say anything, he’s just looking out at the water, resigned. Maybe, like me, he’s thinking about all of the things I have in my life now that aren’t him.
“Are you going to tell your parents?” I ask.
His face looks pained. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. You do.”
There’s a long stretch of silence. Zander pulls up the anchor and starts the engine. The smell of gasoline fills the air as it rumbles to life and bubbles kick up around it. We’re slowing down, drifting toward the shore, when he speaks again. “You’re really dating him?”
I don’t really have it in me to admit to my ex-boyfriend that I may have been dumped (again) just yesterday. “I really am.”
“He’s off the rails, Liv. You want to be part of his meltdown?”
“You’re seriously going to give me dating advice? That was all start-of-summer rumors, anyway. He’s just going through some stuff. Cut him some slack.”
Zander grunts. “For torching my senior season before it even starts? Not likely.”
“He can’t help it. He’d play if he could.”
“So why doesn’t he?”
I shake my head. “He just can’t, okay? Give him a break.” If I’m not going to be here senior year, maybe I can at least make Aiden’s a little easier.
“Tell me, and I will.”
AIDEN
I hate waiting rooms. Especially Dr. Shah’s, because it’s basically a giant rectangular senior center. Except there’s no bingo or crafts. There are sugar-free cookies. The three women sitting across from me all have matching gray hair with tight curls and those solid-colored pants that people over seventy are required to wear. They must be in their eighties—I’m bringing down the median age big-time. And they all give me these judgy old-people glances, staring at my shaking foot like “Just wait, kid, someday you’ll be old. Then you’ll have a reason to be so fidgety.” And I get it, things suck when you get old. But also, my vision has been fucking horrible.
Not that I want to get into a “whose vision is worse” showdown with a geriatric, but seriously. I’m just glad I can see the judgy old man across from me giving me his smug look. It’s not that I want to fit in somewhere as unimpressive as this, but come on. Doesn’t he know I’m his people? My mom pats my knee, like the bouncing is bothering her too.
“Mr. Emerson?” A woman in Pepto-pink scrubs is looking expectantly into the sea of old people, her gaze scanning from one side of the room to the other. I don’t react right away, because no one ever calls me mister. I’m guessing she didn’t notice my age, because she looks surprised when I pop up. And a little sad. “This way,” she says. Her nametag says Angela, and she leads me and Mom past the half-circle reception desk and down a long hallway. She’s walking so slow I have to force myself not to run her over. A side-effect of being a herder of old people, I suppose. “Have a seat.” Angela nods to the big black leather chair.
I was never nervous at the eye doctor before, but now the place basically gives me sweaty palms upon arrival. Mom takes a seat in a chair across from me, under the white rectangle that will display my eye test. Angela sets my folder on the desk.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
Mom sets her purse on the chair next to her, and rubs her hands together, which she does when she’s nervous. Even though they keep it about ninety degrees in here. She lets out a long stream of air that’s almost a whistle. “You feel good?”
I laugh, because she’s making it sound like I’ve been training for this. Like it’s a big game I’ve been putting in
extra hours for. “I feel nauseous.”
She purses her lips like that’s not what she wanted to hear. “Is Olivia coming to dinner?’
The question catches me off guard. Yesterday wasn’t great, and I don’t even know where Olivia and I stand at the moment. But we should probably figure it out before I subject her to a family dinner. She didn’t seem thrilled about it to start with, so I doubt she’s going to be interested in coming now. “She can’t make it this week, but maybe next week?” I can work with a week.
Mom looks disappointed but smiles anyway. “Sounds good, hon.”
Angela returns in all of her Pepto glory, and sits on the little spinning stool next to me.
I feel like I’m about to take a test I didn’t study for. One based entirely on luck. I should have told Olivia about my appointment; maybe she’d be here and we’d be talking through what happened. People do that in waiting rooms and exam rooms, right?
“Let’s see how things are doing.” Angela hands me the black plastic spoon and I put it in front of my eye. The lights flick off, and a giant black E is illuminated in front of me.
Yes. I can do this. But the letter doesn’t stay, it scrolls down, further and further, until it looks as if a newspaper is being held against the wall. I can tell there are letters there … I can see the white spaces, the blur of dark ink. I blink a few times and fidget in my chair, like shifting two centimeters to the right or left might make a difference. I open my eye as wide as I can, and then squint. My eyes probably just need a minute to adjust to the dark.
“Let’s try the next one.” The blurry black cluster disappears and is replaced by a slightly larger cloud of black. A tiny surge of hope starts to rise up in me. I can make out some peaks on this line.
“M … wait, no, N.” I shift again. “P. Or R…”
“Let’s see if the next one is better,” Angela says.
Shit. What am I at now? 20/30? 20/40? I squint at the bright white square on the wall and wet my lips. It’s suffocating in this room.
I try to focus. “Five—”
“It’s just letters, Aiden.”
Fuck.
“S. P. Or … R, maybe. Yeah, R. S, P, R…” The letters are right there. I can see them, make out the gaps, but I can’t focus on any of them. I dart my eye around to see if it helps. I read online that sometimes with retinal damage, focusing on something off to the side can help. I look toward the last letter, hoping it brings the first into focus, but it’s like trying to make out someone’s face in your peripheral vision. I can see that it’s there, I just can’t identify it.
“Let’s bump it up a little.” The screen scrolls again, and it might as well be my car up there, rolling away from me. Out of sight. “Can you read anything on this line?”
The letters are bigger now, more distinct. They’re not crisp, but I can definitely read them. I take a deep breath and start listing them off. “M. R. S.” Only three letters?
“Great job, Aiden. How about this line.” She clicks the button and the screen changes. And my stomach drops. It’s all blurry again. I stare at the screen, blinking and swallowing and shifting in my chair, until Angela finally turns the screen off.
Fuck. I mutter it under my breath, but she must hear me, because she’s looking at me like I’m a five-year-old who just found out his puppy died or something. She rolls her stool closer to me. “You actually did a lot better than last time, Aiden. You’re up to 20/70 in your right eye.”
I hate that she’s smiling at me like there’s something to celebrate here. She’s right, it’s a huge improvement over 20/200. Congratulations, Aiden, you’re not legally blind at seventeen anymore! I bet they make banners for that; I’ll have to remember to swing by the giant party store on the way home. Oh, except I still can’t drive.
Just to add insult to injury, she puts drops in both eyes and then ushers me back into another waiting room. I pull out my phone, even though I know in five minutes I won’t be able to read it, and I send Olivia a text. I hate how yesterday went down.
Aiden:
I’m sorry
My vision blurs out before I get a response. Thirty minutes later, when I’ve been moved into another exam room, my screen is still sporting a single bubble. Come on, Olivia. I fire off one more text, unable to even read it on my own screen.
Aiden:
Having a shitty day. How are you?
But even when I leave in my green Ray Bans an hour later with a new prescription in hand, there’s no reply.
This day fucking sucks.
Chapter
Eighteen
OLIVIA
My ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Tedrowe, always said the tricky thing about personal essays is making them personal, but also universal. In theory, when teens—and especially the judges—are reading my essay, they should be nodding along. My favorite essays are usually ones that make me feel validated in some way. When Zander and I broke up, it made me think about this piece I had read at least a year before about a girl who married her high school sweetheart. Their story reminded me of Zander and me—childhood friends, entwined in each other’s families—but at the time, the rest didn’t ring true. Five years after getting married they were divorced. Because they weren’t the same people anymore. I didn’t get it then, but I get it now. I’ve changed so much this summer already. And I didn’t realize until it was over that even when we were together, we didn’t fit. But middle-school Olivia couldn’t let go of the idea of Zander.
So I hope that my story of living my summer by chance will ring true to people, even if it isn’t something they’d ever consider doing. Because the more I think about it all, the more I realize it wasn’t just the coin flips that pushed me out of my comfort zone; it was Aiden. Making me want to do new things, showing me that I could.
He’s coming over after work, and I’m excited to tell him about the idea I have. I’ve printed off an ArtPrize application for him. I even emailed a few venues, to see if I could find him a spot this early for next year. Something to look forward to all year seems needed right now.
It’s an “I’m sorry” for—everything. A white flag that I hope will at least mean he won’t hate me when I leave.
AIDEN
Zander texting me isn’t the weirdest thing to ever happen. We practiced together for an hour before school every Monday and Wednesday for most of the last three years. He obviously has my number. But when his name pops up on my screen, just a few days after he tells me to back off of his ex-girlfriend, I know it’s not because I’m a few minutes late to the gym.
Zander:
Can we talk? Field at 4:30?
I stare at the message, wondering why he needs to meet me at the baseball field to beat his chest about Olivia again. Obviously he can do that anywhere. And she and I haven’t actually smoothed things over, so maybe there’s nothing to even get into it over. Except that she’s meeting me tonight, after work, so I can show her the plans for my newest project. And apologize for walking off the other day, but I’m luring her with the project. Maybe she’s rethought living with her mom, or doing the long-distance thing, or maybe somehow, miraculously, she’s not leaving at all. I don’t know what I expect to be different, I’m just hoping something is. So I text Zander back, because if she does stay by some strange act of fate, then I’m hoping he won’t make my life miserable.
Aiden:
Out of work at 5:00
Zander:
See you then
The afternoon is chaotic, filled with screaming toddlers that refuse to climb into inner-tubes and a disgruntled canoer who cut his foot in the river. I’m not sure how it’s our fault he got out of the canoe, or that he didn’t wear the suggested water shoes, but the way he told it, we’re all lucky he didn’t bleed out in his canoe. Ellis told him we’d consider his suggestion of adding first aid kits to the canoes next season. Then he mouthed “bite me” as he walked away. But the last thing he saw as he climbed the stairs was Ellis’s smiling face.
&
nbsp; And it was the last thing I saw too, before I made my way toward my bike and rode to the high school, still in my red River Depot t-shirt. It’s a solid twenty-minute ride, so I’m going to be late, and halfway there my phone starts exploding with notifications; probably Zander thinking I’m not coming.
When I pull into the parking lot behind the high school, where the baseball fields are, the first thing I notice is how many cars are there. It’s not enough for a big event, but there are at least eight cars, which is more than you see at the high school in the middle of the summer unless there’s an event. As I cut through the parking lot and onto the grass leading up to the baseball field, I realize there is an event taking place, because I recognize some of these cars. I’ve hit them with foul balls, and piled into them for tournaments. And when I’m close enough to see into the dugout, I know I’m right. Because at least half of the baseball team is here.
My first thought is that Zander brought everyone to beat me up, like some retro movie set in a town that isn’t Riverton. That shit doesn’t happen in a town where you’ve gone to school with everyone since basically kindergarten. It’s like six degrees of Kevin Bacon around here; even if you don’t know someone, you know their cousin, or their boyfriend, or your dad went to school with theirs. Six degrees of Riverton.
So I know I’m not actually getting jumped on the baseball field, I just don’t know what is happening. Quitting right before summer break, it’s been easy to dodge these guys, but now they’re all in front of me. Zander is leaning against the fence outside the dugout, and when I push the little gate open on the visitors’ side and step out onto the field, he doesn’t move right away. I’m halfway to home base before he pushes himself away from the fence. A few other guys are out on the field, messing around, throwing grounders; Mani is kicking third base like he’s making sure it didn’t get soft over the summer.
When Summer Ends Page 20