Did you talk with your dad?
Yeah
How’d it go?
Could have gone better
He didn’t think i should be airing dirty laundry
You didn’t air anything. Your grandparents did
I brought you to dinner and knew what might happen
I basically insisted on coming
I’m still the one who invited you
I could have prevented this
This is why I didn’t want you digging around in the first place
I drew back and stared at his last text for a long time, my cheeks hot. What the hell? A few hours ago, he’d been saying I hadn’t done anything wrong, yet now I deserved the blame? I tried typing a few things but they all sounded wrong and stupid.
Got it.
I put my phone down and crossed the tiny yard to bury my face in the lavender. Lavender had calming properties, right? Maybe I should sleep out here.
My phone buzzed again and I grabbed it.
I didn’t mean it like that
Sure he hadn’t. I’d said enough cutting things to Mom to know when someone had aimed words to hurt, and his words had been specifically designed to cut me down. I wished I knew how to convey cold indifference via text. Instead, I didn’t answer.
My phone rang, shuddering into motion on the porch chair’s arm.
Good lord. What was he doing, calling? Phones only rang for death and library bills. Or perhaps he, too, knew not to let silence fester. “Wow. A phone call.”
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“It’s fine.” This was better. Much easier to convey disdain via vocal tone than emojis.
“No, it’s not. I’m mad at my dad and grandfather, and I took it out on you. But they’re the ones who snap at people when they’re mad. I don’t want to snap, too.”
I was silent a minute. “Learned behaviors, I guess.”
“I’m going to learn other behaviors, then.”
“What happened with your dad?”
“He was just pissed. You know.”
“Not really. Why?
“Mostly what I was telling you about. My dad expects me to keep things together, you know? I know my grandparents are rocky right now, worked up about a hundred dumb little things, so I should know better than to introduce—variables.”
“Me.”
“Yeah.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed to come.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blamed you. I was—striking out.”
I hesitated, not sure how to frame what I wanted to ask. “Is your family always so . . . tightly wound? Your relationships with your dad and grandpa seem . . . strained.”
He also paused before answering, navigating his words like travelers carefully crossing a rushing stream, stepping from slippery rock to slippery rock. “I think there’s a lot of expectations. From my grandfather for my dad, and from my dad for me.”
“Like you studying business instead of botany.”
“I’m supposed to do what’s right for the family. That’s always been very clear. And I hate being a disappointment.”
“You’re not a disappointment.”
“Yes, I am.” He sounded flat. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
I had no idea how he could think such a negative thing about himself. “You were valedictorian. You got into Harvard.”
He laughed without humor. “Yeah, and my family donated an obscene amount.”
“Noah.” I clutched my cell, hurt on his behalf. The smallest criticism from my mom made me want to cry, and she thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. How much more upsetting would critique be from a less-supportive parent? “Don’t judge yourself so harshly, okay?”
He was silent a moment. “Sometimes I think I’m going to be just like him. Just like both of them.”
“You don’t have to be. We’re not fated to repeat the mistakes of our family.”
“Aren’t we? Aren’t we raised to be like them?”
“But you’re not your dad or your grandfather. I’m not my mom or my grandmother. We have other parts of our family, and other things shape us. And—and maybe sometimes family traits do trickle down, yeah. But if we notice them, we can course correct.”
He was so silent I asked if he was still there.
“Yeah. Just thinking. Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Noah—” I found it easier to say these words when I didn’t have to look at him. “You’re a good person.”
He was silent a long time. “I’m sorry about how tonight went.”
“It’s okay.”
“Okay.” He paused. “Hey, do you want to go sailing on Tuesday?”
Something almost painful bloomed in my chest, I was so happy at the invitation. I had work, but I could trade shifts with one of the summer employees. “Yes!”
“Great. We’re meeting at the yacht club at ten a.m.”
Oh. Quick as my excitement had risen, it deflated. I’d thought he’d meant just us. “Okay. Awesome. See you there.”
* * *
I’d never gone sailing before, and spent the morning debating proper attire. Did I wear my scandalous red bikini? It might stun Noah. And I hadn’t worn it yet.
I tried it on and regarded myself in the mirror, only to be confronted by a rather excessive amount of cleavage, which, while sexy in the privacy of my home, seemed overboard for a daytime outing.
Never mind, then.
I pulled a gray tank and jean shorts over my more conservative bikini with the boy shorts. Into my beach bag went a towel, sunscreen, water, and a PB&J, along with a carton of strawberries in case this turned out to be a potluck kind of deal, and I headed out toward the yacht club (the yacht club!) for our ten a.m. meetup.
The day was so hot I found the idea of ever not sweating through my clothes painfully laughable; even in the short walk over, sweat accumulated under my breasts and at the base of my neck. I moved sluggishly, every step torture, every breath slow as my lungs tried to parse the oxygen from the water in the air.
Usually in this kind of heat, I couldn’t understand how anyone could feel anything besides exhausted, or be anything other than a supplicant to the god of air-conditioning. Yet this morning, beneath the sweat and the heat, a terrible nervousness buzzed through me, a low-level anxiety I’d have excised with a knife if possible.
Why was I so worked up about hanging out with Noah’s friends? It wasn’t like Noah and I were dating. It wasn’t like they’d even have opinions about me. I certainly never thought twice when a new kid appeared at one of the hangouts with Jane’s group.
And yet.
I scanned the docks, one group after another, until I spotted a tangle of teenagers at the far end. Noah stood in the middle of the group, laughing and confident, surrounded by half a dozen other tan beachy kids. They all seemed to have received a memo about dressing in whites and stripes and Nantucket red. I clutched my beach bag tightly against my shoulder. What was I doing? I should have told Noah I had work and met up another day. So what if we got along in the closed bubble of the two of us? These were his actual friends.
My pace slowed as the distance waned, until I’d come to an awkward stop at the edge of the group. I was panicked and unable to glean enough air. Maybe I should bail. Slip away before anyone noticed me, and text Noah saying I felt sick. Why had Noah even invited me? We were hardly going to discuss family drama around others.
This was too much. Too stressful. I was bailing.
But then Noah looked up, his gaze unerringly finding mine.
Never mind, then. I managed a half wave and concentrated on breathing. At least if I passed out from anxiety I could blame the heat.
He came to meet me, smiling. “You made it.�
��
I shrugged, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”
“Come on, let’s get you on the boat.” He led me through the pack of teenagers, introducing me left and right, a social golden boy with a million friends and a smile for all of them—nothing like the angry, honest, guarded, romantic boy I knew. He helped me onto one of the boats, already filled with six others, then turned away to help a group of guys lifting coolers.
Cool cool. I didn’t need a social crutch. No, sir.
The boats pushed off. A dozen people crowded on ours, with Noah somewhere near the front. Had I thought, for some crazy reason, this would be a reasonable time for the two of us to hang out and talk? Silly me.
Still, we were on a boat on the water, so how bad could this be? Sun soaked my skin, and I took a deep breath. Someone turned on music, blasting Top 40, and someone else distributed beer. Everyone peeled off their shirts, so I did, too, aware how even with a full-coverage bikini top, I had a lot on display. Whatever. Instead of being embarrassed, I had to own it, as Niko always told me.
A girl I hadn’t met before dropped down beside me and offered a pink can. “Hi! I’m Alex. Rosé?”
“I’m Abby.” I took the can but didn’t open it. Was it kosher to drink before noon?
“Noah says you’re family friends?”
“Uh. Yeah. I guess.”
“Cool. Are you here for the weekend?”
“All summer, actually.” We exchanged the routine introductions while two more girls folded themselves down by our sides.
“So, very important question,” one of them said to Alex. “What are you going to be for Kaitlyn’s party?”
“I’m thinking a jellyfish,” she said. “You guys are pirates, right?”
“Ugh, we were debating. Maybe we could find a good trio costume?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Ursula and Flotsam and Jetsam? Katy Perry and left shark and right shark?”
“These costumes would solidly suck for two out of three of us,” Alex said with a laugh. She turned to me. “The party’s Blue Lagoon–themed.”
“What’s Blue Lagoon?”
“You know?” one of the other girls said—Chelsea, I thought. Chelsea and Jen. “The hot spring?”
“No.” I took in everyone’s shocked faces and decided to make a stab. “Is it . . . local?”
Chelsea and Jen exchanged the kind of look generally made when you thought no one could see you, not when you were directly in front of the person you were side-eyeing. Alex gave me a pitying smile. “It’s in Iceland.”
“Oh. I’ve never been to Iceland.”
What a stupid, stupid thing to say. Did I have zero social skills?
“You definitely should go,” Chelsea said. “You can get cheap deals through Reykjavík on your way wherever and extend your layover for a day or two.”
“Iceland really is great,” Jen said earnestly. “It’s one of the best places to see the northern lights.”
“Oh my god, don’t remind me.” Alex rolled her eyes. “I went for two weeks and didn’t see them once. And Chelsea went for, like, twenty-four hours before heading to Croatia—”
“No, this was when we were going to Portugal.”
“Oh, right. And she saw them! So unfair.”
I smiled awkwardly. Though I didn’t think the girls meant to make me uncomfortable, they lived in a world I couldn’t relate to, and draped their sentences in wealth so expertly they’d practically made it an art form. When I mentioned how much I liked the Hamilton soundtrack, they launched into a discussion of which cast was superior—original or touring? When I mentioned my abiding love for pizza, they talked about how much better it was in Naples, the birthplace of my favorite food.
By the time we arrived at Coatue, the narrow strip of sand where we planned to spend the afternoon, an unwelcome stiffness had invaded my body, a sense of unbelonging. I looked for Noah as we pulled the boats onto the shore. I didn’t want to be clingy, but he had invited me, after all.
I waited for him to jump off the boat. People surrounded him, tight-knit and chattering, but I stood there determinedly until he noticed me.
When he did, his eyes caught for the barest second on my chest, and he swallowed. Amusement and embarrassment and a little touch of satisfaction surged through me. Well, then.
He resolutely fastened his gaze on mine. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. It’s—”
“Noah!” A girl bounded up to his side, tucking her arm in the crook of his. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
He hesitated, still looking at me. “Uh—”
She squeezed his bicep. Literally. I didn’t know people did that. “Please?”
“You okay?” he said to me.
I sent him a bright smile and kept my shoulders from slumping. “Of course.”
Good lord, I was pathetic.
I watched Noah follow the girl away for half a second, then looked around for Alex and the other girls from the boat. Too late; they’d been absorbed by the crowd, which was made up of more than our one boat. People covered the beach, not a single one familiar. My shoulders inched toward my ears. Great. What a party. I should have kept the can of rosé.
I sat down and pulled out my phone, a sure safeguard against the world.
I didn’t know why I was so upset. Or, sure, it objectively sucked to hang out with a group of people who all knew each other. But I knew most of my anger and unhappiness and the queasy, sick feeling in my stomach came from wishing Noah Barbanel wanted to hang out with me as much as I wanted to hang out with him. Which was dumb.
I shot off a selfie to Niko.
Me:
I’m alone on a beach and pretending to have fun
Niko:
Jesus you’re still so pale
Do you dip yourself in sunscreen every morning like Elizabeth Bathory
Me:
Yes I murder a hundred sun motes each day to collect their energy
Do you think there’ll be popular kids in college or will we finally be free of social hierarchy
Niko:
Hate to break it to you babe but civilization runs on othering ppl
Go socialize!! I have to finish making a raspberry pi
Me:
Did you mistype pie or is the tech world trying to be cute
“Abby, right?”
I looked up. There, haloed by the sun, stood the beautiful boy from the rowing house. Blond and blue-eyed and glowing gold, he looked like he’d stepped out of a TV show.
“Hi!” I beamed up at him, pitifully grateful to have someone to talk to—and more than a little vindictively pleased it was a hot guy. Wow, my moral compass didn’t point as true north as I’d expected. “Yes. You’re Tyler?”
“Yeah.” He lowered himself to the sand beside me, running his gaze over me with evident enjoyment, before flashing a grin. “How’s it going?”
“Great.” A beat of silence followed, and I babbled into it. “Trying to get used to this much sun.”
He laughed. “This your first summer here?”
“Yup. I snagged a job at the Prose Garden.”
Look at me go. Actual words exchanged with a hot boy.
A fling-worthy boy, in fact. Who maybe only wanted to talk to me because of my boobs, but whatever. I’d take what I could get.
I took out my sunscreen and started reapplying. Was I being too obvious? God, of course I was being too obvious, this was so clearly a hint for him to assist. No, it wasn’t obvious, it was too subtle—boys never picked up on anything.
“You want help?”
“Oh!” My voice came out high, which hopefully sounded like surprise instead of suppressed maniacal giggles. “Sure.”
I turned, gathering my hair on the top of my head with one hand
. He smoothed lotion over my shoulders and I tried not to shiver at the touch. His hands were sure, and the sun warm, and the air filled with salt. A grin split my face. I felt like a girl in a teen movie. Could any scene be a more perfect summer stereotype? I’d achieved a level of basic-dom I hadn’t known was possible, and I was riding it high.
I looked up and made eye contact with Noah.
A wave of red-hot heat crashed through me, followed by freezing ice, the whiplash like a slap. I felt like I’d been caught doing something terrible. Noah held my gaze for half a second, his own still and unfathomable. Then he looked away, expression unchanged, as though he hadn’t even seen me.
I tried to regulate my breathing. Everything was fine. Why would anything not be fine? I wasn’t on a date with Noah. He’d barely even spoken to me. I had nothing to feel bad about.
I wanted to throw up.
“There. Done.”
Right. Another boy currently had his hands pressed against my skin. I let go of my hair and turned back to Tyler, forcing a smile of thanks. Yet the possibility Noah might be watching made me feel awkward and self-conscious, like an actor forced to perform before she’d memorized her lines.
Whatever. I tried to shake off my awareness of Noah. I needed to remember how very not into him I was. I focused on Tyler and upped the wattage of my smile. “Want me to do you?”
He smirked. “Definitely.”
Why was it so easy to accidentally make innuendos?
He turned, and I poured a quarter-sized dollop of sunscreen into my palm, glad we were facing away from Noah. I could only see Tyler’s back and the glittering ocean as I smoothed cold lotion over his shoulders. “You’re super tan.”
More points in the Abby-for-a-Pulitzer-in-small-talk bucket.
“I spend a lot of time swimming.”
“Do you come to Nantucket every year?”
“Yeah, my parents have a house here.”
“Lucky. And where do you live again?”
“I’m from LA. You?”
“Outside of Boston,” I said, because everything in Massachusetts was outside of Boston. “How long have you been coming here?”
The Summer of Lost Letters Page 16