Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  “You’re brave, getting escargot,” Becka says after the waiter brings out our meals. She’d ordered coq au vin—chicken cooked in wine.

  “Want one?” I grab a shell and offer it to her.

  She scrunches up her nose and I notice the slightest hint of freckles sprinkled across her face. The sun must have brought them out.

  “No thanks,” she says with a laugh.

  I use the tiny fork to pry meat from the shell, examining the rubbery-looking substance before dipping it into the butter sauce and popping it into my mouth. Becka watches me with a look somewhere between disgust and anticipation.

  “Well?” she asks.

  I swallow and shrug. “It tastes like a chewy mushroom.”

  The look of disgust on Becka’s face quickly wins out over her initial curiosity. “Ugh, gross.” She takes another bite of her chicken. “Now this is good.” We eat in comfortable silence for a while until she says, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What does the J stand for? In your name? Is it Jackie?”

  “No, my middle name is actually James.” I don’t know why, but I thought she already knew that, and maybe that’s why I’m not embarrassed to admit it to her. But like everyone else who has ever asked me that question, her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

  “Why James?”

  I sigh. Usually I tell people it’s a family name, but I figure that won’t work with Becka, so I settle for the truth. “It’s for James Marsden. He’s an actor my mom was in love with at the time. Weird, I know.”

  But instead of making fun of me, she looks intrigued. “What was he in?”

  “The only thing I’ve seen him in is X-Men, but he was in Enchanted and The Notebook and a bunch of other stuff, too.” Mom told me all the movies once, but those are the only ones I remember.

  The waiter reappears, interrupting our conversation. “And ’ow is everything?”

  “Très bien,” Becka says.

  “Very good.” I’m not sure if he’s accidentally translating or just likes to speak English to customers.

  “Actually,” I say as he turns to leave, “could we get two glasses of your chardonnay s’il vous plaît?” I throw in a smile, realizing my one year of high school French wasn’t a total waste.

  He nods, all businesslike. “Of course.”

  Becka’s eyes nearly pop out of her head as he walks away. “He’s not going to ID us?” she whispers.

  “Guess not.” I figured it was a fifty-fifty shot and that it couldn’t hurt to ask. “Just play it cool when he comes back, okay.”

  Only playing it cool isn’t Becka’s forte apparently. She sits ramrod straight as he places the glasses before us, her eyes growing as wide as our fancy dinner plates.

  The waiter’s expression changes as he looks at her. “May I see both of your IDs please?”

  Shit. But maybe all isn’t lost. “We just came from the beach,” I explain. “We left them back at our hotel.”

  His lips purse and he shakes his head. That’s probably an overused excuse, now that I think about it. The waiter scoops up the two glasses. “I’m sorry. I can’t serve you the wine, then.”

  Becka actually looks relieved as he carries them away. I shoot her an annoyed look. “That was not what I’d call playing it cool.”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t know what to do.”

  I let out a sigh. “It’s fine.”

  Becka lifts her glass of iced tea, giving me an apologetic smile. “Cheers anyway?”

  “Sure.” I reluctantly return the smile and clink my glass with hers. “To Grandpa.”

  “And to bug tattoos,” she says, eyes shifting to her ladybug again.

  “And…” I add dramatically, “to the best damn vacation I’ve ever been on. Even if we didn’t get our wine.”

  She laughs and we touch glasses again.

  “This trip has been pretty awesome,” Becka says.

  Even sans alcohol, we’re giggly as we head back to the hotel. Music drifts from open doorways of restaurants and bars, and I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy in a way that I haven’t experienced in a long, long while. The island is giving me major good vibes.

  “Hey,” I say, “how about we clean up and go listen to a band or something? We could sit at one of the outdoor places.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

  “I could even try to get us some alcohol again.”

  “Please don’t. That was embarrassing.”

  I give her a playful nudge with my shoulder. “Okay, fine. I won’t.”

  When we enter the hotel, the lady at the front desk calls us over, telling us we have mail. Becka and I look at each other, smiling again. Good timing, Grandpa.

  CHAPTER 22

  ELI

  Greetings Dear Granddaughters,

  I hope this letter finds you both well and having an incredible time in Key West. When I was a teenager, I worked for a man who had lived in the Keys for several years. By the way he described it, the place sounded like paradise. I’ve never been to the ocean, but I wanted my granddaughters to get the chance to not only see it, but experience some of the beauty beneath its surface. The reef off the coast of Florida is the only living reef in the United States. I hope your snuba diving experience was something you’ll always remember.

  As you know, there is still one more task for you both to complete, the rodeo event. You may be thinking your old grandpa was really off his rocker to want you to do such a thing, but when I was a kid, I had a pony (the only pet I’ve ever had, coincidentally) and I loved riding Penny every time I visited my granddad’s ranch. It was another one of my crazy dreams back then to be a rodeo cowboy someday. Laughable, right?

  I know you two don’t have much (if any) experience with horses or livestock, but at the annual Decatur Dog Days of Summer Rodeo, held at the end of every July, they have several amateur events anyone can compete in—goat milking, mutton bustin’ (I believe there’s a weight limit, you’ll have to check), and even a stick horse race—so rest easy. You won’t have to ride a bull or a bucking horse! I attended the rodeo many moons ago and it was a lot of fun.

  But as these trips draw to a close, I wanted to let you know there’s another reason I’ve been writing these letters. A more important reason I specifically wanted you two to go all these places together. I guess you could say, I’ve been building up to this…

  My greatest hope is that the two of you have become friends by now and that these magnificent destinations you’ve visited have made you realize how big and beautiful the world is. I also hope that all of these experiences have brought you closer together. Even if, by chance, they haven’t, I still need to tell you both something because it’s a secret I’ve held on to for far too long.

  Seventeen years ago, someone showed up on my doorstep with some news to tell me. He wasn’t a stranger. In fact, I’d known him since he was a teenager. He dated my eldest daughter for three years, and then he married her. He’s the unfortunate source of all the contention between your mothers: Samuel Cowles.

  Samuel told me something your mothers didn’t want either of you to know. Something they never wanted me to know either. I won’t go into the whole story—I’ll leave that to my daughters—but I think it’s time you two know the secret. You’re not just cousins. You’re half sisters.

  Samuel is your father too, Katherine.

  I’m so sorry to tell you this in a letter, but you both deserve to know the truth. I hope you can lean on each other for support from here on out. After all, that’s exactly what sisters should do.

  Love,

  Grandpa

  CHAPTER 23

  BECKA

  MY MOUTH REFUSES TO CLOSE, AND MY BRAIN IS racing a million miles an hour. I reluctantly hand the letter over to K. J., who’s looking at me like I just sprouted antlers. It must be obvious from my expression that something’s wrong. And, oh yes, something is very wrong, indeed.

  I feel like someone has poured a buck
et of ice water over me. Still, I watch K. J.’s face as she skims over the letter, blanching when she gets to the end. Those words still burning in my brain.

  Half sisters.

  It’s impossible. My mom told me the affair happened after we’d both been born. Unless… did she lie to me about the timing of it all? My mind spins as I try to figure out why she would keep this from me—from us—and then my thoughts suddenly turn to Ricky. We only shared a mother, but I never thought of him as anything other than my own flesh and blood. Now, if what Grandpa says is true, I’m supposed to accept that K. J. is the same thing? Sure, we might be getting along now, and maybe she’s not as bad as I used to think, but sisters? It’s too much to take in. I shake my head, as if that will be enough to rid myself of the idea. It’s like my world has been flipped end over end, and I’m still hanging upside down.

  “I don’t know about this,” I say, more to myself than to anyone, but what I mean is I don’t know how it could be true. I glance at the hotel clerk behind the front desk, but she’s too engrossed in her computer screen to notice the two of us still standing here.

  K. J. slowly folds the letter and returns it to the envelope. Her eyes rise to meet mine. “Sisters?” she says, like she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

  I stare back at her, unspeaking. It hits me that maybe Grandpa is wrong. He was prone to wild ideas after all. This could all be a mistake, some strange theory of his. I study K. J.’s face for a moment. We don’t look alike. Ricky and I at least had the same color eyes and the same fine, sandy-blond hair.

  In a matter of moments, my disbelief morphs into anger toward our grandpa and his ridiculous letter, and my jaw locks tight. I want to snatch the envelope from K. J.’s hands and rip it to shreds.

  “This is bullshit,” I say, surprised to find I sound more like K. J. than myself. This only makes me angrier. I turn on my heel and stride down the hall, back toward our room. This may all be a lie, but I can tell K. J. is buying into it and I can’t bear to look at her right now. There’s no way our moms would keep something like this from us.

  I fumble with my key card, dropping it twice before finally getting the door open. The room is warm and the faint smell of mildew hangs in the air. Funny how I hadn’t noticed it until now. Sweat pools around my hairline, and I swipe at it with the back of my wrist. I feel like I’ve just played a soccer game in ninety-degree heat. I find the thermostat and turn the temperature down.

  “Come on!” I mutter, willing the air conditioner to kick on. I fling myself onto the bed, head pulsing with each beat of my heart. The air clicks on and I think that maybe I should call Mom and put an end to this nonsense. But another part of me refuses to do that—not yet, anyway. I still need time to think.

  I recall the Instagram photo of Mom and Tim at that restaurant. She was happy there—she’s happier now—but that’s the new Mom. The one only Tim has been able to bring out. I still remember the depressed and angry version, the one who spewed her hatred of my aunt and cousin at every possible opportunity.

  Why does she hate Jackie so much? Is it just because of the affair? Or is it because K. J. was born—a child who would forever serve as a reminder of her sister’s betrayal and my dad’s infidelity? As much as I hate to admit it, the pieces of this puzzle are starting to fall into place.

  If I decide to believe Grandpa, that is.

  My mind continues to race as I think of what I’ll say to K. J. when she comes in. No words seem appropriate after this bombshell. Footsteps sound in the hallway outside and I brace myself, but they quickly fade away. This happens several more times before it dawns on me that she isn’t coming back anytime soon. I don’t know where she is, but I can’t seem to gather the will to get up and go find her. I’d rather be alone.

  The air conditioner is working too well now. I start to shiver as I climb under the covers and cocoon myself beneath them. Thoughts of Ricky flood in again, and before I know it, tears are sliding down my cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath my head. I flip it over, but soon I’ve soaked that side, too. Yanking the covers back, I throw the pillow to the floor and grab another one to place beneath my head.

  I have no idea what time it is when the tears finally dry. I’m exhausted, but sleep still doesn’t come. The air conditioner shuts off and silence fills the room. A dull throb pulses in my forehead. I roll onto my stomach, pressing my head into the pillow, allowing the pressure to soothe the ache. It’s hard to breathe lying like this, but I don’t move. More muffled footsteps sound outside the room, followed once again by silence.

  Somehow, I manage to fall asleep.

  I wake to a scuffling noise outside the room the next morning. I sit up, wiping the sleep from my eyes as an envelope slides beneath the door. My first thought is that it’s another one of Grandpa’s letters, and my face tingles. Maybe this one will say “Just kidding, it was all a joke,” but then again, I know that isn’t likely.

  “Hey, look…”

  It’s then that I notice K. J.’s bed is still perfectly made. I search the room for any signs that she’s been here, but everything is just as we left it yesterday. Slowly, I push the covers away and climb out of bed. I pick up the envelope, discovering it’s only a receipt and directions for checkout, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  My stomach gurgles with uneasiness as I grab my phone on the nightstand, but when I pull up my contacts, I realize K. J. and I never exchanged numbers. I have no way to get ahold of her. I don’t exactly rush getting dressed and brushing my hair, but I don’t dally either. I splash water onto my face and pat it dry. After applying some loose powder and mascara and rubbing the ointment over my tattoo, I grab my key card and debit card and stuff them into the front pocket of my khaki shorts. The car is still parked in the alleyway, so K. J. couldn’t have gone far, but I’m not sure where to start my search.

  I walk down Duval Street, peeking in some of the windows of shops we’d been in before, though I know it’s unlikely she would be in there now. My eyes scan everyone who passes by, but every face is unfamiliar. I’m not sure how I’ll feel if I do find her. My anger has abated, but irritation mixes in with my uneasiness now. Why would she just disappear like this? I pass a shop displaying a colorful array of surfboards and suddenly it hits me. I make a left, heading toward the public beach where we spent much of yesterday afternoon.

  It’s there that I find her, standing knee-deep in the water with her hands shoved in the pockets of her shorts. She pulls one hand out and runs it through her wild-looking hair, and oddly enough, something tugs inside my heart. Has she really been out here all night? I move to the water’s edge.

  “K. J.,” I call. She doesn’t turn around, so I call her name again. A man and woman jog by, looking from her to me and back to her again. Is it obvious we received life-changing news last night? “We have to check out,” I say, pulling out my phone to check the time. “In forty-five minutes.”

  God forbid I have to go in and drag her back to shore. I’m still deliberating about doing just that when she finally turns around. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a glassy sheen to her eyes. “Where have you been all night?”

  She nods toward a nearby row of lounge chairs before slowly making her way back to shore. Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and then she walks right past me.

  “That’s real smart.” I shake my head and follow behind her. “So… what… are you mad at me now?” She doesn’t answer and refuses to say a word as we walk back to the hotel. I let out a sigh of frustration after trying to question her for the third time. “Are you really going to act like a five-year-old and have a tantrum? Please talk to me.”

  Still nothing from her. I take a measured breath, trying to keep control of my temper. Back at the hotel, we pack up our belongings in silence and she trails behind me as we go to check out. After turning in our key cards, we head back outside to the car.

  “What’s your problem?” I demand as I start the engine. I leave the car in park, turnin
g to face K. J. The glassiness from her eyes is gone, but she looks exhausted, like she’s been awake for a week straight.

  “All my life,” she starts, her tone steely and her hands balled into fists at her sides. “My entire life, I wanted a sibling, but I pretty much gave up on Mom ever getting married or having any more children. She’d rather read those trashy romance novels than actually go on a fucking date.” Her jawline grows rigid and she gives a slight shake of her head. “And now this? I’m eighteen, and I finally find out I have a sister. But oh, wait! She’s also my cousin and we’ve hated each other for nearly all our lives.” She pounds her seat with a fist, tears shimmering in her eyes. “This is so fucked up. Our family is so fucked up.”

  “I know it is.” I draw my hands away from the steering wheel and into my lap, my anger cooling once more. “But maybe it’s not even true. You know how Grandpa was.”

  “It’s true, I know it is. Grandpa wouldn’t make up something like this.” K. J. takes a ragged breath and brushes her nose with the back of her hand before continuing. “And my fucking mom. She’s lied to me my whole life, told me Robert was my dad. She went on and on about what a shitty father he was for taking off on us. Why would she do that?”

  I’m clueless about how to answer that question.

  “She told me the affair with Sam happened several years before I was born.”

  I shake my head, understanding finally sinking in. I turn to stare out the windshield, noticing the car parked in front of us has California tags. Somebody’s a long way from home. “My mom told me we were both babies,” I say quietly. “They changed the timeline so we wouldn’t suspect anything. Guess they should have agreed on the same story, though.” A strange sensation wells inside my chest as I realize this is all the proof I need. Grandpa was telling us the truth.

  K. J. rams the heel of her hand into the dash, and the sound of it makes me flinch. “I’m done,” she says. “This whole bucket list thing. I’m done. I don’t give a shit about the money. My mom doesn’t deserve her share, and who am I kidding to think I can get through college anyway? I barely made it through high school.”