The Last Summer Girl: A Coming of Age Love Story

by S. C. York

  The buzz from the alcohol hums through my body. My eyes move up his legs past the loose, khaki shorts. A white, button-down shirt hangs untucked on wide shoulders. My eyes finally reach a face where dark eyes smirk down at me. I’m pretty tall at 5foot seven but the top of my head barely reaches this guy’s chest.

  “Hey, if you have a thing for feet, I’ll let you rub them for a beer.”

  His dark brown hair is wet from the sea spray and it curls on his neck.

  My God, I’m in love.

  I’m mortified and try to play it off by making a smart remark right back, “Sure, I’ll make sure to hit all the right spots for an extra tip.”

  What did I just say? My God, I sound like a hooker. Dammit, never again! I am never drinking boxed wine and tequila again.

  “I think I’ll pass,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. Small flecks of salt water fly off, landing on my bare shoulders. Goosebumps break out on my arms and I’m mesmerized. He smooths his hair back with one hand, and then tells me his name.

  “Ryan Stone,” he says, reaching inside the Zodiac and grabbing a beer.

  “Wow, a freebie with no foot rub?” I reply.

  He shrugs, “Maybe later. I never let a woman touch my feet without at least knowing her name.”

  “Vanessa Lyman.”

  As we clink bottles, I hear the music from the Grease Live with Vanessa Hudgens playing in my head. Oh yes, those…summer nights.

  Neither of us speaks and I’m starting to feel awkward since I’ve lost TJ and Eva somewhere in the crowd. I know I’m coming off like a complete ditz and try to think of something cool to say.

  “I’ve never had this kind of beer before—it’s a bit heavy.”

  “I just got back from a business trip to Jamaica,” Ryan replies taking a swig.

  Watching his mouth touch the bottle, I catch myself staring too long again.

  “What does Jamaica have to do with anything?”

  “Red Stripe is a Jamaican beer, little one.”

  “Jamaica? What type of business did you have there?” I ask him, dumbly realizing I’m still standing in the ocean staring at him like he’s a god from Mt. Olympus.

  “I’m an investment banker for a small investment firm in Boston. This week was the meeting for our Caribbean investors in Rose Hall.”

  “Rose Hall? I thought you said you were in Jamaica?” I ask confused.

  He stares at me for a minute and then replies, “Rose Hall is an exclusive part of Montego Bay.”

  “Oh,” I reply biting my lip and digging my toes into the wet sand.

  “It’s alright, Vanessa. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you failed geography class.”

  I raise my eyebrows and he smirks at me. I’m impressed. This guy isn’t from around here and he knows it.

  “What are you doing here at Esker with Blake?”

  “Blake and I met at HSB. He’s been trying to convince me for years to take a Thursday off for one of these beach concerts. I finally take him up on it and here you are. So tell me…are all the girls in this town as weird as you?”

  I cringe knowing tonight he’s got me pegged. “I’m not weird, just a little buzzed. What’s HSB?” I ask.

  “Harvard School of Business.”

  “Oh.”

  My face is greasy and I feel dejected. Why did I have to meet him on a muggy summer night, drunk at a beach concert?

  “Vanessa, what do you do for fun when you’re not shit-faced on the beach?”

  I take a few steps out of the water and stand closer to him. Obviously, this won’t go anywhere and I don’t see the point of being flirty. “I enjoy a good book. I wanted to major in English Lit, but my parents freaked and made me choose a business major instead.”

  “Why? English Literature is classic. It’s a prep school curriculum must. Chaucer is one of my favorite authors. Who are you reading now?”

  “Uh, I just re-read the Twilight series,” I tell him shyly.

  He looks at me like I am the biggest idiot he’s ever met.

  “What?”

  “You know—Edward Cullen, the sexy vampire? The series was made into movies—”

  He shakes his head, “I’ve never heard of it. I’m too busy making multi-million-dollar business deals to watch teen shit,” he finishes snobbishly. He breaks eye contact with me and searches the crowd, probably looking around for his friends and planning an exit strategy from me.

  Crap, did I just say Edward Cullen to a man like Ryan Stone?

  I’m in deep water trying to tread in conversation and going under. How am I supposed to keep up with him? I just graduated from a small state college with a degree in marketing, while he is Mr. Harvard and obviously at least a decade older than me. Even sober it would be a challenge. God, he must think I’m a great conversationalist.

  Eva and TJ make their way back to me, trailing behind Blake and his group of frat boys. Guess the King’s finished with his meet and greet.

  “Take this, Vanessa,” TJ says, handing me a bottle of water.

  “Thanks, I was wondering where you went.”

  He winks and starts talking with one of Blake’s friends about yachting. I take this opportunity to disengage and let Ryan join in on TJ’s conversation. They are making plans to head over to Fisher’s Island later.

  Fisher’s is considered part of New York State and the bars close later than they do in Connecticut. I guess that must be the appeal. It’s a few nautical miles off the coast of Esker, only accessible by boat and another rich man’s playground.

  “You game, TJ?” Blake asks.

  My head snaps up in disbelief at the unexpected invite.

  “What about Vanessa and me? Surely you boys won’t mind finding room for us in your boat?” Eva asks.

  “Sorry. It’s guys’ night out. See you at work tomorrow,” Blake tells her flippantly. “Are you coming, TJ?” he asks chucking his empty bottle in the trash.

  “Next time. I have plans with my girls here,” TJ replies putting both arms around me and Eva.

  “I can’t believe you’re going three miles offshore, half-cocked in a rubber boat. It’ll be dark soon. Safety first, don’t forget your life vests,” I say trying to sound funny.

  “Vanessa, my Zodiac is just the tender to shore from my new Viking 95,” Blake responds gesturing with a fresh beer in hand behind us.

  We all turn to stare, and I’m speechless at the sleek white yacht that sits in the harbor. The sun’s setting rays bounce off the glistening body of the vessel, almost blinding me, “HER MAJESTY” is scripted in gold across the stern, bold and unapologetic.

  “Holy shit! The new Viking! I hear that baby can reach up to forty knots depending on sea conditions,” TJ says in awe. He knows what he’s talking about since he’s worked the past five summers at MYC, short for The Mystic Yacht Club.

  “Forget it. I’m in,” TJ announces dropping his arms from us. “I would go anywhere on that beauty. Sorry, ladies, I’m going to upgrade.” He turns to Blake, “Will you let me drive her?”

  “No way, man, not tonight. No one who’s had a drop of alcohol besides me goes near my custom-designed baby and her twin MAN V12 engines.”

  All eyes are on Blake Foster’s flashy sports yacht. The spell’s broken when his buddies start lugging the Zodiac back down the beach. Eva and I follow alongside, still not believing TJ will get in and leave us. Staring down at my feet submerged in six inches of water again, I feel dejected wishing just for one night to be aboard a million-dollar yacht. Instead, I’ll just go back to reading about his life in the society pages with Mom on Sunday mornings.

  Sometimes, I wonder if Blake just likes to be seen and put on Instagram. Last time I checked, he had six-thousand followers, portraying an image of non-stop jet-setting to them.

  We couldn’t be more different. My dad’s an electrician and my mom’s a nurse. They could only afford to send me to a state college. I consider myself educated and smart but yacht clubs, Harvard boys, ‘H
er Highness’ motor boat…all that blue blood crap has never been part of my world, and I never missed it. Why try to fit into it now? Deciding to cut my losses early, I say goodbye.

  “Have fun on Fisher’s. It was nice meeting all of you!” I tell them brightly.

  They all look at me and Eva mouths, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Lost in my own thoughts it appears my sudden outburst stopped conversation. Embarrassed, I turn to walk away and trip over the stern of the boat, falling head first inside. As my forehead cracks on the powerful engine, I scream in pain.

  My sundress flies up and I feel the cool sea breeze blow across my bare ass cheeks. I desperately try to recall what panties I put on that morning, but my pounding head won’t let me.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks, let me help you up.”

  Ryan’s voice carries over the hysterical laughter. He leans down and pulls my dress back into place. I feel his soft breath near my ear as he pushes back my honey-blonde strands. He whispers, “You know I would’ve asked you for your number without all the gymnastics, but it’s nice to know you have a great ass before I take you out.”

  What? I gingerly feel my forehead, relieved there’s no blood.

  He lifts me out of the boat and I put my arms around his neck. Our faces are close enough to kiss. I start to trail my fingers down the side of his cheek when he puts me down.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” I whisper, trying not to cry. I already feel a significant bump swelling on my forehead.

  I turn around carefully and blindly fight my way through the crowd. I just want to get away. I finally meet someone who is smart, successful, and physically my dream and I screw it up by drinking too much and mooning him.

  I mooned the man of my dreams! What moron does that? I smack my forehead. Shit, why did I just hit my already injured head?

  “Idiot,” I mutter, finally reaching the top of the beach not far from where my evening began.

  “Shit. I’m stuck,” I mumble, remembering Eva drove me here. Grabbing my phone, I’m thankful it’s still dry after my free fall.

  “Daddy…it’s me, I’m at the beach concert. Can you come pick me up?”

  “Vanessa? Are you alright? It sounds like you’re crying.”

  “I’m fine, I just drank more than I thought and I want to come home.” I hang up and text Eva.

  Made an ass of myself, literally. Going home...., I type.

  Alright, Chica, be safe, she responds.

  Walking toward the road to wait for Dad, I look up and see my ex directing traffic in the crosswalk.

  Shit, I don’t need a run-in with him tonight.

  Quickly pivoting, I huddle behind a dune, hoping the clumps of beach grass hides me.

  “Vanessa? I thought that was you. How are you?”

  I don’t look at him. Pulling my knees into my chest, bowing my head down I squeeze my eyes shut feeling tears slide out of the corners. Please, God, this can’t be happening. After the night I’ve had already, he’s the last person I want to see.

  “Are you sick?”

  The words carried by his hot breath land on my bare shoulders causing goosebumps of revulsion and I shudder.

  “I need a minute alone. Is that alright, Officer O’Neill?”

  Hopefully, he’ll get the hint and leave. But he doesn’t. He bends down in the sand next to me. I take a deep breath, trying to find the strength to face him. Quickly dabbing my eyes, I look up into the face of the man who stole my heart last summer and tore it to shreds come the fall.

  His shifty gaze scans my tear-streaked face then dips lower. His cloudy blue eyes look salaciously at my cleavage, exposed by my fallen shoulder strap. His nearness makes me want to vomit. Remembering the details of how he betrayed me instantly nauseates me and every cup of wine I had ends up over his pant leg and shoes.

  “Shit, Nessa! Are you drunk?” he yells angrily.

  I can’t answer. My head’s on fire not only from the fall into Blake’s boat but now from the images of Sean cheating on me with a forty-year-old woman.

  I’m shaking—I can’t stop shaking. The back of my throat fills with stomach acid. I fight it and desperately cling to the hope that Dad will be here any minute. Sean looms over me, even with my eyes closed, I feel the force of his gaze crushing me into the sand.

  “I’m not drunk—the sound and sight of you makes me gag.”

  “Nessa, don’t be like this. Besides, you know being intoxicated in public is against the law. He taps the metal sign next to us with his nightstick, “This sign right here clearly states alcohol on the beach is prohibited. If you don’t watch that smart mouth of yours, I’ll arrest you.”

  A total joke since he’s usually here drinking when off-duty.

  “Keep dreaming about handcuffing me,” I tell him weakly.

  “Baby, why are you so uptight? Just meet me later on River Road, and I won’t have to book you,” he tries to sexily say.

  He’s such a pig. I just puked on him, and he’s coming on to me?

  “Sean…are you dense? What’s wrong with you? Did you forget the moment you got caught cheating in your cruiser on River Road? Because I haven’t. It was a moment that wrecked me. Just go.”

  “Nessa, it’s all in the past. Tonight’s a new summer, let’s try again.”

  He moves closer and his tongue slobbers in my ear. The feel of it grosses me out. I vomit again. And this time, it hits him full on.

  “You did that on purpose…little bitch,” he screams in disgust.

  Feeling weak, my head pounding, I sink in the sand and listen to him radio for backup.

  I think it’s possible this just might be the beginning of the summer from hell.

  I count the plastic stars glued on the ceiling above my head. There are three pink and two green and the rest are white. I’m confused for a second, finding myself still wearing the yellow sundress from yesterday.

  “Shit—it wasn’t a nightmare after all,” I groan to Felix, the worn stuffed animal that I still sleep with at night; he doesn’t judge. Rolling over, I hug my pillow tight. My mother’s angry tirade is the final thing I remember from last night. After we came home from Pequot Medical Center last night, she went nuts.

  “Vanessa Anne Lyman! Your father and I expect better than this. My daughter comes home from the beach concert where everyone in town saw her looking like a washed-up tramp. I’m ashamed of you. What were you thinking—getting drunk on the beach in that flimsy sundress?” She stopped to catch her breath. Her face was red and sweaty. I figured it was over and I could just leave for the solace of my room. But nope, she had more to say.

  “Thank God your father was looking for you and found Sean. He saved you from having your butt thrown in jail. He told your father that you were so intoxicated that you were vomiting everywhere, causing a scene. Then I find out from the paramedics that you were falling down drunk and got a mild concussion! You’re damn lucky I’m not reading about this in The Day police blogs. What would I tell my friends at yoga class?”

  “Are you done? All this yelling is not helping my headache,” I replied evenly. She reared back, and for a split second I thought she was going to smack me. She mustered enough nerve to control her urge but continued her rant.

  “Sean was a catch. How did you screw that up? Never mind, you might still have time to get him back. Who knows? He must still like you since he radioed the ambulance even after you threw up on him. You better start forking over some cash, that ambulance bill’s going to cost a few grand.”

  “It was his job, Mom. I was injured—he had to help me. We have insurance though, right?”

  “Sure, after our five thousand dollar deductible kicks in.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Exactly, Vanessa. You’re still a child.”

  I remember looking over to where my father sat at the table saying nothing. Why doesn’t he ever intervene? I was covered in sand, feeling grimy, and crying. Mom thinks she knows it all, but she knows nothing.
I wish I had the type of mom you could share things with, but sadly, I don’t. Before running up the stairs and slamming the door, I told her she had no clue that Sean is a total jerk.

  I swallow, feeling the familiar burn at the back of my throat. I need to stop crying over it. No matter how hard I try, nothing ever seems to please Mom. I wish her bad attitude wouldn’t wound so deeply. It’s been years of this, and yet I desperately hope she’ll change. Her reaction when my formal offer from Diageo came still stings. More tears hit my pillow looking back at that exchange.

  “Mom, Mom!” I had torn open the letter in my driveway eagerly. Not wanting to waste a second, I flew up the steps. The worn front screen door banged loudly behind me.

  “Vanessa, why are you slamming the damn door again? How many times have I told you not to do that?” She was sitting at the table working on her crossword puzzle.

  “Sorry, Mom. I just couldn’t wait to show you!” I was jumping up and down waving the letter in front of her.

  She pulled out her spectacles suspiciously, “What do you have there?” Taking the letter, she scanned it briefly then dropped it on the table dismissively. My face burned when it became apparent she wasn’t impressed. I thought she would be proud of me for obtaining an offer with a multi-national company in New York City with a salary of $50,000. But the look on her face was pure disdain.

  “How are you supposed to live in New York City on that salary? Diageo? Is that the company that makes booze?”

  “Yes, Mom. Daddy drinks Captain Morgan, their flagship brand. Kettle One Vodka is another you might recognize.”

  “That’s very classy, Vanessa. My daughter’s going to be encouraging drunken debauchery.”

  Quietly, I picked up the letter and carefully folded it. Placing it back in the envelope, “Mom, it’s not like that. Diageo’s a Fortune 500 company. Working in marketing for them is a great opportunity for me. I was planning on finding a small apartment in Stamford then take the commuter train into Manhattan. Aren’t you happy for me? It’s the career I’ve been dreaming of!”