The Last Summer Girl: A Coming of Age Love Story

by S. C. York

  “Really?” I find this very hard to believe.

  “Absolutely. It was so enjoyable not having some annoying city chick all over me, complaining that the salt water was making her hair frizz, or that the sand would ruin her pedicure.”

  “Huh, so that’s it? You liked me because I was easy going?”

  “Well, I thought you were cute, but then when you flashed me the full monty, I was hooked.

  Flushing bright red at the memory, I pick up the menu and shield my face. I just met him twenty-four hours ago. He’s such an over-the-top flirt.

  Ryan’s hand pushes the menu down, “Vanessa, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just don’t see the point in dragging out the inevitable. I find you attractive. I know you feel the same way about me, or you wouldn’t be here right now. I think you’re spontaneous and fun. The girls in my scene are controlled and poised, like perfect plastic robots. I like you because you are refreshingly real and flawed, so don’t hide it.”

  “Oh, thanks for pointing that out,” I reply flatly, taking a long sip of the delicious wine he bought. I fidget in my seat uncomfortably feeling pinned down by his sharp gaze. “Yesterday was the most embarrassing day of my life. Can we just forget it, please?”

  “Sorry, sweet cheeks, I’ll never forget the image of your backside draped over Blake’s Zodiac. In fact, it’s the last thing I saw in my head when I went to bed last night. Your perfect little ass kept me from getting a good night’s sleep. I just have to see it again.”

  At a complete loss as to what to say in response, I sit back in silence. I fiddle with my bracelets moving them up and down my arm. He leans back in his chair assessing my reaction to his words, knowing exactly what he’s doing, testing me, baiting me into a response. The bluntness of what his end game is throws me off-balance. I should be offended by his cocky attitude, but I’m not. I’m trapped in the web he is spinning. He probably thinks I’m an underachieving, townie he can impress, expecting my panties will just drop after one meal.

  Trying to get this date back on a more even keel, I skim the menu, ignoring him. I was so excited for this date that I skipped lunch. The waitress arrives, and I order the jumbo shrimp scampi over risotto.

  “Yes, a woman with an appetite. I hope you have a big appetite in other areas, as well.”

  What? My head snaps up and I wonder what he’s going to come up with next. He’s strange. Fifteen minutes ago we were having a light flirtation. Did he press the gas pedal when I wasn’t looking?

  “Usually my dates order a grilled chicken salad and pick at it all night. It’s refreshing that you’re not afraid to eat.”

  “Your dates? What are you, a serial dater?”

  He shrugs and takes a sip of his scotch, “You could say that. I find most women annoying. No one has lasted more than three dates recently.”

  Our waitress raises her eyebrows; she’s still standing at our table waiting for his order. He dismisses me and turns his attention to her. “We’ll have the Blue Point oysters to start, and then I’ll have the bouillabaisse.” He smiles at the waitress handing her his menu. His perfect white teeth contrast nicely against his tan. Picking up my wine glass I take a sip, musing over the fact that I’m on a date with this perfect asshole. Maybe I should hang in for two more and bring ear plugs, so I can stare at the eye candy without his annoying personality ruining my fantasy of what he could be.

  “So, Ryan, you’re from Boston, right?”

  “I grew up in Marblehead just north, but I don’t want to play first-date questions. I just told you I don’t date.” He takes a slow pull of scotch. Jerk.

  “So what is tonight then, if not a date?”

  “An excuse.”

  “An excuse?” I query.

  “Yes, don’t play dumb. If you were still back at school I believe the phrase would be ‘Do you want to come over and watch a movie’.”

  “Wow, you’re not only a player but a fast one.” I’m not sure if I am excited, intimidated or plain grossed out. I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never been promiscuous. The moment is interrupted as our appetizers are brought to the table. Guess our waitress realizes how much of a hurry he’s in, or she just wants us gone so she can turn the table over. I’m feeling more disappointed by the second. I was hoping this date might be fun and could go somewhere. And he’s sitting across from me plotting to end it somewhere.

  Ryan sits back in his chair and stretches out his long, tan legs under the table, deliberately bumping them against mine. Despite his words and attitude, my body is physically hypnotized by him.

  “I don’t want to waste time tonight. We both know where this is heading,” he pulls out a key that has a very familiar logo on the chain and deliberately places it on the table. It sits between us.

  Holy shit! Did he book a room at my hotel? What the hell?

  It’s unmistakeable. The Wharf is still old-fashioned and uses traditional keys, not updated swipe cards since the owners want to preserve the appeal of the homey inn.

  “We can go now if you want,” he glances at me then stares pointedly at his watch.

  This guy is a total prick! Seriously? Feeling very overwhelmed by his cheap talk combined with his high and mighty attitude, I don’t want to be here anymore.

  “Ryan, can you please pour me another?” I ask while picking up my wine glass as if I’m about to toast him. His eyes gleam with triumph and satisfaction, clearly thinking he’s bought me for the night. I deliberate whether to throw the full glass he pours me into his face, but that’s more Eva’s style than my own. I refrain from the temptation and sit back, swirling my glass slowly. I stare at the wine circling inside, creating a tiny whirlpool. He starts to tap his foot under the table in impatience. I feel empowered knowing he desires me and is eagerly anticipating a night with me naked under him.

  This time, I’m the cat and you’re the mouse, asshole. I compose myself and after a few minutes unload.

  “First, I don’t move that fast; you assume too much. Secondly, I don’t have an impressive city job yet, but I still take pride in myself and how I conduct myself at work. I would never go back to the Inn for a down and dirty hookup.”

  “Down and dirty, huh? Sounds perfect!” He gives me a wink, sipping his scotch and smirking at me over the rim, seemingly not affected by anything I am saying or simply not caring.

  “You know what, Ryan? You’re a pig. Get over yourself, you pompous jerk! I’d rather be home with my parents watching Antiques Roadshow re-runs than spending a Friday night kissing your arrogant ass!” Throwing down my napkin, I grab my clutch and stand up from the table throwing down a few twenties at him. This time it’s a smooth exit as I walk away from him for the second night in a row.

  Bolting down the stairs, I reach the landing startling the guests crowding the small lobby. I smack my palm against the door flinging it open. It smacks straight into an elderly couple.

  “Sorry,” I shout hurriedly. Earlier, the bustling night felt electrifying. Now, it’s just annoying. I pass through the busy streets, disgusted at myself for thinking that tonight could’ve been anything other than what it was, a wealthy playboy seeing me as an easy lay. I’m stupid thinking someone like Ryan could be interested in me as something more. The thing is, I do know better. He’s not the first rich summer boy I’ve met. There’s always plenty to be found on any given weekend night. He’s just the most pretentious and frank one. My stomach growls as my heels click on the cement. I just want to get back to my car and go home, where I can burrow under my blanket and sleep. The past twenty-four hours have been emotionally draining. I haven’t eaten since Mom’s bagel this morning. Laughing at the irony now, I’m glad I went back for it. She’s working second shift and won’t be home until after midnight. I can just grab something quick then slink up to my room in peace. Pulling out my phone I text Eva:

  Date was terrible. He was such a pig.

  Sorry, Chica. We’re at Sunset Ribs come meet? She responds.

  I type back... I’m too tired
to drive that far south, going to bed.

  Finally reaching my car in the back lot behind the Inn, I climb in relieved that I don’t have to work tomorrow. As I pull out into traffic, Ryan’s walking down the street texting. Guess he stayed and finished his meal. Of course, he would. I whiz by him unnoticed. It’s for the best. I was deluding myself that yesterday wouldn’t matter.

  “Nothing’s better than this,” TJ calls out as he springs out of the beach chair he was lounging in. He sprints across the sand into the pounding surf, making a clean dive into the breaking wave. After a few seconds, his head bobs in the water on the other side.

  Lying back down, I let the rhythmic sound of the waves calm my nerves that haven’t completely settled after last night. I tuck my phone away not wanting to waste time on social media when I’m here.

  Watch Hill Lighthouse sits on the rocks to my right, about three miles of beach in between. Spending every Saturday here at East Beach in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, has been a ritual for me and TJ going back to our high school days. The summer we turned sixteen and got our licenses was our first taste of freedom. Driving here with the sunroof open, singing our hearts out, was something we’d never stop doing. East Beach is about twenty minutes from Mystic and on the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The waves here are fierce, not like the shores of Mystic or Esker since they are on the Long Island Sound still buffered by a few islands. I sit up, reaching for my Hawaiian Tropic as I squirt it over my legs and try not to dwell on my dashed hopes for a romance with Ryan.

  “Stop thinking about him. You need to start worrying more about your skin. Give me that crap.” TJ throws a bottle of SPF fifty at me. “Put plenty on your face and stop rolling your eyes at me.”

  “I’m already over it,” I respond, obviously lying while rubbing the cream onto my legs.

  “Nessa, the guy’s a player, trust me,” he smirks and adjusts his Yankees baseball cap over his sandy brown hair.

  “I’m not interested. I told you, I ditched him.”

  “Thank God. If I knew you planned a date with him, I could’ve warned you.”

  “What do you mean?” Sitting up, my hands clutch the armrest of my beach chair.

  “When I went over to Fisher’s with Blake and his friends after the concert, they were sharks in a pool of minnows.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The reason why Blake and Ryan wanted to go wasn’t because the bars close later,” he stops and sits back in his chair being coy, his tan legs stretched out and his arms behind his head.

  “Come on, already. What’s so special about Fisher’s Island?” I ask slapping him on the knee.

  “There’s only one bar on Fisher’s and every Thursday is Nanny Night.”

  “Nanny Night? What the heck is that?” My face is burning, and it’s not from the sun.

  “It’s the bar’s Thursday night special; every nanny gets half -price drinks. The girl to guy ratio is three to one. Most of them are European, too. Blake and Ryan cleaned up on the dance floor. Sorry to burst your bubble, Ness, but I saw him make out with at least two girls at the same time.”

  I’m outraged hearing TJ recount the story, so tired of dating liars, cheaters and being taken for a fool.

  “Well, after the crap he pulled last night, I can’t pretend to be surprised. What is up with this guy? Hooking up with two girls on Thursday night and then figuring on me for Friday? I am beyond disgusted, TJ. Truthfully, it hurts. The only thing that makes me feel less gullible is that I held my head up and refused to take his bait.”

  “Nessa, you won that round.”

  “Enough about them, did you meet any cute nannies?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

  He grins, “I don’t kiss and tell, Nessa, not even to you. But I do have a date tonight.”

  I flip over in a huff at how tight-lipped he always is and finally let the rhythmic pounding of the surf lull me to a sleepy state. TJ flips open a book, and we lounge in comfortable silence.

  My lounge chair starts vibrating and I flip back over. TJ’s gone. He must have snuck back in the water while I was dozing off. I quickly scan the shore but don’t see him, but I’m not worried. TJ was the swim captain in high school and could probably swim back home if he wanted. Pushing my sunglasses up, squinting, I check my phone. There are two missed calls and a text from Eva.

  Chica, cookout around 7 pick u up?

  I respond, Sounds good.

  TJ walks out of the surf, and I pick at my nail trying not to stare at his chiseled abs and lean body as he takes his time walking back to our spot. He slaps me with the end of his towel and I giggle.

  “Caught ya looking.” His light green eyes sparkle at me. He’s the type of guy I should be dating, why can’t I find someone like him?

  “Timothy Jameson, I was not,” shouting back I stick my tongue out at him like I did when we were kids. Sitting down he hands me my lunch, and we spend the rest of the day like an old married couple, reading books and sleeping. When the tide changes, we pack up and walk back up the dirt path to the road.

  “TJ, call me tomorrow I want all the details about your date tonight.”

  “Nessa, you know I never tell,” he calls out across the parking lot.

  “Come on, TJ. I tell you everything.”

  “Nope, I never kiss and tell, not even to you, Nessa.” He gives me a hug then gets into his truck.

  Smoothing down my denim cut-off shorts, I check my reflection in my bedroom mirror. Turning to get a side view, the line of my hamstring is visible. All the running I’ve been doing is paying off. My thighs look lean and toned. Grabbing a jar of coconut cream, I slather it on my skin.

  “Ooh, that’s better.” The cream soothes the spots where the sun’s rays penetrated before I took TJ’s advice and used sunscreen.

  “Alright, Vanessa, let’s try not to screw up another gorgeous summer night,” winking at myself in the mirror I’m pleased that my white halter top shows off today’s tan. I slip into my worn leather flip flops and hear Eva honking from the driveway.

  “Shit, I need to get out of here.” Flying down the stairs, I wildly grab the banister to stop myself from crashing into her.

  She’s got the sonar of a bat.

  Mom blocks the front door, clear disapproval in her eyes, her arms crossed over her chest and her forehead’s creased in a permanent frown line. I clutch my phone and brace for tonight’s lecture.

  “Vanessa Anne Lyman! Where are you going, dressed like that? You look like a—”

  I stop her before she can even say it.

  “Lady of the night, Mom?”

  She’s been calling me that ever since my twenty-first birthday. It’s her way of insinuating I look like a hooker.

  “Well, yes,” she replies stomping her foot and glaring at me.

  “Mom, honestly, I’m covered, nothing improper is showing. I’m not even wearing make- up. Why are you like this?”

  Eva shoves open the front door, forcing Mom out of the way. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Eva has witnessed more than one scene like this.

  “Mrs. Lyman, how are you? Did you get new highlights? You look great.”

  Mom’s momentarily distracted and fluffs her short blonde hair.

  “Thank you, honey, I did. You look very lovely, as well, dear.”

  “What?” Eva mouths at me behind my mom’s back as they give each other a quick hug. I shrug my shoulders, throwing my hands up in the air.

  Eva’s wearing a hot pink strapless tunic dress that hugs her body tight causing a mountain of cleavage to pop out. What the heck? My mom thinks she is lovely, and I’m a hooker?

  “I was just telling Vanessa to go up and change,” my mom says, continuing with her mission.

  Eva grabs my arm, linking us, “Mrs. Lyman, Vanessa’s covered up more than me! We’re only going to a barbecue at my co-worker’s house. She’s more than appropriately dressed. See you later!”

  She opens the door and we run out giggli
ng, leaving my mom stunned by my rescue. We climb into her beat-up Jeep Wrangler. I buckle my seatbelt across my lap, seeing Mom standing in the doorway. Her lips are pressed into a firm line.

  I’m going to catch hell later. But she just doesn’t get it. I’ve graduated college, and she still treats me like a baby.

  Eva navigates the streets of downtown Mystic. We’re rocking out to Cake by the Ocean, but get stuck behind a line of cars trying to get over the drawbridge when the familiar bells go off, signaling that the bridge is about to close. The arm of the gate opens, blocking the road; the powerful engine lifts the bridge open and the line of boats pass through making a course upriver undoubtedly headed to MYC.

  The street fills with tourists milling around stuck cars. I elbow Eva in the ribs, pointing to the people walking by laughing good-naturedly at us. The two of us are singing our hearts out inside her car. With the top off it’s a giant jukebox.

  The drawbridge closes and traffic starts moving. As we pass by The Wharf, the lobby’s lit up and I can see Anna working behind the front desk. Eva gives a honk, but Anna doesn’t wave back, she turns her back on us and walks into the office. There’s no way she missed that it was me—whatever. The Jeep barrels on taking us to the far side of town.

  “Swanky. We’re crossing over the bridge to the Stonington side of Mystic? Who do you know that lives over the line of demarcation?” Eva laughs at my joke since we live on the Groton side of Mystic. The Mystic River cuts the town into two halves. Stonington-Mystic to the north is where the wealthy live while Groton-Mystic is where the blue collar and average live. Both worlds share downtown Mystic but rarely mix with one another.

  Eva drives north down Route 1 and turns into the Stonington Borough.

  “Where the hell are we going?” I ask her, jokingly.

  She doesn’t answer but just shoots me a quick look and pats my knee.

  The Borough’s an ultra-exclusive, affluent community that jets out into the water between Mystic and Rhode Island. Most of the homes belong to wealthy New Yorkers as an alternative to the Hamptons.