Summer Doesn't Last Forever

by Magdalene G. Jones

  “Does anyone have preferred roles, or should I give you a character list tomorrow?” Lena shouts above the escalating discussions.

  My phone buzzes through my bag. I pull it out and almost drop it in shock. Adam? I stare at the screen in disbelief. My heart quickens with excitement. I open my phone.

  Hey Tarn. So, I don’t know how to say this . . . but I think we should stop talking.

  I stare at those two lines for a moment that captures eternity. My heartbeat pounds faster. My throat and spit thicken.

  You know, I’m back in the “Land of the Free” and all. So I have plenty of friends and my girlfriend here. I mean, when I lived in your city, it was great to have someone to tease, hang out with, and pretend to be normal beside. But . . . I don’t need that now. I’m sure you understand. It’s not like you and I were ever that close anyway. Maybe like my Insta posts, but I’d prefer it if you stopped spamming me. Haha. Anyway. That’s all. Bye.

  I keep staring. My heart thuds so hard it burns. My hands shake as I stare at Adam’s message.

  “It’s not like you and I were ever that close anyway.”

  He and I had spent the last three years of our lives together, seeing each other twice a week—at least. We played dumb games, teased, laughed, and made fun of Asher’s silliness. He and I talked about the annoyances of living in our city. He gave me books for Christmas gifts and my birthday.

  “It’s not like you and I were ever that close anyway.”

  Had it meant anything to him? Had he always seen our friendship as temporary? A necessity of time and place?

  Tears rip my throat. I clutch my mouth, trying to hold back sobs. My gut stops twisting for the first time in days and freezes—weighed down with shame. Am I so easily replaceable? Worth nothing at all?

  “Tarni?” Rachelle rests a hand on my shoulder.

  Several people stare at me. Genevieve starts to stand, but I wave her off.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage in a whisper and take a deep breath. “I need to go. Don’t worry.”

  I hurry out of the room and run outside to the same corner I sat in when Everly ghosted me. I wrap my arms around my knees again. And I cry. Again. Sobs shudder through my shoulders, tearing out of my throat.

  Forgotten.

  Abandoned.

  I had assumed the worst was over. I thought it couldn’t get harder after my friends left.

  This. This is so much worse.

  Adam never cared. He never cared. My heart—my shattered heart—slices the inside of my chest with broken shards. He didn’t have to have a crush on me, but I thought he loved me as a friend. I believed we had an unbreakably deep bond.

  But either he had changed drastically in the last five months, or he never cared.

  Never.

  My phone buzzes again. I groan under my breath. I look almost without thought. And once again, I drop it in shock. Everly.

  “No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”

  I open messages, dread shaking through my shoulders. My whole body trembles as I read.

  Tarni, I am going to be honest with you because, for the sake of history, I believe that is only fair.

  “No,” I plead again.

  My tears blur the screen into a formless mesh of colors. I wipe my eyes impatiently.

  I have learned a lot since I returned to the US. I have grown a lot. And in that growth, well, I see how hard being in your country was. And more specifically, the way I romanticized a toxic time. Luke, Adam, and Asher tore me down. Luke harassed and manipulated me. Adam was verbally destructive and equally manipulative. Asher berated and threatened me, physically bullying me around.

  I scroll down, my mind spinning like a carousel.

  And you . . . well, you never stood up for me. You let them push me around like I was nothing.

  My thinking numbs. I rub my forehead, guilt and sorrow screaming in my chest. Still, my ears buzz, and I struggle to breathe.

  I am putting this all behind me. And I promise I don’t resent you for being a bad friend. I’m sure you had your struggles too. But regardless, I have friends who will stand up for me, and it’s time for us to move on.

  I choke on a hollow sob. Smallness engulfs me. A cage of my own making closes in on me, squeezing my lungs, my heart, my throat.

  I hope you take this well. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m learning to prioritize what I need, as other people haven’t helped me do that. I wish you the best. Feel free to respond, but I won’t guarantee I will write back. Bye.

  —Everly

  Everything in me fades into a numb buzzing, an overwhelming emptiness. I clutch my burning chest, unable to cry or shout or grind my teeth. Anger, sadness, guilt, and shame crash over me in such rapid succession, I don’t feel anything at all.

  I sit in my corner, shaking. Sweat and tears mar my face, and I don’t feel them. I. Can’t. Feel. I force myself to my feet.

  I want to run.

  No, I want to hide.

  No, I want to pass out and never ever have to sort this out.

  I put my hands on my head, gasping for breath. Everly was bullied? That word is too mild. Manipulated, harassed, mocked, hated on as if she wasn’t worth anything all by our friends.

  I hold myself, sobs shaking my shoulder.

  The first time I was called stupid, Adam yelled at me when I missed the ball during a football game. I fell and nearly twisted my ankle. And when I started crying, he told me I was an overdramatic crybaby.

  The first time I was punched, we were laughing and teasing each other. I made a jab at Asher. Something stupid. Something to sound cool like Adam. Asher punched me in the nose and almost broke my glasses.

  And Luke . . .

  I gasp, clutching my head as my tears flow faster. He had harassed me. He had manipulated me, betrayed me.

  My hands shake so bad they feel like they are about to fall off. The rose-colored lenses of my mind’s eye fall and shatter on the pieces of my heart. Memories speed through my brain.

  Adam’s false friendship manipulated me. His jeers abused my heart. With one raised fist, Asher made me crumble. I flinched, and he laughed. Luke cornered me. Luke cornered me like I was nothing. Like I was some sort of plaything, only useful because he used me to vent his own frustration. He stared at me like I was . . .

  A vase.

  A new car.

  Something buyable. Usable. Vilely ruinable.

  My skin crawls. They never wanted or needed me, and I wish it was only that bad. I cling to myself, begging the memories to stop. Begging the horrors to end.

  Summer doesn’t last forever. A bitter laugh breaks through my clogged throat. Should it exist at all?

  They hated me. I was too much and never enough. Unworthy, annoying extra, target practice for those boys’ poisoned tongues—me. Used if they wanted.

  Because I adored them. I needed them. So, when they lashed me to the whipping post and threw verbal rocks until stone sliced through my skin, I sang their praises at the tops of my lungs.

  I’m such a fool. I bury my head in my hands. I’m such a disgusting fool. How did I let this happen? I failed myself. I failed Everly. I failed God by trusting my friends instead of him -.

  “Tarni?”

  I jump and glance up. Lena’s blurred form steps around the corner.

  “Are you okay?” She kneels beside me.

  I shake my head. Sobbing with renewed force, I throw myself into her arms. And she catches me. She strokes my hair as I cry. She doesn’t stop me or ask questions or anything. Just holds me as my heart rends itself, and my mind whirls.

  Come home, child.

  I inhale a real, soothing breath. The voice takes my broken heart, holding it in his hands.

  Come home, my worthy one.

  My hands tremble. Tears trace from my burning eyes. But I breathe again and move out of Lena’s grasp.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, cleaning my glasses.

  “No. Don’t apologize, please,” her forehead remains wrinkled
with concern. “What happened?”

  “Have you . . . ? Have you ever felt like your world was falling apart?” I gaze into her eyes, begging for understanding.

  “Many times,” Lena’s gentle smile takes on a dry edge. “Can you be more specific?”

  I hug my knees and wipe my eyes again. I look at the ground, trying to find words.

  “Five months ago, all of my friends left me,” it spills out of my mouth like a flood. “Left the country, I mean. Well -.”

  “I understand,” Lena rubs my shoulder. “I went through the same thing.”

  I nod, “Well . . . my two . . . the two I thought I was closest to just sent me messages saying they don’t want to be friends anymore.”

  “Oh, Tarni. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no. I mean, yes. That hurt. A lot. I have been scared of abandonment . . . forever. So them saying they didn’t care to be friends anymore -,” I swallow hard. “But my realization hurt worse. I thought those years were the best in my life because I had friends and I wasn’t lonely. So, I blinded -. No, they were able to blind me.”

  I hesitate again, thinking of Everly. She had been a victim just like me.

  “This applies to most of these friends, not all of them?” Lena quirks an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Well, again, kinda,” I shake myself. “Anyway, through these messages . . . One told me he-he never cared about me. Which nearly broke me. But then the second message came, and Everly said I never stood up for her when our friends bullied her. So she cut things off.”

  “Oh no,” Lena says in a hush.

  “Yeah. With that, I recognized how bad things were. Just now. These so-called friends mocked, bullied, sexually harassed, and tore me apart. Everything in me I saw as good, they despised. Every part of me that was me, they criticized and picked at. Until I viewed myself as they did,” I cover my mouth as a sob escapes me.

  Annoying. Overdramatic. Clinging. Too much. Not enough. Overwhelming. Stupid. Naive. An object without any true worth or redemption.

  All their words. All preached in my heart.

  I start crying again. Lena pulls me back into her arms.

  “Tarni,” her voice breaks.

  I hold onto the older girl, pressing my face into her shirt. I mourn the loss of my friends who were never my friends. I mourn the ways I failed myself and Everly. But above all, I mourn the loss of myself. I grieve my murdered security, self-worth, trust, unafraid passion. Pieces I have suppressed for years because I let my “friends” define me.

  Lena strokes my hair, “You remind me so much of myself, Tarni Bird.”

  “Really?” I pull back, blinking at her.

  “Believe it or not, yes. People I thought were my best friends also bullied me. And—verbally—sexually harassed me when I was ten-years-old. Though my best friend was the main victim of that incident, meaning I blamed myself.”

  I tilt my head, staring into her brown eyes. A sad smile stretches over her face.

  “My friends were my identity,” Lena repeats what I have learned about myself. “I believed every horrible thing they said about me. It took five years to realize that all of my worst insecurities came from them. But I don’t have to be quiet; being talkative isn’t bad. I don’t have to hide my emotions or pretend something doesn’t bother me; being dramatic and sensitive isn’t bad.”

  She exhales, looking up at the sky. I open and shut my mouth, something painfully like peace rolling through my heart with the story so close to my own.

  “I didn’t know how to stand up for myself or even my best friend—because I was ten. Though age doesn’t matter. But it wasn’t my fault the person I saw as my older brother verbally sexually harassed us,” Lena rubs my back. “And even though I wasn’t the focus victim, I am allowed to have struggles from that dreadful betrayal.”

  “How did you recover?” I whisper. “Because, to be honest, it’s hard for me to picture this . . . this hurt ending.”

  Lena hums, “Well, I recognized my ‘friends’ for who they were. And I talked about it. All of it. I told my friends and my parents and -.”

  “Did you tell your boyfriend?”

  “Of course,” she rubs her forehead. “Even if he wasn’t my boyfriend, he is one of my best friends.”

  “Sure, but that’s all it took for you to get better? You just had to talk about it?” I bite my lip.

  “Better . . . With time, processing, and lots of prayer, I healed. I learned to forgive those who had hurt me. And I learned to forgive younger me. I have not been kind to her. As silly as it sounds, forgiving her and freeing her to be a mess was one of the most crucial parts for me,” Lena smiles at me so gently, I nearly start crying again.

  She reaches out and squeezes my hand. I bite my lip, looking at her through teary vision.

  “But I still have the . . . effects of everything,” Lena puffs out her cheeks. “My insecurities are real and creep up on me when I’m not paying attention. I have social anxiety—I’m still not sure if that is related to these events. Random things trigger me and make me think back to those people who hurt me. I have to be intentional about updating people on how I’m feeling.”

  I look back at the ground, “It sounds like a lot of work.”

  Lena is silent for a moment, “If it is work, it is healing work. Healing, Tarni. Gold mends my heart’s broken pieces. And it will keep breaking. And Jesus will keep mending it until it’s fully gold in heaven.”

  “I want this to end. I want to stop thinking and hurting. I wish . . . I wish . . .”

  “I know, I know. But, Tarni -,” Lena licks her lips, “- hurting is proof you are alive. And you are growing. Cling to Jesus, and don’t worry about how much it hurts or how long it takes to recover. You trust him to hold you.”

  I bite my lip, guilt washing over me again, “I’m afraid I haven’t been too good at that.”

  “No one innately is, but there’s no time like the present to begin growing in that.”

  We are silent again for a long moment. My hands keep shaking, and I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.

  “I think I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Lena nods.

  I hug her again, “Thank you, Lena.”

  “You’re welcome, Tarni. You are so welcome.”

  Chapter Eleven: Where Summer Lasts Forever

  A trumpet of colors paints the morning sky, participating in the sun’s dramatic entrance. I watch in admiration as she arises, shining over the dew-covered grass. I hug my jumper close as my feet squish on that same grass. The morning air chills my bones, and my eyes ache with lack of sleep. My satchel swings at my side.

  Once I finished talking with Lena, I did just as I told her I would. But when I lay in bed, rest evaded me as I relived every moment of “Eternal Summer” days.

  And, boy, hindsight is a blessing—one that stings my heart. I see it at last, the hurt and pain and evil I endured.

  I keep walking, and my heartbeat steadies. My destination appears below the sun.

  Greece is a marvelous place. You can hardly walk anywhere without coming across a little, blue-domed chapel with large doors. Ordinarily, I would avoid the shrines. (I am not Greek Orthodox.) But . . . it’s here. This chapel is here.

  I walk up to the doors, praying they won’t be locked. I knock to silence. And slowly pull the handle of one of the big doors.

  Whether the resort’s overseer didn’t notice or left the doors unlocked purposefully, I don’t know. But I open the door and step inside. My sandals clop on the stone floor. The chapel is even smaller than it looks from the outside. Pictures of saints I don’t know line the white walls. Dust covers everything in a thin layer.

  But my eyes are glued to the cross above the little altar. Not a crucifix, holding Michelangelo’s staring boyfriend. A cross. Stripped of romanticism. Bold. Shamefully unashamed.

  I step in front of the altar. I keep staring at the cross. Almost without thinking, I kneel.
<
br />   I know. I’m in a Greek Orthodox chapel, kneeling at an altar. A little weird, Tarni. A little sketch.

  But it’s right.

  I stare up at the cross, which looks a whole lot bigger from down here. I clutch my shaking hands together—they almost haven’t stopped shaking since . . . everything.

  And I sob. Again.

  At the foot of that little cross, I weep. I mourn everything all over again. But this time, I’m letting it go. My shoulders don’t shake because I’m holding nothing back. Because the one who calls me worthy holds my broken heart. He holds my sin. He holds my pain, and I don’t have to bear it any longer.

  My tears flood the dusty floor, making it clean again. What a notion, cleansing takes crying? I know my tears are far from pretty. They probably make me look like a half-zombie vampire.

  But tears run off my face and clean the floor. They flood my heart. And they float me back to where I belong. Right here.

  No, not Greece. Not Africa. Not America. Not Australia. Not the twenty-five other countries I have visited. Not where my friends are.

  Right. Here.

  And as heaven meets this little girl sobbing in an Orthodox chapel, it’s like the incarnation all over again. Heaven meets earth.

  And I’m home.

  My weeping grows in strength. I cover my face in my hands, joy springing up from dormant parts of my soul.

  The ache in my body continues, but it shifts. It shifts into the sting of ocean rocks beneath your feet. The feel of watching children laugh and realizing you aren’t as little as you used to be. The pang of cold that bites through your skin and stems through your brain like a brain freeze. The ache of summer . . . ending. Passing away like every other season.

  It’s unlimited aching.

  And unlimited freedom.

  The sun breaks over the horizon. And its rays burst forth, seeking darkness to dispel. Behind the cross, the window glows. Yellow. And then it hits the blue vase beside it. Blue. Glowing blue. And then, green casts its shadow over the stone floor.

  A growing heart.

  A heart at home.

  I am safe. I cannot be abandoned, and I will never have to say goodbye. Because in the light of eternity, all that matters is my heart in holy hands. And in these hands, I’m given the holiest of lands that transcend any shadow of mortal beauty. Where . . .