Boys of Summer

by Jessica Brody

  She turns back to her dresser. I stand up and wrap my arms around her waist. She freezes, then spins around and kisses me hard. I kiss her back, just as hard. When the kiss is over, we simply stand there, holding each other. It’s nice. The way she feels. The way she smells. It reminds me of the beginning. When I tripped over her on the sand and we sat close enough to touch while she cried.

  She’s crying again now.

  Then she pushes me away, giving both of my arms a squeeze. I wince in pain at the pressure.

  “Promise me you’ll see a doctor when you get back to Connecticut,” she says, turning to empty another drawer.

  I sit back down on her bed, cradling my right arm. “My mom already booked me an appointment. She’s going to come with me.”

  “Will it heal?”

  I sigh. “Eventually. But it’ll never be the same.”

  She turns and gives me a weak smile. “What fun is the same?”

  I smile back. Because it’s right then I realize that my broken arm is what brought me to her. Our paths collided because we were both running from futures we knew deep down weren’t meant for us. Those futures had been carved out so long ago, by such different versions of ourselves, we barely recognized them anymore.

  Harper and I have fought and made up and kissed and sworn to never do it again and stayed up all night talking about how much sense we make, even when saying it aloud didn’t make sense.

  And now here we both are, on the verge of new horizons, with blank canvases in front of us, and we don’t know what to do. We don’t know who we are.

  And maybe we don’t have to know just yet. Maybe that’s the whole point.

  When she has managed to miraculously fit the contents of her entire dresser and closet into the suitcase, she comes over to the bed and we lie back on the pillows. I scoot my good arm under her neck, and she rests her head on my chest. We melt into each other, like we always do.

  We save each other one last time.

  Like we always have.

  A week later I’m in my room, packing my own suitcase, trying to decide whether or not to go to the final farewell bonfire of the summer. Harper is gone, living it up in the Big Apple. She video chatted with me a few times, showing me around her tiny apartment, gushing about how much she already loves it. The island feels somehow emptier without her.

  I spent the past few days packing up the house in silence with my father, in preparation for our big return to Connecticut. The guys came over every night, and we watched the entire new season of Crusade of Kings. Ian was the only one of us who had seen it, and he was practically bursting at the seams trying not to give away any spoilers.

  We mourned when the characters we loved were offed.

  We oohed and aahed like ten-year-old boys every time dragons entered the plot.

  We drank when girls showed their boobs.

  And then we cried out in agony when the producers left us with yet another heart-wrenching cliff-hanger.

  It was just like the old days. Except it wasn’t. Because it was better.

  Around nine o’clock I’m just zipping up the last of my bags when I get a text from Mike.

  Where are you? Bonfire is rocking the house!

  I know he’s being facetious. The Winlock Harbor bonfires never “rock the house.” They’re always epically lame. The only reason we go is to make fun of the tourists. And it’s this very thought—a last chance to relive a sliver of the past—that eventually convinces me it’s exactly where I need to be tonight.

  I tap out a quick response.

  On my way. Don’t let them start the YMCA dance without me! I’ll die of disappointment!

  Mike sends me back a cringing emoji, and I slide my flip-flops on and start walking down the beach. I can hear the music and smell the smoke in no time. I breathe it in, wondering if it’ll be the last time I ever smell it. Who knows what next year will bring. Who knows if my father will even let me come back. I’m surprised he hasn’t kicked me out already. He’s probably been too busy rewriting his will.

  If tonight really is the last night, then I vow to make the most of it.

  I find Mike and Ian standing off to the side, watching the spectacle with great amusement. I grab a beer from the bartender and join them.

  “Hey, you made it,” Mike says. “You’re just in time. I sense a conga line forming.”

  My excitement level skyrockets. “You’re kidding.”

  Mike shoots me a mock glare. “When have I ever kidded about a conga line?”

  “Well, we need to usher this thing along. Someone has to request ‘Celebration’ by Kool and the Gang.”

  “Already done it,” Ian says, sipping his beer. “Don’t worry. This is happening.”

  The song comes on a few minutes later, and we watch in delight as the tourists predictably arrange themselves in a long chain of awkward hands-on-hips and start snaking around the bonfire.

  “This is amazing,” Ian says approvingly.

  “This is epic,” I agree.

  “This is the Locks,” Mike says with a sad shake of his head. And all three of us laugh.

  I pat him on the back. “Are you sure you want to stay here, buddy?”

  He chuckles. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

  We laugh again, but I know he’s telling the truth. Mike and Winlock Harbor simply go together. Cheesy tourist dances and all.

  “Besides, Ian will help me keep the tourists in check,” Mike adds.

  I raise an eyebrow at Ian. “You sticking around?”

  He shrugs. “I think so. My mom really likes it here, and, I don’t know, this was my dad’s favorite place in the world. He looked forward to coming here all year.” Ian’s voice breaks slightly. Mike pats him on the back.

  “I think he’d like that you were staying,” I offer.

  Ian nods. “I think he would too.”

  “What about you?” Mike asks after a moment. “How long are you going to hang out?”

  I shrug. “A few more days, I guess. I think I’m going to check out a few community colleges. Maybe try my hand at the whole getting-smart thing.”

  Mike laughs. “And what about the old Harpoon? How is she doing?”

  I laugh at his use of my former nickname for Harper.

  “She’s having a blast in New York City. Taking the world by storm, like we always knew she would.”

  I watch Mike’s reaction carefully. He gets quiet for a second, staring off into the ocean in front of us.

  “Good for her,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. And I realize it wasn’t meant for us. It was meant for her.

  Mike blinks, like he’s coming out of a short trance, and takes a sip of his beer. “So, these community colleges you’re looking into,” he begins, nudging me with his shoulder. “None of them would happen to be in New York City, would they?”

  I smile into my cup.

  “Hey,” Ian says, elbowing Mike. “Isn’t that Julie?”

  Mike looks up and then awkwardly stares at the ground. “Yeah.”

  I follow Ian’s gaze to see Julie standing on the other side of the bonfire with a man and a woman, presumably her parents. She glances over here for a second before looking away.

  My forehead furrows. “What happened? I thought things were going well with her.”

  He sighs. “They were. But I pretty much screwed it up.”

  “Oh, I guarantee you screwed it up,” I affirm. “That’s the unfortunate consequence of only dating one girl your entire life. You never learned ‘the game.’ ”

  Mike rolls his eyes. “Oh, please teach me, wise master,” he intones, and Ian and I both share a laugh.

  It feels good. Drinking on the beach, ribbing with the guys again.

  I slap Mike on the back. “C’mon. How bad could it possibly be? I’m sure you can fix it.”

  “Sure,” Ian jabs, pointing at me with his beer, “because you are the master at fixing relationships.”

  I kick sand at him, and he pr
otects the mouth of his cup with his hand.

  “Actually,” Mike says, suddenly growing quiet, “I did have an idea. But I’ll need your help.”

  Ian and I look at each other in surprise, sharing the same silent thought: Since when does Mike ever ask for help?

  Then, in unison, we turn back to him and say, “Anything.”

  CHAPTER 50

  MIKE

  I wake the twins bright and early the next morning. They grouse and grumble and try to pull covers back over their heads, but I’m not having it. I yank the blankets right off their beds and with a way-too-cheery-for-this-early-in-the-morning voice say, “Come on! Rise and shine! Up and at ’em! The sky’s awake! It’s a beautiful day!”

  Then, when I run out of wake-up clichés, I jump up onto the top bunk, lift up Jasper’s pajama top, and give him a big fat raspberry right on his stomach. He giggles and twists and slaps at my face until finally he’s up. Then I proceed to do the exact same thing to Jake.

  “What’s going on?” Jake says sleepily a few minutes later as he squirts toothpaste onto his brush.

  “I need your help.”

  They turn to each other with matching dubious looks. I always wonder what it must be like for them. To feel like you’re constantly looking into a mirror. Jasper is silently elected to speak on the duo’s behalf.

  “What kind of help?” he asks with clear skepticism.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell them. “It involves thievery and shenanigans. It’s right up your alley.”

  They share another look, this one of surprise, but seem to take my explanation as an acceptable one and start brushing their teeth at warp speed.

  My dad has prepared a breakfast feast. I think he’s made every single recipe on the Martha Stewart website. The twins sit at the small table in the kitchen, gobbling up their blueberry ricotta pancakes drenched in citrus syrup, and crispy applewood bacon, barely taking time to breathe, let alone chew.

  “Easy,” I tell them. “I don’t have time for you to choke to death. Not today.”

  “This is really good,” I tell my dad as I take a bite of the spinach-and-egg-white frittata. “Like, really good.”

  He beams as he starts rinsing the pan in the sink. “I’m glad you think so. Because I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  I perk up, continuing to shovel egg into my mouth while keeping my gaze on my father. He dries his hands and tosses the towel over his shoulder. It’s a small move, but it strikes me as so professional. So chef-like.

  “How do you feel about taking over the roofing business?”

  Even the twins stop eating at that one. All three of us look up at him in bewilderment.

  “What?” I ask. “But roofing is your life. You love it. Why would you give it up?”

  He bobbles his head back and forth. “I’m getting a little old to be skipping around on roofs. As is evident from this.” He taps his healing leg. “Plus, I’ve been talking to Mamma V down at the club, and she wants to retire soon. I think I might be a good replacement. Of course, I’ll need some decent training, which she’s offered to do. It’ll take a few months to get me up to snuff, but—”

  He’s rambling now, sounding nervous. I ease his anxiety by cutting him off. “Dad, I think that’s an amazing idea. The menu down there could use some serious shaking up.”

  He chuckles. “Right?”

  “Will you still cook for us?” Jake asks, his eyes wide with concern.

  “Every day, champ,” my dad says, ruffling Jake’s hair.

  This seems to be a satisfactory response, and the boys go back to chowing down on their breakfast.

  Dad turns back to me. “I just thought since you’ve decided to stay, you’ll need something a little more full-time. I mean, if you don’t like roofing, that’s one thing.”

  Honestly I hadn’t quite figured out what I would do once the summer was over. All I knew was that I wanted to stay. The Locks is where I belong. These people—even the terrible villain twins—are my home.

  “You can try it out for a few months,” Dad offers. “And if you don’t like it, we’ll sell the business to someone else. What do you think?”

  I glance at the two boys, who are both licking the citrus syrup from their plates. Then I turn back to my dad. “I think that’s as good an idea as any.”

  He smiles at me, giving me a firm pat on the back. Then he goes back to the dishes.

  I finish my frittata and scoot my chair back. “Okay, boys. Let’s get a move on. Someone feed Jules so we can go.”

  “I fed him last time,” Jasper whines. “And his name’s not Jules.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course it’s not. What’s his name now? Peter? Paul? Mary?”

  Jasper makes a gagging sound. “Mary is a girl’s name.”

  “Never mind,” I say, but I get a laugh out of my dad. “Someone just feed him.”

  “It’s Jasper’s turn,” Jake insists.

  “It is not.”

  “Psst.” My dad leans into me as the twins bicker back and forth. “His name is Nike now.”

  “Nike?” I repeat quizzically. “Like the shoe? I thought they were on an old-man-name trend.”

  “It rhymes with Mikey,” Dad informs me, and then he goes back to the dishes, humming quietly to himself.

  I feel a squeeze in my chest as I watch the boys argue. “Okay!” I shout over them, holding up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll feed him. Again.”

  By the time we get to the Coral Bay Beach Club a half hour later, we’ve gone over the plan at least three times, and the boys are pumped.

  “Are you ready?” I ask as we stop outside the front door of the main building.

  Both boys salute me in unison. It’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen them do. “We’re ready!” Jasper says.

  “Don’t mess it up,” I tell them. “And don’t start giggling, or she’ll know something’s up.”

  Jake slowly lowers his saluting arm. “Is this really going to make Julie come to the house more?”

  I reach out and ruffle his soft hair. “That’s the plan, buddy.”

  “Then let’s do this!” Jake shouts, adding a kung-fu-style kick. “Hi-YA!”

  Jasper and I share a look of befuddlement. Then Jasper takes his brother by the hand and leads him inside. “C’mon, crazy karate kid.”

  I laugh as I watch them go. My nerves are shot, but I have faith in my little brothers. There are really no two people better suited for the job.

  Grayson and Ian meet me on schedule at the beach club snack stand. Grayson is yawning and sipping coffee from a travel mug, while Ian seems bizarrely alert and raring to go. He must be excited to finally have a task.

  “Thanks for coming, guys. This beach is just too big to do this alone.”

  “No problem, man,” Ian says, slapping me on the back.

  “We’re here for you,” Grayson says, but he’s yawning during the whole thing, so it sounds more like, “Waaah heee fohhhh yoooo.”

  I check the time on my phone. Any minute now.

  “So how do we even know what we’re looking for?” Ian asks, and just then, right on cue, Jake and Jasper come running out of the kids’ camp building and into the small, enclosed playground. Jasper is covered head to toe in tie-dye, making him look like a member of the Blue-Orange-Yellow-Green Man Group, and Jake, as clean as a whistle, is grinning, with his hand stuffed suspiciously into his pocket.

  Things went either terribly well or terribly wrong. Sadly, given the nature of this plan, it’s hard to tell just by looking at them.

  I run over to the fence. “Did you get it?” I ask, my heart starting to pound in my chest.

  Jasper grins wickedly and nods as Jake withdraws his hand from his pocket, pulling out a small white clamshell.

  But not just any shell.

  Julie’s shell.

  Jasper chortles giddily. “She had tie-dye everywhere!”

  “Jasper got her good!” Jake adds.

  “And after she changed her
clothes, Jake snuck into the locker room, found her shorts, and got the shell!”

  “You guys are awesome!” I praise, giving them both high fives. “Did she seem mad?”

  They both look almost confused by the question. “Mike,” Jasper explains rationally, “Julie doesn’t get mad.”

  I laugh. “Touché.”

  “What does that mean?” Jasper raises his eyebrows quizzically.

  “It means you’re right.”

  Jasper rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m touché. I’m always touché.”

  “Jasper!” another staffer calls from inside. “Come get cleaned up!”

  He shoots me a dirty look. “I have to shower in the men’s locker room now. You owe me big-time.”

  I smile. “I owe you both.”

  I watch them scamper back into the building, and I carry the magic shell to the beach.

  “Pull out your phones,” I command our little group. “Take a photo of this shell. We’re looking for its exact match. Not a close match. An exact match. Every shell has one. The other half of this baby has to be somewhere on this island. Grayson, you go left and cover the area from here to the lighthouse. Ian, you go right and search the area from the marshland to the old docks. I’m going to take the stretch of beach from here to the Winlock Harbor Inn. Meet back here in one hour with every possibility you can find.”

  The guys nod, and we break apart. I move in a grid pattern, the way I’ve seen people do in search-and-rescue scenes in movies. I have the original shell, so you would think my part would be easiest, but it’s not. It soon becomes evident to me that every single shell on this beach looks nearly identical. It’s so easy to be fooled, thinking you’ve found the right match, when actually it belongs to another half entirely.

  As I search, combing through sand and surf, my pants soaked up to the knees, I think about Harper. We talked on the phone last night. After the bonfire I felt the need to call her. She seemed surprised to hear from me, but then we just started talking. About her first week in New York, about the twins, about my father’s newfound passion for cooking. It was nice. I’d forgotten how easy it was to talk to Harper. Without all the complicated emotions confusing everything.