Without another word, I walk toward him, take the muumuu, and lock myself inside a mauve-colored bathroom.
*
The shower has long-ago turned cold, but at least my hair is clean (I only had to wash it three times.) I open the lacy curtain. It’s safe to say I can claim human as my species again.
The pink housecoat buttons to my chin and its ruffled bell sleeves hang past my wrists. The hem brushes against the top of my ankle bones. I remind myself to be grateful. Because at least it’s something to wear while I launder my foul-smelling clothes.
Drew stifles a laugh when I walk out of the bathroom. Surprisingly, he manages to swallow it. Somebody’s taught him well.
“Want something to eat? Drink?” he asks.
I’m starving, but—
“I have Pop Tarts.”
Like a faraway dream, I see the Culver’s portly young grandson headed down the bike path to share his Pop Tarts at the shoreline. With me and the other summer island kids.
Back then it was a peace offering; now it’s a testament to good character.
“Sounds perfect.”
Drew reaches into the pantry, and one by one by one, he displays seven boxes on the countertop. Seven. You can take the chub off the boy, but…
He leans onto the yellowed Formica, his biceps flexing. “Take your pick.”
The gown swishes around my calves. I point to the box on the far right. “Brown Sugar, please.”
Drew grins, his teeth a perfect shade of baking soda white. “My favorite, too.”
I pull out a chair at the little oak kitchenette dining table and sit. It feels odd to be served by a guy I haven’t seen since I wore braces and played hide-and-seek, but then again, nothing about this day or night feels normal. Maybe there is no normal.
Maybe someday I should give up the hunt.
I take a deep breath, the scent of honey, cinnamon, and cloves baking in the air. “So, where are Pat and Shirley?”
Drew’s eyes flick to mine over the steam of the toaster. “Gran’s visiting my aunt for a few months in Maryland. But my Gramps…” Drew shakes his head. “He’s in a home now—Alzheimer’s. I’m housesitting. For the summer.” His voice sounds flat, a deflated balloon. Drew and his grandfather used to be close. Just like the Culvers used to be a staple part of the island community.
I hate how time robs us.
I decide to move onto a safer, less invasive topic. “You in school?”
His focus remains on the ancient press-and-hold toaster. “Senior at University of Washington. Business major.”
“That’s cool.” But what I really want to say is: Why do you look like that if you’re a business major? Why are your arms the size of my thighs? Why is your back shredded like some sort of WWF champion? But I keep my mouth shut because the way he stands now is more like a fortress than a gate. If there’s more behind his summer island stay, he doesn’t want to discuss it. At least, not with me.
“What about you?”
“English.” I chose that major when I was ten and simply wasn’t brave enough to try anything else, steer off course. “A junior at Western Washington.” Because then I could drive home often and arrange family dinners so my parents could sit awkwardly around a silent table while I tried (and failed) to come up with new and exciting ways to get them to converse.
Drew shifts his weight, catching my attention again. “You seemed pretty upset earlier—kicking your bike and all.”
I cringe inwardly. Oh, how I’d hoped he missed that bright and shining moment. “Um, I just…”
“I get it. Today must have really sucked for you.” There’s no judgment in his tone.
I curl the plastic map of America placemat in front of me into a funnel. “It really did.”
The first set of Pop Tarts spring from the metal toaster. And in a style that’s totally unique to Drew, he pinches the corners and tosses each tart on a plate. Obviously, he’s a pro.
He sets the dish in front of me. “Here you go. Dinner is served.”
I thank him, and he slumps in the seat across from mine. “You still friends with the Gossip Girls?”
I laugh only because I don’t know what else to do with my sudden onset of nervous energy.
“Yes, I’m still friends with Sydney, Darby and Avery. They’re my best friends, actually.”
Though I’d made friends in college, none compared to the friendships I’d found in these girls long ago. They are like sisters—the only siblings I would ever have. Maybe our bond had originated early on due to our common ground as only children. But it’s become something so much deeper now.
Which makes keeping my most recent life events from them feel even more reproachful.
But I wouldn’t beg them to come to the island. I wouldn’t beg them to keep their summer promise to me, not at the cost of breaking another one. A more important one.
I wouldn’t become a burden to my friends—not in the way my parents had become one to me.
“Ah, yes. Darby—she’s the redhead, right?”
“Yep. Hair like an open flame.” Darby hated that reference, but it fit.
“I don’t remember much about Avery,” he continues, “except for her nasally laugh. But Sydney…” He shakes his head, chuckles. “Man, that girl had a mouth on her. I definitely remember that.”
I take a slow guilt-filled breath and pinch my lips closed. Of course he remembers Sydney. It was Syd who came up with his nickname after he slid down the muddy hill, the same hill we told him to hike so we could all hang out and go whale watching together. Only we never met him.
Instead, we watched him hike the hill from the trees below. Watched him look for us, listened to him call our names with nothing but an echo in reply. And then, we watched him trip and slide all the way down the hill on his backside.
But Sydney wasn’t the only one to blame. She was just the loudest.
The truth was, we’d all chanted the nickname. We’d all sang it to the tune of “Mary had a Little Lamb.” And we’d all made sure he’d heard it as we canoed past him while he sat alone on the Culver’s dock.
The summer between our eighth and ninth grade years might have been a long time ago, but we were old enough. I was old enough. Old enough to know the value of being included.
That was the last summer I saw Drew Culver on the island.
A layer of shame sticks to the back of my throat. “They’ve really changed a lot. I think you’d be surprised if you could meet them now.” They were supposed to be here. “They’re all chasing after some pretty big dreams.”
“What about you? What are you chasing after?” His focus has returned to me.
I blink and force myself to swallow, wishing the extra seconds might allow me to concoct a more normal college-girl response. But the only word that comes out is, “Hope.”
Drew lifts his eyebrows, a curious flicker of interest in his gaze, yet he doesn’t act on it. Doesn’t prod. Doesn’t take more than what I’m willing to offer tonight. And I decide right then and there that I like him even more than I did an hour ago.
Neither of us speaks for nearly a minute.
I break off two corners of my Pop Tart, blow on the scorching-hot sugar filling, and take several tentative bites. “You have an older sister, right?” My second attempt to veer away from the awkwardness.
“Yep. Sara. She married an engineer. Two kids.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy how time changes everything.”
His statement is my life’s thesis.
Drew leans back, his eyes ever-focused on my face. “Things were starting to get pretty boring around here, until you showed up tonight.”
I chew another piece of warm, sugary goodness. “I think I would have preferred boring to my unexpected arrival. I’m a mess.” I meant to say I was a mess, as in past tense, as in my nasty hair, my stinky shirt, my soaked-in-spinach tennis shoes. But given the look on his face, Drew doesn’t miss my verbal slip.
His
gaze holds steady, strong. I break the connection.
“How long do you plan to stay on the island, Joslyn?” He stands up from the table and walks toward the sink, pulls a glass from the cupboard above the ancient dishwasher.
“Actually, I go by Joss now,” I say without taking a breath. “And I’m not exactly sure.” Because, so far, nothing has gone according to plan.
He hands me the cool glass and winks. “Well, mi casa es su casa for as long as you need it.”
Drew may not realize what he’s offering. But I do. Because until I make that cabin livable again or until I’m brave enough to face my parents or until my life stops spiraling out of control, I’m homeless.
Chapter Three
‡
I pace outside the bedroom door I believe Drew sleeps behind. Not because I’m afraid to go back to my cabin alone, because I’m not afraid. I’m petrified.
Sure, he’ll probably think it’s a silly request, but even if he pokes fun at me the entire way there, moral support is moral support. And right now I need moral support almost as much as I need a strong cup of coffee.
Pressing my ear to his door, I listen for a soft snore, or the squeak of a bed frame, or any possible indication he might be inside—
“Morning.”
I jump and clutch my heart as if it were glass on a shelf and Drew a seismic earthquake. Somewhere in my subconscious I register his face, yet the scream that escapes me can’t be stopped. “Why aren’t you in there sleeping?” The octave my voice strains to reach is on a scale only dogs can hear.
“In where?” Drew asks, his face glistening with a layer of sweat far more appealing than should be allowed at eight in the morning.
“In there.” I point to the door I’ve been stalking for the last fifteen minutes.
The twitch of his chin indicates my level of idiocy.
He turns the knob, opens the door, and reveals a linen closet stuffed full of perfectly-folded sheets and towels. “Call me crazy, but I prefer something a tad roomier, Joslyn.”
Here we are again. A repeat of last night, only this time I’m slime-free.
Drew’s fresh scent of endorphins and damp Crossfit chest draw my gaze back to his.
Only he’s not looking at my eyes. He’s looking at my freshly laundered—and lavender scented—outfit. Thanks to Mrs. Culver’s dryer sheets.
“No more pink housecoat, huh? I really think you could have started a trend at the dorms. You looked pretty cute last night.”
Why I would blush at this comment I can’t possibly know, but my ears and cheeks are a scalding fire.
I clear my throat, stare at the lopsided laces of my shoes, and don’t bother correcting him on the use of my full name. “I was wondering…”
“What time we should head over to the cabin?”
I lift my eyes to his. He said we, right? I didn’t imagine it?
He takes a few backward steps down the hall. “I’ll drive us over—I just need to grab a quick shower first.”
I lift my shoulders in a light shrug, as if I’m not totally thrilled by his suggestion. “Only if you don’t have anything more important to do today.”
I’m such a girl.
“Nope.” He winks. “Believe me, you’re the most exciting thing that’s happened since I’ve been here.”
I turn my face away a second before my grin reaches the explosive level. “Hey, does Gran Culver have coffee?” Please, Dear Lord, let her have coffee. It’s my one addiction—after romance novels and before liquid eyeliner.
“Yep. Second cupboard to the left of the stove.”
I swing back in time to see Drew toss his shirt on the bathroom floor. I exhale sharply and spin around. “Should I make a pot to share?”
“Nah. Don’t like the stuff. I’ll make a protein shake before we leave.”
In my book, declining coffee, especially when born and raised in the Northwest is a blatant form of blasphemy. It’s only due to Drew’s voluntary offer to help today that I don’t point this out.
I round the corner into the kitchen.
The distinct screech of a shower curtain being tugged across a metal bar echoes down the hall.
Coffee. Focus on the coffee.
*
My plan is simple: Drew locates the creature, compliments my die-hard courage, and thus redeems any and all crazy-girl-moments since our reintroduction.
He takes the porch steps up to the far-from-innocent white cabin two at a time. The cottage looks like any other home on the island—slightly weathered by the salty ocean breeze with a need for some TLC around the perimeter. Shrubs, bushes, weeds have grown up around the edge of the house, and the roof has a few missing shingles. But still, it’s charming, quaint…familiar.
My parents had hired a rental company to manage the property for the last few years, opening the doors to a few carefully selected families who wanted a summer get-a-way, but apparently, the property management company was not committed to excellence. Or even sub-par living conditions.
If I were talking to my parents, I’d let them know they made the right choice in firing the crooks.
As Drew turns the knob on the front door, I back up several yards on the unmowed lawn. Though I’m confident my dragon slayer can take the creature down, I’m not confident the slaying will happen inside the house. I prepare myself to run.
He steps through the doorway, and I cup my hands around my mouth. “Be careful!”
Drew slows and releases a low chuckle.
I’m on my tip-toes, my lips pursed, my fingers pawing the bottom of my clean t-shirt.
It’s not until my calves begin to cramp that I hear it.
Not a shriek or a howl or even a ferocious roar.
A scrambling of footsteps—Is he being chased?
“What’s happening in there?”
No answer.
“Drew? What’s going on?”
Less than ten seconds later, my slayer moseys out onto the porch. He’s carrying a cat.
A cat? No, that’s not possible.
I point at the feline. “That’s not the creature I saw last night.”
This is far from the sanity redemption moment I had envisioned. “The eyes I saw were definitely from a wild animal.”
Drew leans against the front door jamb and stares at me, eyebrows raised. “Well…”
I open my mouth to ask about raccoons and opossums and other possible varmints. Where there’s one there’s bound to be more—an infestation of uninvited fur balls.
“There’s a litter of kittens under the house, outside the back bedroom. She was probably looking for food when you scared her last night.”
I scared her? Did he actually just say that?
He strokes the gray and white cat nestled into the crook of his elbow.
I close my eyes and count to five. I don’t actually believe I’ll disappear—or that Drew and the cat will disappear—but somehow this sad, old habit still helps me feel in control. Or in this instance, less like a hopeless loser.
If only this coping mechanism worked long-term.
“Joslyn?”
I open my eyes, blink.
“You’re right about the mess in the kitchen. And the rank smell. I checked the breaker box in the laundry room too. Electricity’s still out.” He pauses until I meet his gaze. “But I promise, there’s nothing living inside this cabin that will attack you.”
His grin is slow, slight, easy.
I wait for the punch line. But Drew doesn’t capitalize on this moment. Not to point out my tendency toward the overdramatic, or even to repay me for a summer of snobbery long ago when I had three close friends at my disposal, and he had none. He simply steps back inside the dimly lit cabin and invites me to follow.
And I do; I follow him inside.
Because right now, I’m the one who’s desperate for a friend.
Chapter Four
‡
I’ve been on hold for nearly twenty minutes with the island’s utility company�
��and that’s twenty minutes I’ve spent daydreaming about a certain island boy who lives just a short hike away. I stare out the picture window in the front room, let the sun’s rays soak into my skin through the smudgy glass, and try not to die from inhaling the stench steaming from the kitchen.
My phone vibrates against my ear. A text. From my mother.
Mom: Are you on the island? I thought your friends couldn’t make it. We need to talk.
There’s more of course, but now is not the time for another mom lecture. I’ve listened to plenty of those lately. I tap the screen and darken her words.
“Mrs. Sanderson?”
“Yes?” I answer the man who speaks as slowly as paint dries. “It does appear your account is current, but there seems to be an issue with the main line.”
No kidding. “Yes, so how do I go about getting that checked out?”
“I’d have to make an appointment for someone to come out and take a look.”
Was that not what we were just doing?
In the same amount of time I’ve been on this call, Drew made two runs to the Culver’s house for box fans, disinfectant, paper towels, and candles.
He stands in front of me now, head cocked to one side.
I roll my eyes and point to the phone. This call is a joke. My whole life is, really.
“Looks like we can have someone out there…” he pauses, “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” Might as well be next Easter. “But today is Saturday.”
“Yes, it is.” The man drawls. “Weekends are reserved for emergency-status only.”
I contemplate chucking my phone out the window just as Drew grabs it from my hand.
“Drew,” I squeak.
He turns his back to me and drops his voice an octave. “Hello? Yes. I’m Mr. Sanderson, and we’d really appreciate someone here sooner than Tuesday. We’ve been on the island for over twenty-four hours now without electricity, and I’ve checked the breaker box and perimeter outside thoroughly. That constitutes an emergency in my book, especially since our account hasn’t lapsed.” Drew pauses, listens. “Yes, that’s right. Okay, we’ll wait for your call then. Thank you.” He ends the call.
A Summer Remade Page 2