A huff of air passes through my lips when he faces me again, and he shrugs at my unspoken question. “Worked in a call center freshman year. Terrible job, but I learned a few tricks.”
“I guess so.” He places my phone in my palm. “When are they coming?”
“Hopefully tomorrow, if not, first thing Monday morning.”
“Thanks.” It’s sooner at least, yet it still means camping indoors for longer than I’d hoped. Which is roughly a minute past never.
“You know…” Drew scratches the back of his head. “It doesn’t make sense for me to have that big old house all to myself, indulging in modern conveniences, while you’re over here in the Stink Pit.”
I turn in a full circle, arms out. “What do you mean? This place is like a mini-paradise.”
At that exact moment, the mop I left propped on the hallway wall keels over, splashing dirty, sudsy water onto the living room carpet.
Wet carpet, yet another awesome smell to add to the mix of spoiled food and cat poop.
“It’s a vacationer’s dream house, really,” Drew deadpans. “What was I thinking to offer you an alternative?”
I giggle, the kind synonymous with notes passed on a playground, “yes” boxes checked.
Seconds pass before I realize he’s waiting on me. For an answer.
I tap the toe of my shoe against the living room rug. I should decline with a gracious, “I’ll be fine, really.”
Drew watches me, a steadiness to his gaze, a cool sort of confidence in his stance. “No need to over-think it. It’s pretty simple. I have a house. You have…well, this.” He gestures toward the spilled mop bucket. “Seems like a no-brainer, Joslyn.” His smile is annoyingly free, a seemingly-permanent fixture on his well-balanced face. And then it hits me: Drew’s like one of those positivity posters in the waiting room of a therapist’s office. Keep your head up. Tomorrow’s a new day. Be a glass half full to the half empties around you.
Surely, between the two of us, I’m the glass half empty around here.
I tilt my head. “You know, that name you keep using is twice as many syllables as the one I prefer to be called.” Obnoxiously, I clap the difference to prove my point. “Jos-lyn. Joss. See? So much easier.”
“I’ve never been one to go for easy.”
For the second time today, my cheeks ignite. I glance at the puddle on the carpet. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll stay with you—but only until the electricity comes back on.”
He nods and points to his group of supplies next to the kitchen table, as if my declaration was the expected solution. Only he was the one who expected it, not me. At least, not so easily.
“And once the electricity comes on, we can use the box fans to help air the place out. For now though, I’ll get the windows open so we can at least get a good cross breeze going in here.”
I don’t miss his use of we. As if he’s planning on sticking around a while. Which, I’m not in any way opposed to.
“Well,” I sigh heavily. “The nasty floor beckons.”
Drew holds up his fist, waits.
Tentatively I form one of my own and then tap it to his.
“That had to be the weakest fist-bump in the world.”
Without warning, he grabs my hand, molds it back into a fist, and does a re-bump.
“Better. Now, let’s get to work, roomie.”
*
Mop in hand, I slide its wet ropey fingers over the last smear of green goo tacked on the kitchen floor. Pausing mid-swipe, I twist at the waist and sneak another peek at Drew.
He spent a good thirty minutes prying open the painted-shut dining room windows with a screw driver, and now he’s removing the dusty sheets from the sofas in the living room. With his back to me, he raises his left shoulder, and rotates it forward. Twice.
I can’t help but watch.
Drew has a nice back. No, a spectacular back, one that’s chiseled into a mountain range of muscles and tendons and—
He turns and points to the far corner of the living room. “What’s in that old chest?”
“Err…what?”
“The chest. What’s in it?”
Pieces of my soon-to-be past.
“I’m not sure.” The lie slides over my lips easily—out before I can think of a better reply. Or an honest reply.
“That’s some gorgeous woodworking.”
Drew walks toward it and my heart beats wildly against my ribcage, a cold knot forming in the pit of my belly. Please don’t open it.
He rubs his palm over the top of my dad’s first anniversary present to my mom. A carpenter since before I was born, my dad’s always shown his love through his art. Frames, shelves, even a set of bunk beds for when my friends stayed over on the weekends.
I swallow a mass of unshed tears and blink my way back to the present.
“I’m hungry.” The blurt is quick and loud and completely unladylike, but I had to say something before Drew fingered the lock or, worse, lifted the lid.
Drew stands and brushes the dust from his hands onto the thighs of his jeans. “Want me to grab some take out from Luck’s?”
“I think we could both use a break from this place, and the least I can do is buy you lunch for all your help today.”
Drew’s bottom lip has a life of its own. As does his dimple—the one that indents the middle of his right cheek when he talk-smiles. “You can try.”
I swipe my purse off the table, only as soon as it’s in my hand, I know I can’t go anywhere with him, not until I clear my conscious and offer the apology I should have given him years ago. It’s time.
He’s waiting for me on the front porch when I call after him. “Drew?”
“Yeah?”
Suddenly the bold prompting in my head dims to that of a timid whisper. “I uh, I wanted to say sorry. For that last summer on the island together. We were horrible to you. I was horrible to you—”
He steps toward me, grips my shoulders in a way that makes my words fall away on a lost breath. “That was a long time ago. Let’s just be grateful neither one of us is thirteen anymore.”
Certainly he’s not—not with that Olympian physique he’s got going on.
He winks and jogs down the porch steps. “I’ve got to make a quick call before we head out. I’ll meet you at the car.”
I spare one last glance at the old chest in the far corner of the living room.
The reason I came.
And then I tug the door closed and turn my key in the deadbolt.
If only my heart were just as easy to lock-up.
Chapter Five
‡
This entire lunch conversion has been entirely unbalanced. One-sided.
Drew is casually munching on his fish and chips at Pacific Winds Diner, while I answer question after question. Nothing deep, or ultra-personal has been asked, but still, Drew hasn’t given me a second to breathe, much less turn this question and answer time on him.
As he reaches for another fry, I snatch his basket away.
“Hey now—” He throws his hands up, and I wish I could guess his wingspan—if only to report it to Darby. She’s a sucker for good arms.
“It’s your turn. The ratio is way off here. I’ve answered everything from my dorm dimensions to my favorite trilogy. You can earn one fry back for every question you answer.”
Though I know Drew could swipe the basket from my pathetically short reach, he leans back in his chair, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and concedes.
“One question, one fry?” he repeats.
I nod and try to keep a round of awkward giggles from leaking out. I never get to win this easily. My friends would have tackled me to the ground before going along with one of my “special social games,” as Sydney calls them.
I can practically see Avery’s epic eye roll now.
“Yep. Okay.” By the look on Drew’s face he’ll play along—at least for a few fries. Five if I’m lucky.
; I better choose my questions wisely.
“So why do you look like that?” Okay, that didn’t exactly come out as planned.
His neck crawls with a shade of crimson, but his lips, of course, are turned up in a grin. “Like what?”
He’s playing with me now. Everyone within a quarter mile radius of Drew knows “like what?”
There’s in shape. And then there’s Drew Culver. If I worked out full-time, made a career of strength training, lived and breathed the inside of a gym, I couldn’t do to my body even half of what he’s managed to do with his.
“I row.”
“You what?”
He demonstrates the motion by using his fork to part the air. “You know, row.”
At this, I lose it. I snort-laugh as Drew, this tall, masculine anomaly, role-plays his own unique rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” for me.
Finally, he sets his fork down, eyes gleaming as he says, “I’ve been on a rowing scholarship for three years at UW.”
I toss him a fry; he catches it in his mouth.
I like this game a lot.
“I’ve never met a rower before.”
“Well then, I hope I exceed your expectations.”
You already have, Drew. You already have.
Questions two, three, and four are spent uncovering the secrets of life as a rower.
“But aren’t you freezing out there? I mean, it’s Washington. Not Florida.”
“The goal is to not get wet.”
Cheeky. He earned two fries for that answer.
“And you’ve been all over the U.S.?”
“Yep. Been on a lot of lakes.”
“Are you close with your crew?”
Drew’s smile dips slightly, his gaze reaching into mine. “The closest. They’re my brothers.”
This I understand. Not in a team spirit kind of way. In an I-understand-the-irreplaceable-value of true friends kind of way. Because, like Drew, my friends are also my closest family.
“So you don’t have any—what do you call them? Races? Meets?—that you’re supposed to be at this summer?”
Drew opens his mouth and his phone dances a jig across our table. He reaches for it as if to mute the vibration, but his hand pauses as he reads the contact name. I read it, too.
Coach Carson.
“Sorry, I have to take this.” Drew scoots his chair back and walks out onto the patio.
Every female eye in the diner follows him.
Drumming my fingers on the tabletop, I slide my own neglected phone from my back pocket and scroll through a half-dozen texts.
Sydney: Did you make it to the island okay? I’m still waiting to hear about the “big talk” on the homestead. Oh, and if you want to see my bridesmaid’s dress, Google “Housewives of the Rich and Tacky.” Call me.
Darby: You will never believe where I just got hired. Like never ever ever. Call me.
Avery: I hate flying. I think I’d rather walk to Arkansas. Is that a possibility?
Mom: Did you get my text? Call me.
Mom: Just talked to your dad, he hasn’t heard from you either. Please call me.
Mom: I’m officially worried. You don’t get to text me saying you’re headed to the cabin after everything we’ve talked about and then not answer my calls. NOT okay. Call me.
Dad: Call your mom.
Head in hands, I groan. The walls of my pseudo-freedom are about to cave in. I pinch my eyes closed, beckoning a calm to cover my anxiety.
“Hey, you ready?”
I sit up, turn my head to face Drew—or rather, to face his abdomen.
“Oh, hi. Is…is everything okay?” I point to the phone in his hand. Why is it always easier to ask someone else what you should really be asking of yourself?
“Yeah, just checkin’ in.” Drew tosses a twenty on the table, then grabs my hand when I reach to throw it back at him.
“I’m paying. It’s done. Now, let’s go finish up what we can at the cabin before it gets dark.”
With Drew’s hand still latched to mine, he leads me through a maze of tables and chairs. Once in the parking lot, he opens the passenger door for me. “Sorry we had to cut the game short.”
The game, the game….oh! The Fry Game.
I buckle my seatbelt. “Maybe we can play it again sometime. With Pop Tarts.”
“Deal.”
*
The sun set hours ago, and I was ready to give up the second the last sliver of light disappeared behind the horizon. But Drew Culver doesn’t give up—not for darkness or bad odors or even moldy refrigerator shelves. I’m starting to understand why he looks the way he does. He set the goal that we’d finish the cleaning tonight, and it’s been impossible to deter him.
Several times during tonight’s clean-fest, Drew’s stopped to stretch his back, roll his neck, and tug on his left shoulder. And several times, I’ve stopped whatever I was doing to watch.
Random groupings of tea lights and holiday candles line the countertops and tables, and it’s safe to say that every single surface of this one-story residence has been scrubbed and disinfected—except for the carpet in the master bedroom at the back of the house. That is the room that holds the worst of the cat smells.
I’d conquer it some other day. For now, that door can remain closed.
The good news: I can finally take a breath without the urge to rip one of my five senses from my face. I’d say that’s pretty impressive progress.
Walking onto the gleaming kitchen floor, I wince-cringe as I see Drew bent over the sink, scrapping away a science project’s worth of mold from a refrigerator shelf. A job I had planned to save for tomorrow. Because out of all the chores we’ve tackled thus far, this task is likely the most gag-worthy.
At least I caught him before he got too far into it.
I fake a loud yawn, stretch my arms above my head. “Wow. I think I could fall asleep standing up. You’ve got to be exhausted. You were up way before I was this morning. Let’s call it a night, head back to your place. I can tackle those shelves tomorrow.” In other words, please stop scrubbing. You’ve done more than enough for me for one day. Or a lifetime of days.
“Good thing we have a short commute, then. And even better that I drove.” He continues scrubbing, soaking his hands in grime and suds. “This is the last shelf. I’m almost done.”
Awesome. Just awesome.
Drew shuts off the water at the sink. But before he can search for a dry rag, I rush into action, two steps ahead of him.
I grab a yellow sunflower-printed hand towel from the drawer next to the stove and grip the end of the fridge shelf. He may have started this yucky project, but I should be the one to finish it. “Here, I’ve got this. Please go take a break.”
Drew doesn’t take a step to the side like I anticipate. Instead, he stays put, our hips a hairsbreadth apart.
There’ve been many words exchanged between us today, many joke-filled conversations, yet this moment between us feels oddly different, as if charged by our close proximity.
He lets me take the shelf, but still, he doesn’t move away.
“So your friends, they aren’t joining you here?” he asks.
In a wax-on, wax-off motion, I continue to dry the glass as if it were my only goal in life. To create a streak-free refrigerator shelf.
I feel his eyes search the side of my face with the kind of curious intensity a child has when he’s sent to hunt for hidden treasure. Only there’s no treasure to be found here. The only thing waiting at the X is a lonely girl pretending she can escape her future.
At twenty-one, I’ve become a sad sort of cliché.
“No. Not this summer.”
“What about your family, then? Are they coming up for the Fourth?”
The pulse beat in my throat constricts my voice box. “Nope.”
He lifts the shelf from my hands and sets it onto the counter. He faces me, his fingers curled around the counter edge. They’re my focus point—his hands, both strong and reliabl
e.
“So you’re like what, a summer squatter?”
In typical Drew-style, his happy-go-lucky charm pulls me out of my introspection. I blurt out a laugh. “I guess that’s exactly what I am. A squatter.”
He angles his head, nods. “I thought so—you have the look.”
Based on first impressions alone, squatter is a compliment.
A lull spans between us, and I wonder what Drew sees when he looks at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Because it’s this look that makes me want to spill my sorrows, trust him in a way I’ve yet to trust myself.
I open my mouth—
“The island’s a great place to sort out whatever needs sorting,” Drew says.
Even in the dim lighting, the sincerity of his eyes matches the kindness in his tone.
And though I’m certain my parents felt the exact opposite was true, Drew’s words washed me in calm and filled me with courage. “I’m glad you think I can sort from here because you might be the only one.”
“What about you? What do you think?”
I have no idea what I should think. This particular topic of running off to the island to escape my family drama hasn’t exactly been opened up for discussion with my friends. Sure, I could say there wasn’t time to call them before I left, or that I didn’t want my problems to interfere with their busy schedules, but neither of those excuses is the truth. My friends would make time for me. I just simply hadn’t asked them to.
Drew’s thumb slides across the back of my hand and a shiver waltzes slowly down my spine.
“I think you’re brave—coming out here on your own.” He exhales and shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and then tucks his hands into his pockets.
The absence of his hand on mine feels like cold disappointment.
“I wish I felt brave.”
“Feelings rarely tell us the truth.”
The candle closest to the sink flickers. Then, in an instant, we’re standing almost entirely in the dark, relying only on a candle a room away, on the dining room table.
But I’m not scared. Not with Drew here.
“What do you mean?”
A Summer Remade Page 3