Drew’s gaze narrows. “Who do you think taught me how to build? I could use some help creating a plan, you know.” He holds up his palm, halting my next argument before it can start. “And no, explaining why everything I try won’t work isn’t a plan.” There’s a defensive quality to his voice, a gravelly accusation. Due to the heat and the mess and the lack of food in our growling bellies, we’re far too close to the edge to step back and reassess the danger.
“You’re the one who took on this impossible project. Don’t get upset at me for being realistic.” I swing my legs, prepare to jump off the table top when Drew drops his hammer in the dirt and stalks toward me.
“Realistic?” He laughs, only this isn’t the jolly laugh I adore. “Is that what you call yourself?”
The impact of his words hits the center of my chest hard, digs in deep. He shakes his head and speaks to the ground. “Unbelievable.”
I raise my chin higher, embrace the hurt, pile it on top of all the other unresolved drama in my life, and resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest and stick out my tongue.
Drew lifts his eyes to mine. The rise and fall of his chest indicates he’s thinking, planning, scheming. And then, instead of walking away, he steps closer. His back shades me from the sun’s hot rays.
“Harve is a master at taking something meant for trash and turning it into a treasure, a keepsake. It’s why he named his store, Trash Or Treasure. He’s an artist. A brilliant creative who’s been dealt a whole lot of crap in his lifetime, and yet he’s used it for good. He sells his art all over the world. He’s humble, lives a small life on this tiny island. My grandpa saw a lesson in the way Harve lived his life, in the way he saw the world. He wanted that for me, too.”
Harve owns Trash or Treasure?
The kick drum of my heart booms louder, beats a truth into my veins that causes my body to heat from the inside-out. Drew didn’t bring me here to save me from boredom. He brought me here to show me what his grandpa had showed him.
I exhale, my throat tight as Drew’s hip brushes against my shin.
“Sometimes a fresh start means taking what’s already there and making it into something new. Something functional or even beautiful.”
My bony kneecaps press into his hard abdomen, our eyes, level, and I adjust for him to step closer. I feel the intake of his next breath, and the one after that.
“I’m sorry for being such a horrible assistant today. You’ve helped me so much and I…”
“You’ve helped me too.”
I can’t quite believe that, not when he’s literarily rescued me more times that I care to count.
Drew combs a hand through his maple-brown hair, and suddenly my fingers are alive, itching to touch what’s felt off limits until now. I don’t ask, I just reach. Drew stands stalk-still, like prey targeted by a hunter, his eyes focused on my face, then dipping to my lips. I roll a lock of his shaggy hair between my forefinger and thumb. It’s softer than I imagined, sleeker too. But Drew’s silence and heavy gaze make me wonder if I’ve overstepped. Slowly, I lower my hand.
Drew catches my wrist mid-air.
Before I can utter a single phrase, Drew’s mouth is a whisper away. The feather-light graze of his lips against mine makes my skin tingle and my toes curl. This kiss is unexpected, but it’s not unwanted. Not at all unwanted. I tilt my head to the side, invite him closer.
He reaches around to my back, slides me forward to the edge of the table and—
Drew breaks away from me, the heat between us gone in an instant. He’s bent in half, his left arm cradled by his right, his body crumpled in on itself. With eyelids pinched tightly, his face matches my dusty white Converse.
“Drew!” I hop off the bench onto wobbly legs. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“Keys. Pocket.” He grunts out through clenched teeth. “Drive me home.”
I fumble instead for my phone. I should call 911 or maybe I should run and grab Harve or—
“Joss! My keys. Just…get me home.”
I grab the warm metal key ring from his pocket and run to Drew’s car. I pull it up to the pavilion in record-setting time and pop open the passenger side door with my foot. He slides into the seat, a grimace set on his mouth.
Drew’s silent, ashen face twists my belly into knots.
“I’m driving you to the medical clinic.” The only one on Lopez Island.
He shakes his head, eyes half-shut, head pressed to the back of his seat. “No. To the house, please.”
Only a guy like him would say “please” in a moment like this, but it works. He wins. Against the nagging in my gut, I do as he says. I drive him home.
Thirty minutes after popping a white pill from a brown prescription bottle, Drew’s color returns to his face, the rigidity in his body relaxing into a familiar ease.
I make him a sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, since the groceries here are slim pickings. But I need him to eat something, I need him to show me I made the right decision in taking him home. That he’s not about to keel over and die.
“Joss, sit down. I’m fine now.”
I don’t sit. I stay standing. And then I pace.
“What the heck was that back there? I feel like my heart is still a second away from exploding.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know I can affect your heart.”
I try my hardest not to give in to his smile, but he knows how to get to me. And right now, I want to hate him just a little bit for that. Nobody outside of my best friends can read me as easily as he does. “I’m serious, Drew.”
“As a heart attack?”
“Stop it.”
“It was just a bad cramp. Relax.”
“I’ve had lots of cramps in my life, and they’ve never caused that level of pain.”
“It’s just an old injury. From rowing. I’m working through it.”
Hands on my hips, I want to call his bluff, demand things of him I have no right to demand. But the truth is, we’re just friends—albeit, friends who’ve shared a two second kiss, but still.
I’m not his girlfriend. I’m a summer…fling? That word stings my lungs on my next inhale. I don’t want to be Drew Culver’s fling.
“Sit. Down.”
This time I obey. I sit across from him on the recliner, and my legs bounce with nervous energy.
“We need to make a game plan for the float tomorrow,” he says.
I pop right back up. “We are not talking about the float right now. We’re talking about your near-death experience from kissing me.”
I don’t mean to say that last part aloud, but as I blurt the words into the room, Drew throws his head back with a laugh. “That was the most memorable kiss of my life to date!”
I purse my lips and put my hands on my hips. “Glad this is all so amusing.”
Gradually, he sobers, rests his head against the sofa. “You’re more than just amusing.” And then he pats the empty spot next to him and sighs. “Fine, why don’t we just relax and watch TV for a bit. We’ll make a plan later.”
I shake my head, raw stubbornness coming to my aid when I need it most. “Nope, sorry. Can’t trust that I won’t cause you another injury attack.”
Drew raises his head slowly. He offers me a smile so devastatingly perfect that it could cripple even the greatest of athletes. And I’ve never been one to claim athleticism.
“Fine. I’ll sit on the opposite side of the sofa.” I plop on the plush green couch.
He leans toward me with stealth-like speed and slips his hand around my ankle. With a single tug, he tows me to his side. I’m reduced to a mix of girlish giggles and weak resolve.
Drew kicks his feet onto the coffee table and presses the power button on the remote. In all of five seconds, I’m snuggled into his side, enjoying a rerun of The Office.
I’ll fight with him later.
Chapter Eleven
‡
For the next four days, Drew and I are slaves to his float-building blueprints
. The same blueprints he penned while under the influence of prescription pain meds. But this time, I won’t be the voice of reason. Or negativity. This time, I’ll keep my commentary to myself.
Drew’s shoulder cramp never resurges, but unfortunately, neither does our kissing moment. Sure, there’ve been plenty of spine-tingling glances, double-takes and glass-shattering smiles. But Drew hasn’t pinned me to a work bench to kiss me breathless, though there’s been ample opportunity to do so. I’m beginning to think his lack of advances has little to do with opportunity at all.
Drew pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve gotta take this call.”
He heads out to the open field. He’s been taking more and more calls in private recently. In fact, that’s all Drew’s ever done. Take his calls in private.
I stop my mind from going where it wants to go. To some sorority girl with blonde bouncing curls who cheerleads for him as he rows. I face the giant piece of art we’ve dedicated our week to, and blink the imaginary girl away. The structure before me is full of raw edges and untrimmed pieces, but even as it sits, waiting to be polished, pride swells in my chest. The gears, dials, numbers, and rusty rods of rebar, finally reveal what Drew knew was here all along. A clock or at least a parade float that resembles a giant timepiece. It’s modern, edgy, and one of the most unique pieces of art I’ve ever seen. Harve made us a sign earlier today that will fit snugly in the center. Trash or Treasure—20% off for a limited time.
Clever.
I take a pic of the float and send it to Sydney. I laugh at her immediate reply.
Sydney: A time machine?
Me: Surprisingly close.
Sydney: I miss you. I’m in Crazy Town. What are you up to?
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the text keys.
Me: I’m just hanging out. Wanna talk tonight?
Sydney: I wish. I have a stupid rehearsal thingy until late tonight. But I can text you under the table?
Me: Haha. Good thing Mrs. Smith won’t be there to confiscate your phone.
Sydney: True story.
I slip my phone in my back pocket and wonder if planning a text chat with Sydney qualifies as another adult-sized leap forward. Although not quite as personal or informative as a phone call would be, texting with Syd will allow me a bit more freedom to be selective. Share the good stuff that’s happened so far this summer.
My gaze drifts to Drew out in the field. I bite my bottom lip. Because even from a distance, I can sense the delight on his face.
Phone call over, he cups his hands over his mouth and yells, “You ready to go have some fun, Joss Sanders?”
I mimic his hand megaphone. “What kind of fun, Drew Culver?”
Before I can reply, Drew’s running full speed ahead.
Together, we race to his car.
*
A few yards out from my driveway, I see her. The “glamour shot” lady, Dotty Harrison, the face on my cabin’s real estate sign.
“Slow down, Drew.” I tap his arm with far too much vigor. “Actually, just pull over. Pull over!”
Drew gives me a side-long glance, but he pulls his small navy Honda off to the right. And, as luck would have it, his car sits perfectly situated behind a row of wild blackberry bushes.
Good news: I can still see Dotty. And that’s really all that matters in this scenario, anyway.
Drew exhales loudly, a sigh that’s both bewildered and bemused. I poke my head out the window to glimpse a better view of the woman staking a sign in my lawn. One without my most recent of vandalisms.
This is sign number three. She’s catching on.
But between float building and spending every possible minute with Drew, I’ve managed to avoid this coral-lipstick-wearing woman. I mean, really. When has coral ever been a natural lip color?
“Mind telling me what we’re hiding from?”
“Shhhh.” I wave Drew off, and he catches my wrist to pull me back into the car.
“You know, I’ve grown accustomed to some of your weirdness. But this? This stretches a little past weird, Joss.”
I roll my eyes, lower my voice. “It’s the listing agent. She’s at my cabin.”
Drew is unimpressed with this information. Or maybe with me. I’m not actually sure. “So…your parents are selling the cabin, and you thought your little Sharpie artwork could interfere with a sale?”
“No.” Only a crazy person would think that. “I just don’t trust her is all.”
“Because?”
I don’t have time to engage him in a round of Twenty Questions. I pop my head back out the window and gasp when I see Dotty knocking on my front door.
But then I gasp again as Drew fists the hem of my shirt, starts up the engine, and whips out onto the main road.
“Drew!” My squeal is lost to the wind, half my body still hanging out the car.
“Get inside. Or you’ll be plucking out blackberry thorns for weeks.”
I don’t have time to reply because in less than five seconds we’re in my driveway, and Dotty Harrison is walking toward us.
“I hate you,” I mutter under my breath.
“No, you don’t.”
Okay, fine, he’s right. But I really want to hate him.
Drew comes around to my side of the car and opens my door.
“Hello? Hi there, are you Joslyn Sanders?” The plump woman in the paisley sundress asks. She extends her hand as I step out of the car.
“Hi, yes. I’m Joss.”
Dotty smiles like she’s just found a multi-million dollar asset instead of a soul-searching twenty-one year old. “Well, great! Your mother said I’d find you here, but every time I stop by, you seem to be out.”
Maybe because I want to keep you out. “I keep pretty busy.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my linen shorts.
I don’t miss the arch of Drew’s eyebrow as I speak, or the way he leans casually against the hood of his car and watches this exchange like he’s viewing the latest reality TV show.
“Well, I have several very interested clients. Is tomorrow morning a good time for a showing?”
Did she just hit me? I swear I felt one of my ribs snap. Maybe two. I shake my head, but the words won’t fall out of my mouth.
Drew steps in, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and then leans forward to shake Dotty’s hand. “I’m Drew Culver, Joslyn’s neighbor. What time were you thinking, ma’am?”
“Nice to meet you. I’m thinking ten would be good.” She turns her heavily made-up eyes on me again. “Your mother gave me permission to put a lock box on the door, as well, since she’s been having some trouble reaching you.”
I look past her and see an ugly grey box on the cabin’s front door.
“You…you have a key?” I manage to croak out.
“Yes, your mother sent me one after we signed the listing agreement. This time of year is our busiest.”
“Wait,” I say, her statement jolting me back to life. “I don’t want random people walking through my front door. What if I’m in the shower or…or sleeping in?” There’s a shake to my voice I hope Dotty can’t hear.
“I understand your concern. If you give me your phone number, I can text you when a buyer requests a showing time.”
I rattle off my number, and Dotty saves it in her phone. I feel sick.
“It was nice meeting you both. See you in the morning.”
She walks away, and I punch Drew in the ribs. Might as well show him how I feel rather than try and explain it.
Marching up to the front porch steps, I open the door with my key, and before it can slam shut, Drew catches it.
He barges in. “You really thought you could stop a sale?”
“Go away.” My steps are angry as I make my way down the hall toward the back bedroom.
“You realize how that sounds, right?”
I whirl around. “Crazy? Is that what you want me to say? That I’m crazy? That I’m pathetically hopeless because I’m losing everything all at once?”
>
“Everything?” Drew stops walking, his question an invitation, not an interrogation.
I tick the list off my fingers one by one. “My parents, my family, my childhood, my past….this home!”
Drew studies me. “That’s a lot.”
I know he’s trying to trick me into being calm, into being rational, into not being a slave to my feelings. But I’ve tried his way. And it doesn’t work.
The narrow hallway closes in on me slowly. “Yes.”
I expect him to say something more. Add some guru words of wisdom. But Drew doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, waiting for me to continue.
I rest my hand over my heart. “I’ve tried…I’ve tried to kill it, to numb it, to ignore it. But it won’t stop.” My voice breaks on the word. “This pain…it never stops.”
I push past him into the living room, half expecting him to stay put, half expecting him to walk out the front door and not come back. Instead, he sits on the sofa and crosses his ankle over his knee.
I swipe at a rogue tear with the back of my hand. “That…” I point to the hand-carved chest in the corner of the room, “is filled with family pictures. Dad brought them here so mom could scrapbook the last time we were on the island together as a family. But she never got around to it. So there it sits. A chest full of memories. Dead memories. Just like their dead marriage. Just like my dead childhood.”
Then, my adrenaline is gone. A whooshing sound leaves my chest, and I slump against the nearest overstuffed chair and bury my head in my hands.
“Memories don’t die, Joss.”
I sniffle.
“You get to keep those pictures and all your memories. I know what this cabin means to you, but…” Drew’s words trail down a long path of silence. “But the sale of this cabin, just like your parents’ marriage, isn’t in your control. Maybe it’s time to stop holding on so tightly to everything that was and try to accept what is.”
I know he’s right, but whether I’m Joslyn the child or Joss the adult, the pain of that truth is the same.
Drew crouches in front of me. His warm hand brushes over the top of my head and skims the length of my hair. “What are you thinking?”
I lift my face to his, steady my gaze. “That I’d like to jump off the dock. With you.”
A Summer Remade Page 6