The Summers

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  “I missed you,” he told me when we finally pulled away. “You look beautiful, Kate. You against the water is my favorite way to see you.”

  That he’d echoed my own thoughts about him was strange though nice, but I didn’t reveal what I’d been thinking. “I’m sure it’s just good light,” I said. “You ready?”

  “Sure, Captain,” Ryan said, planting two soft kisses, one on my jaw and one just below it, as I stood at the helm.

  I wasn’t the best boat driver but I’d done it enough times to have half a clue. And I knew Ryan and his brothers were always out on the water, so I felt confident he could steer us out of trouble if we needed it. But I really had meant it when I’d said I would take care of everything. I could tell Ryan wasn’t used to giving up control on a date, but he let me take the reins and I appreciated it.

  We made our way out onto the water, heading away from Morning Beach and farther down the Cape, where the population thinned out. I steered us toward a calm spot in the middle of the water, the sun shining down on us. We were entirely alone.

  “There’s beer and sandwiches in the cooler,” I told Ryan. The gentle current rocked the boat farther away from the shore. “I know it’s not up to your gourmet standards, but we can make do, right?”

  He fished out two cans of beer and the chicken salad sandwiches I’d painstakingly tried to make look pretty this morning. They now looked a little smushed. But Ryan gratefully took a bite. “This is pretty good,” he said. “And I can’t write worth a damn, so we’re even.”

  “You don’t know I can write, either.”

  “Eh, sometimes you just know.” I tried not to add a layer of meaning to his words as he smiled at me. I sat down next to him. Again, the heat of his skin made me want to press in closer. I kept myself trained in my spot, trying to eat even though my hunger for food was nonexistent.

  Taking a long sip of beer, Ryan leaned back, his face in the sun. “So, can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  He studied me for a second. “The other day, we left in a hurry. And today, we’re out in the middle of nowhere.” His eyes searched mine, and I couldn’t look away from him. I knew what was coming next. “Do you not want people to know about us for some reason? I mean, if it’s the thing with Morrison . . .”

  “No, no, it’s not Morrison.” I laughed a little at the absurdity of that. Morrison was nice and cute, just like I’d told Jessica, but anyone who believed I’d choose him over Ryan was slightly nuts. I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to say this without invoking Eliza. “I guess, I didn’t want the world to know about us right away.” Especially when the world knows you and my sister were together summer after summer.

  He didn’t reply right away, and I instantly felt like one of those girls who wanted to have a status check before the relationship had a status. And yet, I still blurted out: “Are we real? Like seeing each other?”

  Ryan closed the gap between us and kissed me. His hand ran down my side, each of his fingertips making sensation burst beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. “I’m seeing you right now,” he said.

  “You know what I mean,” I said, forcing myself to breathe as his hands traced the outline of my waist. “I just don’t want to put this out there and have people interfere. I want to take it slow, to see what’s there.”

  “I understand,” Ryan said, planting a featherlight kiss against my jaw. “Slow.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE SHOULD HAVE been a study of new couples in the hours after they decide to “take it slow.”

  Stage One, I’d think researchers would find, is awkward small talk. For the first hour after our “slowing down” decision, Ryan and I acted like people who’d just met, talking about how beautiful the water was, and how the Harborville Herald had reported less visitors were taking tours of the Cape’s cranberry bogs this year and what a shame that was. We discussed every lighthouse along the horizon in detail. We probably could have started our own tour company.

  Stage Two would be compulsive eating. Ryan and I made our way through everything in the cooler and most of a bag of pretzels. In the moments when the water was its most still and the breeze died down, the sound of us crunching seemed to echo across the ocean. I don’t think either of us was that hungry, but eating gave us something to do with our mouths. Kissing when we were dangerously secluded felt like the opposite of slow.

  Stage Three would be the realization that, out of food and topics to discuss, the date should end.

  It wasn’t a bad end, but it felt like we’d hit pause on the momentum we’d been building since the picnic. We both knew we liked each other, and that we were capable of good conversation and our chemistry was beyond obvious. So, this new rule had just served to put an unnatural layer over what came naturally to us. I wanted to kick myself for suggesting that we take the path less traveled, when I really wanted to keep going all the way.

  I’d ridden a bike to the marina, but Ryan offered to take me home in his truck. I almost declined but remembered that Eliza had mentioned plans to meet with several caterers and bakeries and how it would take all day. I was tired from a day of sunshine and restraint and thought that a ride home would be nice. Tea and Becca were working, and I knew that even if my dad was home, he probably wouldn’t notice me coming in. When he was around, he seldom left the living room couch.

  Ryan pulled into his usual spot in front of his house and I smiled to myself, thinking of how many times I’d watched him arrive and that first day back, when he’d seen me in my window. I’d never expected this, to be the one hopping out of his car.

  “You’re burnt,” he said, lightly touching my shoulder, which was, indeed, one of a matching red pair. In my urgency to finish all the pretzels, I must have forgotten to reapply sunblock.

  “Oh, I am,” I said, enjoying his fingers on my shoulder despite the slight sting.

  “I know you’ll probably say no, but I honestly have the best stuff for burns. Way better than normal aloe,” Ryan said, turning in his seat toward me. “Do you want to come up? Or I could bring it down to you.”

  “I’ll come up,” I said, with no hesitation. Ryan had claimed the Landrys’ carriage house when he was eighteen, and since then, I’d thought of his room as a mysterious Shangri-la of boyness. To finally have an invitation after all my years of wondering was too enticing to resist.

  “Okay, then,” he said.

  His room was situated above the Landrys’ garage, just like mine, but where my space was still obviously filled with my mom’s things, Ryan’s was all his. It smelled like fresh paint; Ryan must have been painting his room on that first day I’d seen him.

  Remembering our picnic conversation, I giggled when I saw there was, in fact, a shelf full of trophies from various Harborville High sports: baseball, basketball, football.

  “I thought you said those were backlit,” I said, pointing.

  “Oh, that’s just for my really impressive trophies,” Ryan said. “They’re hidden behind that bookcase over there. If you pull the correct book, it spins around and you get to see all my glory.”

  “I’ll have to find the right one,” I teased, crossing to his bookcase. It was, I saw, brimming with books. He had autobiographies of Julia Child and Anthony Bourdain, some business books, and a half shelf of Stephen King and some thrillers. He also had all of Dave Eggers’s books and older classics, ranging from Charles Dickens to J. D. Salinger. Toward the top was an entire shelf of cookbooks. I caught myself petting my favorites, and getting excited that Ryan was a reader.

  I also took in the neat way he’d made his bed, and the writing desk with its Mac laptop and a notebook opened to a list of ingredients, along with notations about the farmers markets and which suppliers were the best. The top of his pen was chewed up, which I’d never have expected from calm, easygoing Ryan.

  Ryan emerged from the ba
throom with a tube of blue gel. “Here it is,” he said. “My aunt got it on a cruise and now our whole family swears by it. I order it online.”

  He squeezed some onto his fingertips and started to reach for my shoulder but pulled back. “Sorry, can I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He gently touched my shoulder. The gel tingled and the coolness of it provided instant relief. The chilling sensation only served to contrast the heat spreading throughout the rest of my body as Ryan continued to make soft circles on my skin.

  Take it slow, I reminded myself even as I felt my body relax. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, my back pressed fully against his chest.

  Ryan began to work on my other shoulder, his touch even more featherlight. I inhaled and exhaled, thinking my breaths sounded impatient, and that I’d made a huge mistake putting rules around our physical contact.

  So when Ryan dropped the gel onto his bed, I let out a sigh of relief. His right hand went to my waist as his left lifted the hair away from my face. He kissed me along the neck, lightly at first, then with more pressure.

  “Is this okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice thick. I leaned my head further to the side, offering him more of me, wanting his lips to be both fixed on my neck and everywhere else all at once.

  He turned me toward him, combing his fingers though my hair and down to the small of my back. I tilted my head back as he kissed me, then pulled back, looking at his face as I ran my hands over his chest. I studiously traced along the muscles over his ribs, and the indents of his abdominals, memorizing him by touch. He grabbed me tight, leaving no space for light between our bodies as we pressed into another kiss. For a moment, my legs wobbled beneath me and I thought we were still on the water.

  Ryan sat on a faded green love seat under the window. He pulled me on top of him, my legs wrapped around his hips. He ran his palms up my thighs, squeezing my hips and bringing me in even closer. Every nerve ending in my body was shot through with electric imaginings of where this would lead.

  My hands tugged at the bottom of his shirt, lifting it over his head. He pulled my tank top up and away from my skin, and then our upper halves were touching. The suction between us made it impossible to pull away, so we didn’t, weaving together in an unending kiss. Finally, Ryan pulled back, or I did, not without an effort.

  The left side of Ryan’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I guess this isn’t really taking it slow, huh?”

  I laughed. “If it is, then we have our work cut out for us.”

  Stage Four: completely and utterly ignore all plans to take it slow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE BANGING AT the door to the studio came fast and loud. And at the worst possible time, since I was scrambling to get my bag together before heading over to Grace’s. I’d barely been able to sleep after yesterday’s date with Ryan. I was too distracted. I’d forced myself to get a few more paragraphs of my cartographer story written, and then allowed myself to zone out. Matt had sent me an e-mail with lists of fun things to do in the Bay Area as well as questions about how my summer was going, but I’d had no desire to write him back.

  I opened the door to find Eliza standing there, her wedding binder sticking out of the top of her canvas tote bag. My throat filled with dread. There were few things worse than a type A with a binder, except for a type A older sister with a wedding binder.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Eliza said, looking past me into the studio and making a face at the clothing and books I had scattered around. I thought of Ryan’s neat room and how I’d need to clean mine if I ever wanted him to see it.

  “Morning,” I replied.

  “So, I wanted us all to go check out the Chatham Bars Inn for brunch today. Devin was saying we should just splurge on the rehearsal dinner. I think it’s too much, but he keeps reminding me that we’re saving money by having the wedding and reception right here on the beach. We only get to do this once, you know?” Her tone was excited but her eyes were anxious. “Can you go? In about an hour?”

  It was pure Eliza. For all her planning, she often forgot that other people had plans.

  I shook my head, spying the bathing suit I’d worn sailing with Ryan on the floor and feeling guilty and anxious even though it gave nothing away. “I would love to, but I have to go to Grace’s today,” I said. “I’m actually running late.”

  Eliza walked past me into the studio, running her fingers through a low vase filled with sea glass. “And you can’t just tell her something came up and you’ll come in late? That it’s really important?”

  I probably could have done that, given that Grace was so flighty. I’d be lucky if she remembered she’d asked me to come in today at all. But I didn’t feel asking “how high” the second Eliza said “jump.” Besides, it wasn’t like we hadn’t been to Chatham Bars Inn before. A few towns over, in the richer part of the Cape, the hotel was famous everywhere for being one of the grandest spots on the water. It would be completely pleasant for a rehearsal dinner, and we didn’t need to pay it a visit to know so.

  “She’s a huge author. It’s not like trading shifts at Dale’s Dream Cone,” I said, referring to Eliza’s past summer job, feeling a little bitchy.

  Eliza sighed but, like always, didn’t crack or break her pleasant game face. Her words, though, were cutting. “Sometimes I wonder why you came to the beach house at all,” she said. “I get it, you’re not a kid anymore, but you’re suddenly too busy for any of us. Doing such important things, I suppose.” I could have sworn her eyes went to the bathing suit of guilt.

  “I just could have used a few days’ notice, is all,” I said. “Next time, I’ll make sure to go. For whatever.”

  “Fine,” Eliza said, sauntering past me to the door. “Next time I’ll make sure to call your assistant so you can pencil us in.”

  I was trying to translate what looked like a haiku but was clearly one of Grace’s grocery lists—detergent apples/paper towels chicken breasts/milk wine mushrooms Chex—when she tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Something’s off,” she said, pulling up a seat at her dining table and leaning in close to inspect my face. “Is this about writing? I told you, pain is part of the process. Weren’t you going to bring me pages?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, gathering the pages of my cartographer story from my canvas bag. Grace had promised to take a look at them, but the idea made me a little nervous. “It’s only half-done.”

  “Nothing is ever done for a writer. Even after they publish it,” Grace said. She folded the pages in half and put them in the pocket of her bathrobe. “But this isn’t a writing thing. What’s going on? Even your pores look upset.”

  The last thing Grace probably wanted was an assistant whose drama added to her chaos. “No, I’m okay,” I said, waving the shopping list under her nose. “This is for the grocery store, right?”

  She squinted at the paper. “Hope so. As a shopping list, it has some artistic merit but as a novel just no reader interest.”

  I put it in the pile with Grace’s other non–book related notes. Even after I processed them, she wanted to save these scraps because people didn’t send letters anymore. “At least the world will have my shopping lists,” she told me as her reasoning. I’d also seen a letter from Smith College, Grace’s alma mater, requesting some of Grace’s writerly “artifacts” for the school’s archives. When I’d tried to mention it, though, Grace had muttered something about archives being for writers everyone thought was dead, so I hadn’t broached the topic again.

  I moved on to the next scrap, the only word of which I could make out right away being “pronged.”

  Grace grabbed it from my hand. “Put that down and tell me what’s going on,” she said. “What’s the point of having a young assistant if I can’t live vicariously through you?”

  Okay, so maybe she did want to add my drama to her cha
os. What to tell her? I had plenty on my mind, between not knowing how to proceed with Ryan’s and Eliza’s annoying behavior this morning. Or, should I have brought up the fact that, though I’d really thought using my mom’s studio would inspire me, everything I wrote felt like forced drivel? Well, she’d see that for herself when she read my story.

  “It’s my sister. She’s getting married and dragged us all to the Cape to have her wedding here. We haven’t been back since my mom died.” The words were spilling out. “And she just seems to assume I’ll drop whatever I have going on to make my life revolve around hers.”

  Grace wasn’t looking at me, but at a note written on the label from a can of dog food. She didn’t have a dog.

  “This is a phone number. Daniel. He had a collie. Loved the dog, hated the guy.” She flicked the paper into the useless pile.

  “I never had a sister. Not even a sibling, really,” Grace continued. “When my mother’s brother died, his son came to live with us for a while, but he was older and morose and all my friends got crushes on him, probably because he seemed like someone who would emotionally destroy them.” She looked at me now. She had an impish, young face, even though she was in her sixties. Her expression looked like Becca’s when she was hiding a secret.

  “Your sister might be the one who gets everything, or seems to, but going first is never easy. Oldest children, I think they sometimes do things out of obligation, more than really wanting to. She might want you along for the ride because you have what she doesn’t. The freedom to just be.”

  Grace’s words sounded good but, like she’d said, she’d never had siblings. And she didn’t know Eliza. I loved my sister but she treated being firstborn like it was a ticket to the first and best of everything.