Say Yes Summer

by Lindsey Roth Culli

  “I kind of love you a little bit right now, I won’t lie.”

  “You love me all the time,” he says automatically, though the tips of his ears are pinking up a little bit and I don’t think it’s from the sun. “We’ll have to be careful when we bring this thing onto the beach,” he continues, looking at the Cream Cart speculatively. “Can’t get sand in it.” He scrubs a hand through his messy hair. “Maybe I can find some mesh screen to put over the fan or something.”

  “Miles Vandenberg.” I pop up on my tiptoes, pretending to feel his forehead for a fever. “Are you sick? You’re actually going out of your way to help someone? Look at you, being a decent human.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He bumps my shoulder with his, then turns back to the Cream Cart. “Don’t get used to it.”

  We sell out of Gondolas within the hour, the line so long and unrelenting we barely have time to talk. By the time we close up shop for the day, I’ve got gelato dried into the creases of my elbows and Miles is complaining about the strain on his scooping arm. “So we should head back to DiPasquale’s, then?” he asks, dumping some bottled water onto a paper napkin and handing it to me so that I can clean up.

  “Thanks,” I say, surprised by the gesture. We should get back, I guess—at some point we have to return the cart so it’s ready to be stocked for tomorrow—but the restaurant is fully staffed. Dad hired a couple new people to make up for the fact that Miles and I are on the beach this summer and leaving in August, so it’s not like there’s any hurry. Why not just enjoy the rest of the afternoon? “I might just…hang out.”

  Miles’s eyes widen. “Really?” he asks. “Is that a thing you do?”

  I snort. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know,” Miles says. “Don’t you have, like, some pre-collegiate enrichment classes you need to get back to? Or, like, some nursing home residents to go sing to in Spanish?”

  “Oh, you’re hilarious.” I throw the damp wad of napkins at him. “Why do people always say that?” I ask. “I like fun! I like hanging out! And for the record, I did that nursing home thing one time and it’s probably what got me into Northwestern.”

  “Uh-huh.” Miles doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. “And what kind of fun did you have in mind, exactly?”

  That stops me. “I mean, I didn’t have a plan.”

  “Oh, I see.” Miles nods seriously. “It’s spontaneous fun you’re after.”

  “Exactly.”

  He digs his phone out of his pocket, scrolls for a moment. “We could go to a movie,” he offers. “They’re showing Jaws at the dollar theater in twenty minutes.”

  I raise my eyebrows, goading. “Oh, now you’re intending to have this fun with me, I see.”

  I’m teasing, but Miles doesn’t smile. “I mean, not if you don’t want me to,” he says immediately, and I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, don’t be such a whiny little diaper baby.” I shake my head, looking out at the wide expanse of beach, the deep blue sky up above. It’s warm but not oppressively, the heat a pleasant prickle on my skin. “It’s too nice for a movie,” I decide. “We should, like, play outside.”

  “Oh yeah?” Miles’s shoulders drop, his whole body seeming to relax at my use of the first-person plural. “What, you want to go find some monkey bars?”

  “I mean, kind of,” I admit. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. “But I was actually thinking about a hike.”

  “A hike?” He looks at me dubiously. “You?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “I’m trying new things.”

  “Yeah, so I gather.” Miles rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to get limbered up. Back in elementary school, he was the only person in our entire class who hated gym class more than me. “And where exactly is this alleged hike going to occur?”

  I consider that. “I mean, we could always go to Mount Bald—”

  “No. Don’t say it.” Miles groans.

  “Mount Baldhead.” Mount Baldhead is this ridiculous dune not far from here, with a man-made staircase that you can climb to get the most amazing view of both Kalamazoo Lake and Lake Michigan. “It’s only three hundred stairs, Mi. You can do it. Or not. No one is forcing you to come.”

  “Three hundred and two, actually. And the last two are the hardest.”

  “Uh-huh.” I shake my head. “Again, you don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” Miles interrupts roughly, his dark gaze catching mine, and suddenly neither one of us is kidding around anymore. “Okay? I want to.”

  I swallow hard, bending down to scoop the napkin off the ground and tossing it into the trash. “Okay, then,” I say once I’m upright again, my voice coming out a tiny bit strangled. “Let’s go.”

  He grins, snapping whatever weird invisible thread was just stretching between us. “I mean, you’re going to have to carry my lifeless body back down the mountain when I pass out and die on you,” he warns me, “but don’t worry: I’m sure the good people at Northwestern will find that very impressive as well.”

  * * *

  When we reach Mount Baldhead, I lock up the cart and double-check the padlocks on the cooler compartments. There’s nothing left inside, but I don’t want anyone messing with it. I grab my backpack and start for the steps while Miles tosses his head back and takes a few deep breaths, psyching himself up. “All right,” he says finally, making a big show of reaching his arms over his head and executing a couple of corny aerobics-instructor stretches. “Let’s do this.”

  I’m hardly in what you’d call peak physical condition—I don’t think I’ve run anywhere since our neighbor’s corgi, Jamie Oliver, got loose in the neighborhood last fall—but Miles wasn’t kidding. He makes me look like the kind of person who’d do a Tough Mudder for fun. We’re on the fifth landing when he holds a hand up to stop me: “Ahhh,” he wheezes, bending over and pressing his palms against his knees, “I am. Out of. Shape.”

  “Miles!” I chide, handing him my water bottle. “We’ve still got like two hundred steps to go.”

  “Two hundred and twenty-two,” he corrects, downing half my water before passing it back and wiping his mouth with the back of one wrist, “but who’s counting?”

  On the way up, we get passed by two grandmas in orthopedic running shoes and fanny packs, and a short while later, by a troop of high school kids who are clearly teams in training. Miles takes the opportunity to pause against the railing as they pass. His breathing is less labored, but his face is pink with exertion. On one hand, I’m a little worried he wasn’t kidding about needing me to haul him back down the mountain.

  On the other, damp and sweaty isn’t a bad look on him, exactly.

  Gah. What is my problem? Am I seriously so starved for human affection that I’ve resorted to perving on Miles, of all people? Who’s next? Jackson’s little roller-hockey friends?

  “Are you seriously okay?” I ask, my voice coming out more irritated than I intend in my attempt to cover. “Because if you’re about to hurl—”

  “I’m fine,” Miles says, sounding equally peeved. “Sorry we can’t all be national youth soccer stars, or whatever.”

  “Wait, what?” I whirl to look at him. “What does that mean?”

  “Forget it,” he says immediately. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “No,” I counter, planting my feet and staying right where I am. “Are you talking about Clayton?”

  “I’m not talking about anybody,” Miles says. “I’m being an asshole.” He shakes his head, softening a little. “Seriously. Let’s just get to the top, okay?”

  I frown, weirdly unwilling to drop it. It doesn’t make any sense: Miles has never shown any real interest in me, not in all the time we’ve known each other. What does he care if I hang out with Clayton?

  “Fine,” I say at last, not sure how to press him without making it sound like something
I know it probably isn’t. “Let’s go.”

  We take the last five flights slowly, neither of us saying anything. The view from the top is just as incredible as I remember, water stretching out in every direction, all that endless sky. I hand my water bottle to Miles wordlessly; he takes another long gulp, his Adam’s apple moving inside his throat as he drinks. “I used to come up here with my brother,” he announces, handing it back.

  I blink, one because it’s the first thing either of us has said in twenty minutes, and two because—cool-guy act notwithstanding—Miles never talks about Tommy. Like, not ever. Hearing his name twice in one day feels like falling into an alternate dimension.

  I bite my lip for a moment before responding, feeling like I’m trying not to startle a rare bird out of the palm of my hand. “Oh yeah?” I ask finally, finishing the last of the water. I’m sure it’s mostly backwash by now, which should probably gross me out more than it does.

  “Yeah.” Miles nods. “We used to race each other to the top. Last one up had to do the other one’s chores for a week, that kind of thing.”

  I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “You did this voluntarily?”

  “I mean, no,” Miles says with a laugh. “Tommy was the boss of me; you know that. He used to make me do it because he was bigger and knew he could kick my ass.” He takes a deep breath and grabs the railing, shaking it a little like he’s checking to make sure it’ll hold. “The last time I came up here was the night he died.”

  It feels like the Cream Cart breaking down all over again, some important whirring piece of machinery grinding to a sudden stop deep inside me. “Crap, Miles,” I say, almost taking a step toward him and then thinking better of it. “I’m sorry. If I’d known, I—”

  “I could have bailed,” Miles cuts me off. “And I didn’t.” He shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like I magically don’t think about him if I’m not up here or something. I think about him all the effing time.”

  “No, of course, but…” I trail off. I guess I never really thought about it, how every place Miles goes is probably a place he went with Tommy at some point, his brother’s ghost lurking around every corner of town. Most of the time Miles’s I’m Impervious to All Human Emotions act is so convincing that it’s easy to forget that of course he isn’t, that he didn’t just mourn his brother or whatever and then immediately shut that part of himself off for the rest of eternity. “You miss him?” I ask, which is an extremely stupid question. But all Miles does is nod.

  “Yeah,” he says, abandoning the view and heading for a nearby patch of grass, facing away from me so I almost don’t hear him. “Every day.”

  He flops down onto the ground and I ease myself down beside him, tilting my face up and closing my eyes so the sun makes swirling patterns on the backs of my eyelids. “I told you those last two steps are the hardest,” he informs me.

  I kick him in the ankle to reply.

  Mom is making pancakes when I come downstairs to the kitchen the next morning, Jackson shoving them into his face basically as fast as they come off the griddle. “Save some for your sister, will you?” Nonna chides as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Jackson stuffs another one into his mouth in reply.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask. The puzzles page of the paper is folded so that the crossword is neatly displayed; its organized squares are tidy and blank.

  “Errands to run,” Mom explains, handing me a plate before ladling some more batter into her frying pan, the smell of melting butter and maple syrup filling the air. I plunk myself down at the table just as my phone buzzes inside the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. So, reads the text, which comes from a local number that’s not in my contacts list, what new life experiences are on the docket today?

  I frown. Sorry, I type. Who is this?

  Guess.

  I set my mug down on the table, my entire body suddenly on alert. The truth is there’s only one person I’ve talked to about my little project whose number isn’t already programmed into my phone. It couldn’t be…

  Could it?

  No idea, I type finally, hedging. No reason to embarrass myself more than absolutely necessary. Can I get a hint?

  Well, comes the reply a moment later. I’m pretty sure you made off with my Hotspurs hoodie the other night.

  Holy shit. I almost fall right out of my chair, all shock and embarrassment and a warm, unfamiliar pleasure. Clayton freaking Carville, going out of his way to ask around for my number. Texting me completely unprovoked.

  Even if it is to accuse me of being a petty criminal.

  OMG, I type, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even realize I had it until you were gone.

  A likely story, Clayton writes back, plus the chin-stroking emoji. Then, a moment later: So what’s the plan for today?

  Working the Cream Cart with Miles and watching The Great British Bake Off with Nonna, most likely, but I’m not about to tell that to Clayton. Oh, you know. Considering a hot-air balloon ride. Jetting off to Europe, perhaps.

  Gotta get that virgin passport stamped, he agrees.

  I blink, a delicious little thrill ricocheting through me. It sounds like one of Miles’s cheesy come-ons, except for the part where it’s from Clayton and it’s basically the most exciting text I’ve ever received in my life. I mean, no basically about it; it is the most exciting text I’ve ever received in my life. I can’t believe I’m still sitting here at my kitchen table while my brother hoovers pancakes into his maw and Nonna flips through the paper, complaining about the town council being run by a bunch of Republican fascists. It feels like I should have projected to a higher astral plane.

  Exactly. I take a sip of my sweet, milky coffee, enjoying myself now. Can’t be wasting time.

  You realize Canada is only five hours from here.

  Ha, I type. We should go.

  Clayton doesn’t reply for a moment—which, shit, was that over the line? I frown at the screen, watching as the little blue thought bubble appears, then goes away again. I’m about to reassure him I’m only kidding when the three dots show up one more time; then, a second later:

  Can you be ready in an hour?

  Lol, I type back, fully thinking he’s kidding. Sure. What do you need for Canada, bear repellant and a Mountie uniform?

  I’m serious.

  I sit up straighter in my chair—glancing over at my mom, who’s humming the jingle from a local tire shop commercial while she finishes up with the pancakes. Wait, really?

  Why not?

  I can think of a million reasons why not, actually: I have to work today, first of all. My parents would freak the hell out. And, despite the fact that I’ve been carrying on a torrid and passionate mental affair with Clayton for the better part of four full years now, we don’t actually know each other.

  Like, at all.

  I’m about to make up some kind of excuse when a picture pops into my head of Dr. Paula in ’80s-style traveling clothes—big sunglasses and a car coat, maybe, a flowered scarf wrapped around her massive perm.

  Just say yes, right?

  An hour works, I type, fully unable to believe this is actually happening. You’re in charge of snacks.

  * * *

  An hour is long enough for the house to clear out, thank goodness, Jackson off to camp and my mom to the restaurant to do some prep work, Nonna heading off to the senior center for her twice-weekly Zumba class. Once they’re gone, I scroll through my phone until I get to Miles’s name: Hey, I text, must have overdone it on our hike yesterday. Feeling like trash. You good to cover the Cream Cart this afternoon?

  His reply comes fast: Will do. You need anything?

  I blink, surprised by the offer. Nope, I’m good. Try not to make any little kids cry.

  Where’s the fun in that?

  I jump in the shower before spending twenty precious minutes digging through my closet in search of som
e outfit that’s (a) cute, (b) not too try-hard, and (c) appropriate for an international excursion with the literal guy of my dreams. I own exactly zero items of clothing that fit that description, however, so in the end I wriggle into my favorite jeans and a navy-and-white striped tank top, braiding my long hair into a rope over one shoulder and attempting a mostly unsuccessful eyeliner application. I’m just flossing my teeth—look, I’m not saying there’s going to be kissing on this trip, but if there is, I am certainly not about to be brought down by imperfect oral hygiene—when Clayton texts to say he’s outside.

  I bound down the stairs so fast I almost break an ankle, pausing in the foyer to collect myself before swinging the front door open. He’s parked in the driveway in his giant SUV, looking effortlessly adorable in a pair of khaki shorts and a rumpled blue T-shirt. Somehow, I suspect he didn’t floss. There are two iced coffees sweating in the cupholders, a reusable grocery tote on the floor of the passenger seat bulging with a whole concession stand’s worth of chips and candy.

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just got all my favorites and hoped for the best,” he explains. “Ready to go?”

  I grin, my heart expanding like an overfull balloon inside my rib cage. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Five hours in the car is a long time with anyone, let alone the object of my true and undying affection, and I’m terrified it’s going to be awkward, but actually Clayton is weirdly easy to talk to: about working at the restaurant; about Marquette, where he’s headed in the fall; about his little sister Ruthie, who’s got a pretty lucrative side hustle making friendship bracelets and selling them in an Etsy shop. “I was wondering where you’d gotten that,” I say, nodding at the one looped around his wrist—thick and intricately knotted, woven in shades of blue and green.

  “Oh, no,” Clayton deadpans. “This one I made myself.”

  Still, we run out of steam about an hour in, just the wind blowing in through the open windows and the twang of Reba McEntire on Prime Country. I try to take in the scenery out the window—Michigan is stupidly beautiful this time of year, the trees on either side of the highway a million brilliant adjectives beyond green—but I can’t help but be a little more interested in the view inside the car. I spent so long watching Clayton from across the cafeteria or through a computer screen that it feels almost unnatural to be this close to him, like I’m on safari and paid extra to have the animals stick their heads inside the Jeep. His eyelashes are blonder than the hair on his head, I notice; there’s a tiny scar on the side of his chin, the shape of a crescent moon.