Say Yes Summer

by Lindsey Roth Culli

  I’m half expecting him to ignore me, but he texts back right away: You think? Or you know?

  My heart stumbles at the sight of his words on the screen, sure as if he were here and said them out loud. I know. Bethany came and talked to me at the restaurant today.

  Ah.

  Yeah. I gnaw my thumbnail. Anyway. I know I came on a little strong that night outside the movies. You must think I’m a total basket case.

  Clayton shoots me the thinking emoji, hand on his skeptical yellow chin. I mean, not a TOTAL basket case.

  I huff out loud, even though there’s no one to hear me. Mean!

  I’m joking, he promises quickly. And I know I probably came off like a giant sketchball with all that “it’s complicated” shit. It just wasn’t my secret to tell.

  I get it, I tell him honestly. I think…high school was just a really different place for me than it was for you. Does that make sense? So when you started hanging around and seemed interested or whatever, I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then when I heard you spent the night at her house, it just felt like…

  Boom?

  I let a breath out. Exactly. If I’m being honest with myself, it was almost a relief to think he’d messed up so quickly. I’d spent so long imagining Clayton as this perfect human specimen that I was sure there was no way he could possibly measure up in real life. And sure, some of that was a healthy skepticism, a way of protecting myself, but the truth is there was a part of me that wanted to believe the worst of him, because it proved I hadn’t been wrong to close myself off for so long. And how messed up is that? Wanting someone—wanting the world—to be a disaster, just for the sake of being able to feel secure in missing out.

  Well, he says now. I am interested, or whatever. So what do you think? Can we start over?

  Um.

  I gaze out at the quiet evening, the whole neighborhood settling down for the night: a sprinkler arcing lazily back and forth across the street, Jamie Oliver the corgi lounging on the porch next door.

  Can we start over?

  I can’t help but think of Miles just then, with his Al Capone swagger and his surprising, disarming sweetness. I would have bet good money that I’d had the full Miles Vandenberg experience way before this summer’s little experiment, that he was one person I knew inside and out. But it turns out I was wrong about that too. Do I really want to give that up before it’s even really started?

  Still, this is Clayton we’re talking about, who I’ve wanted for longer than I can even remember.

  Clayton, who suddenly wants me too.

  I don’t want to stop seeing Miles.

  And I also don’t want to say no to Clayton.

  Could I just say yes…to both of them?

  I mean, it’s crazy. But then I think about Dr. Paula and The Season of Yes. I think about all the boys—or, okay, the potential for boys—I said no to over the years. And now…

  Wasn’t this the whole point of this summer—to say yes to new experiences? To say yes to things I really want?

  You know, I type slowly—stretching my legs out in front of me, breathing in the sweet summer air. I think we probably can.

  The following day is, by all accounts, perfect beach weather. The water is calm and the sort of deep, rich blue that makes you forget that the body of water you’re looking at is in fact a lake and not an ocean; except for a few poufy white clouds, the sky is clear and bright. I’ve never been much of a surf and sand kind of girl—just one more thing I’ve reflexively figured I wouldn’t like, I guess—but working the Cream Cart with Miles, perspiration trickling down my back inside my DiPasquale’s T-shirt, I find myself rethinking my stance.

  It’s been a busy—but kind of annoying—shift so far, a stream of tourists who don’t quite get what we’re selling and the credit card machine needing to be rebooted every other transaction. I can feel Miles losing his patience, wound like a spring about to snap. “What can I get you?” he asks now, wiping the sheen of sweat from his cheekbone with his forearm as a small girl and her dad approach the cart.

  The little girl hems and haws, changing her mind three times before demanding a SpongeBob Popsicle, which we emphatically do not carry. Miles cracks his neck left, then right, then left again. He doesn’t roll his eyes exactly, but it’s a near thing.

  The girl finally makes her decision and her dad forks over four dollars, telling me to keep the change with a tone of great generosity that belies the fact that Gondolas cost $3.75. “Gee, thanks, mister,” Miles says as he presents the girl with her gelato, adding a bit of flourish and a wide smile that’s primarily for my benefit. “A whole quarter.”

  The dad shoots us a nasty look before ushering his daughter away across the boardwalk. “Can you cool it possibly?” I ask Miles once they’re gone. “Like, yes, they were a couple of jerks, but there’s no reason for you to be one too.”

  Miles frowns, unabashed. “Why?” he asks, reaching for his water bottle. God, it is hot out here. “I’m never going to see those people again. What’s the point?”

  “Seriously?” I ask, feeling my temper flare as I count off on my fingers. “One, because you’re actively wearing a shirt with the name of my parents’ livelihood on it. Two, because the social contract is literally what makes civilization work, even if you think it’s stupid. And three, because you weren’t raised in a barn.”

  Miles’s eyes widen. “Jeez,” he says, looking wounded. “Sorry.”

  I exhale noisily, holding my hand out for the water bottle. I can’t help wondering if I’m feeling less patient with him than usual on account of Clayton suddenly popping back into the picture. The thought makes me feel about two inches tall. “Sorry,” I say, bumping Miles’s shoulder with mine. “I’m wound a little tight this morning, clearly.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, making a big show of looking me up and down. “Wonder what we could do to fix that, possibly?”

  “Down, boy,” I chide, even as a tiny thrill rumbles through me. I nod across the boardwalk, where two little kids are approaching the cart. “All right. Let’s practice.”

  Miles raises an eyebrow. “Practice what, exactly?”

  “Your customer service skills, perv.” I gesture to the beach that’s brimming with tourists. “I know you can do it. And who knows?” I reach down and slide a finger through his belt loop, yanking once. “If you’re successful, maybe you’ll get a reward.”

  He does better this time, chatting with the boys about which flavor combos are best, even smiling as they hand their money over and again as they take their first massive bites. “See?” I tease, poking him in the ribs. “You’re a natural.”

  “Oh, right.” Miles grabs my finger and squeezes, making a face that suggests he hasn’t forgotten about the aforementioned reward. “So here’s a question,” he says, leaning back against the cooler and crossing his ankles. “You have plans tomorrow night? You want to do something?”

  He’s just one click too casual for it to be genuine. I tilt my head, tickled. “What, like a date?”

  Miles sighs. “Yes, princess. Like a date.” He raises his eyebrows. “You interested?”

  I am, in fact, and I’m about to tell him so when a thought occurs to me. “I do have plans, actually,” I say, which is both the truth and extremely surprising to realize. Dr. Paula would be proud. “I said I’d go to a party with Carrie. But you could come, if you want?”

  Right away, Miles shakes his head. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this at any point in our, oh, eighteen years of acquaintance, but I’m not really the partying type.”

  “Neither was I, until this summer,” I point out. “Come on, it could be fun.”

  Miles snorts. “Listen to you,” he says, still shaking his head a little.

  I can’t tell if he’s finding me charming or not. Other people trying to convince me to do su
pposedly fun things used to drive me up a tree, pre–Dr. Paula. It feels a little unfair to turn around and do the same thing to Miles, like possibly I’m changing the rules on him.

  But also, I realize with a little bit of a shock: I want to go to that party.

  “I’ll consider it,” he says finally, taking a step closer. I can smell his deodorant working, the warm sheen of salt on his skin.

  “You do that,” I fire back.

  I’m about to tilt my face up and deliver on that reward when my phone buzzes in my back shorts pocket. I fish it out and peer at the screen, tilting it away when I realize the text is from Clayton. Hey you, he says. Want to hang out tonight?

  Oh boy.

  I glance around and look at Miles, who’s turned to help some customers. I bite my lip. Sure, I type, my thumb moving almost of its own volition. Sounds great.

  I text Clayton to see if I’m going to need my passport again, but it turns out we’re just headed to the same boardwalk where I’ve spent the better part of this summer working the Cream Cart. “Sorry if this is like, super boring,” he says as we stroll past Moxie’s, looking a little embarrassed. “I kind of blew my load on that first date.”

  “It was a good first date,” I admit, swallowing hard as the back of his hand brushes mine down at our sides. “But this is nice too.” I’m not lying for his benefit, either: I’ve basically grown up on this boardwalk, feeding quarters into the big standing binoculars and eating corn dogs from Skip’s on the Beach, but it’s different to be here with Clayton—the neon signs glowing just a little bit brighter, the twilight just a little more blue.

  “Good.” Clayton grins. He’s wearing his Tottenham hoodie again, his skin a full shade tanner than it was the last time I saw him. I tried on basically everything left in my closet before deciding on a low-key sundress and a pair of skinny gold bangles of Nonna’s. As outfits go, it’s hardly the height of glamour—it’s not even a moth-eaten flapper costume—but still it’s the fanciest and most grown up I’ve felt…maybe ever. Hanging out with Miles has felt like finding a hidden chapter of a book I’ve read a million times before, new and exciting. But being with Clayton feels like discovering the lost Library of Alexandria.

  We play a few rounds of Skee-Ball in the arcade and poke through a couple of souvenir shops, then pick up dinner at a to-go falafel place that’s new this summer and head down to the water to eat. Clayton pulls a blanket out of his backpack—so like, no, it’s not a trip to Canada, but clearly the guy planned ahead—and we spread ourselves out on the sand as the sky turns from purple to black.

  “I should come down here more,” Clayton says, leaning back on his elbows to peer at the moon hanging over the water, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Do you know I think I’ve only been on this beach like three times in my entire life?”

  “Really?” I ask. “How is that even possible?”

  “Just never happened, I guess.” He shakes his head. “My parents were more into capital V vacations, you know?”

  That makes me smile, shaking my head as I unwrap my pita. “Tough life.”

  Clayton shrugs, though he’s mostly lying down so the gesture doesn’t totally translate. “I’m not complaining,” he says. “I mean, I guess I’m complaining a little bit. It always felt like they probably could have gotten into screaming matches at home just as easily and saved themselves the airfare.”

  “Yikes.” I glance over at him in the darkness, the only light coming from the boardwalk in the distance and the sliver of moon overhead. “They don’t get along, I take it?”

  “They hate each other’s guts.”

  I blink; I don’t know how to answer that, exactly, or how to respond to the cold, factual way he said it. “I’m sure that’s not true,” I finally say.

  Clayton looks at me funny, his whole body getting very still. “How could you possibly be sure about that?”

  “I—” That stops me. I think again of that night at the pizza place last year, how I just totally forgot about his family coming in because the way they acted didn’t fit in with the picture of them I already had in my head. I think of Bethany sitting across the table the other day: My life is not perfect, whatever you might think. “You’re right,” I tell him truthfully. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about them.”

  “They’re not monsters,” Clayton says—sitting upright now, reaching for his falafel. “They just…should probably not be married to each other, that’s all.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I think that’s part of why Bethany felt like she could talk to me about her dad’s…whatever.” He waves his hand vaguely in a way I assume is supposed to communicate double life and second family. “She knew I wouldn’t judge her.”

  I nod. “Can I ask what happened with you guys?” I venture. “You and Bethany, I mean?”

  Clayton considers that for a moment. “We were on the rocks for a long time,” he says finally. “I think, toward the end, we were kind of together because that was what everybody expected, you know? And staying together was easier than rocking the boat.” He shrugs again, picking a tomato out of his pita. “But then I started kind of liking someone else, and—”

  “Who?” I interrupt, my voice shrill and demanding enough that I wince at the sound of it. Still, the surge of jealousy is instant and uncontrollable. I was prepared for things with Bethany to be complicated, maybe, but not for some mystery third party.

  Clayton looks over at me for a moment, the smirk barely perceptible on his face. “Rachel,” he says, and his voice is very patient. “Come on.”

  It takes a moment for the penny to drop, and as soon as it does, I shake my head firmly. “No way,” I manage. “Just because we’re doing…whatever it is we’re doing now does not mean you get to rewrite history. You did not break up with Bethany Lewis because you wanted to date me. You never even noticed me until I gave that speech at graduation.”

  “Never noticed you?” Clayton laughs. “Rachel, I hate to tell you this, but like…you are very noticeable.”

  I blink. “I am?”

  “I mean, you fully wrote my name on the whiteboard in math class freshman year,” Clayton points out gently. “You strolled into Moxie’s and ordered a Scooper Bowl with your skirt stuck up into your underwear. And you almost caused a chemical explosion when you walked in on me and Bethany in the lab last spring.” He’s smiling at me now, easy and open. “How could I not notice you?”

  I am…vehemently not charmed. “Oh my God,” I say, abandoning my falafel and burying my face in my hands. “Oh my God. Okay. This has all been great, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fill my pockets with stones and walk into the lake now.”

  Clayton reaches out and tries to tug my hands away from my face, but I don’t budge. “Why?”

  “Are you serious?” I shake my head. “None of those are good things.”

  “They’re charming things,” Clayton counters. “They’re memorable things.” He sighs. “Look, I’d be lying if I said I never realized over the last four years that maybe you had a little crush on me, or whatever.”

  Holy crap, this is too humiliating. “So what?” I ask, my voice muffled. “You liked that I liked you?”

  “Partly,” Clayton allows. “But then…I don’t know. I started watching you back, I guess. And I liked what I saw.”

  “You did?” I peek out from between my fingers at that, just barely. “Like what?”

  Clayton raises his eyebrows knowingly, like I see you over there fishing for compliments but will allow it this one time. “How single-minded you were about stuff, first of all,” he tells me. “How focused. How you knew exactly what you wanted and weren’t afraid to do whatever you needed to do to get it.” He shrugs again. “The idea of being the object of all that energy…it was kind of sexy.”

  “In a terrifying way, you mean.”

  “Don’t deflect,” he or
ders quietly. All at once I think of Miles, a little jolt like an electric shock, but then Clayton smiles and I’m not thinking of anything but what’s happening right here.

  “I’m not,” I tell him truthfully. It just takes a minute to get comfortable with the thought of it, that’s all: the idea that all the most complicated parts of myself—the same qualities that have been such an asset at school and such a liability in my personal life—might actually be the things Clayton likes most about me. “I’m not.”

  Clayton nods seriously. “Good,” is all he says.

  For a moment I think he might be about to kiss me, but instead he just finishes his falafel in what amounts to two giant bites, washing it down with a big swig of pop. “So,” he says, sitting back on the blanket and looking at me speculatively, “how’s the whole ‘summer of yes’ thing working out for you?”

  I forgot I told him about that; I think about it for a moment. “Well, some jerk convinced me to do a terrifying bungee jump ride,” I say finally, eyeing him playfully as I finish my own pita. “But on the whole…I’d call the experiment a success.”

  After dinner we head back to Moxie’s for milkshakes, Clayton taking my hand as we cross the boardwalk as naturally as if he’s been doing it his entire life. “Look at that,” he points out, nodding with his chin across the shop as we glance around for a table. “There’s nobody in the phone booth.”

  “Oh no?” I follow his gaze. He’s right: for once it’s abandoned, no little kids playing make-believe or couples making it #Moxiesofficial.

  “Nope,” he says. “Want to check it out?”

  I raise my eyebrows, tilting my head and gazing at him. “I’m sorry,” I tease, “for what purpose, exactly?”

  “One guess,” Clayton says, then tugs me inside and shuts the door behind us.

  The following night I’m ready for Adam’s party a full hour before Miles is supposed to pick me up. My whole body feels as tight as the strings inside the piano at Ruoxi’s house, like if anyone touched me I might emit an involuntary sound. I have to end things with Miles—being with Clayton again last night made that much abundantly clear—but the thought of actually doing it makes me want to leave for Evanston tonight and beg the dorms to let me in early. I owe him the truth, and I’m going to tell it to him.