by Meg Haston
She shakes her head. “You misheard me. I said bring them takeout, which sounds a little like casserole.”
“My mistake. I don’t think they’re up for company right now, but you and I could have dinner. It’s been a while.”
“Done,” she says.
“Great. Okay. So . . . sick day in quotes?” I flash my most responsible smile.
“I’ll call the school.” She yawns.
I blow her a kiss and tote an armful of beach towels out the door.
I listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd on the way, cranked up too loud. Wilson taught me that’s the only way to listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd, I think, and then I get pissed and change the station. The day is bright and hot and cloudless. I park near the beach access and lug everything onto the sand. I smooth the towels a million times, and when I’m dripping with sweat, I crack open a Coke and kill it in a single gulp. I’m nearly alone on the smooth sand; near the waterline, there’s a mother trailing behind an unsteady toddler and an elderly man casting a fishing line beyond the waves.
Wil shows up first, and then Leigh not a minute later, and when they see each other, they both try not to get caught giving me a look.
“Surpriiise!” I say. “Happy beach day!”
“Happy beach day?” Wil’s face is crooked. “Hey, Leigh.”
“You are smiling too big, Bridget,” Leigh tells me. “Like, religious cult big.” She gives Wil an awkward back pat. “Doing okay today?”
“Sure.” Wil gives her an obligatory nod.
“I just—I wanted us to hang out, is all. Together, since the school year’s almost over,” I say. I want to hug Leigh, but she’s all angles: arms crossed, shoulder pointing in my direction.
“Great,” Wil says. “Definitely beats spending the day boxing up the last of my dead father’s shit, which I was supposed to do after school.”
I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry.” Wil’s cheeks redden.
“Hey. No judgment,” Leigh says.
Wil peels off his T-shirt. “I’m gonna go in real quick.” He jogs toward the ocean, and I watch him disappear beneath the waves.
“Rough.” Leigh unhooks her frayed denim overalls and shimmies out of them. Beneath them is a bikini she must have tie-dyed herself.
“So. You guys are banging,” she says matter-of-factly.
“We are not,” I say, pitching a bottle of sunscreen in her direction.
“You are such a liar! Wil Hines is drowning his sorrows in your—”
“Leigh. Gross. And no, he isn’t.” I chuck my cutoffs and tank top and stretch out on my stomach. Leigh drops next to me. I perch on my elbows.
“I heard Wil broke it off with Ana.”
I try to stare through her mirrored shades.
“Yeah,” I say. “Objectively, they weren’t a good match.”
“Objectively?”
“Okay. I’m not the most objective person,” I admit. “But you know they weren’t good together.”
“Everybody knows they weren’t good together.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For being so—” I make a face. “For disappearing yesterday.”
“You scared me,” she says, and she makes the same face. “In a big way. And you didn’t call or text or anything.”
“I know.” I drop to my side. “It just pissed me off, the way you reacted when I told you about Wil.”
She nudges her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “What do you mean?”
I hold my breath for a few seconds, and the words tumble out. “I wanted you to be excited for us. Because even with all the shitty stuff that’s happened lately, I’m excited. I’m happy. I’ve wanted Wil back for a long time. This is a big deal.”
Leigh rests on her side, too, and takes her sunglasses off and scoots so close that we’re almost touching. I can hear the ocean rushing beneath the towel, beneath the hardened sand.
“Listen,” she says. “I know this is big.” I see my reflection in her eyes. “And I’m sorry for not reacting the right way or whatever. It’s just that I love you. And I know what a fucking hard time this is for him.”
“No, I get it.”
“But you don’t,” she pushes back. “I don’t, either. No one but Wil knows what Wil is going through right now.”
I’m silent. I wish I could tell her about Wil’s dad. It feels lonely, having that kind of secret, and I think of how Wil had to carry it alone for so long.
“I guess I just didn’t think it was a good idea for you guys to try to get back together when he must be in such a dark place.” Her lips are still pressed together like a tiny bud, worried.
“You don’t want me to get hurt,” I say quietly.
“But it’s more than that,” she argues. “You can get over being hurt. You’re tough.”
I flex my bicep.
“But what if you and Wil had one last shot to get back together? And what if you tried to make that happen right after his dad was killed, and it was just too much for both of you and you lost your chance?” Finally, Leigh blinks, her eyes bright and glassy.
“That’s a lot of what ifs.” I reach for her hand, feeling a pinch in the pit of my stomach. “What’s going on with you? I’m usually the neurotic one between us.”
She shrugs. “End-of-senior-year existential crisis, I guess. Sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” I lean over and give her a sandy kiss.
We flop onto our backs and watch the universe hurtle by in slow motion.
“I know I don’t get what he’s going through, exactly. And sometimes it feels like he’s a million miles away.” I think about the shadows that cross him when I ask if he wants to talk about that night. “But I don’t care, Leigh. I don’t think you have to understand every little corner of a person to love them. I think you can love them first, and you spend the time you have trying to learn the parts you don’t know.”
“And how much time do you have?”
I feel Wil’s footfall in the sand and I shush Leigh. When he gets close, he shakes his hair, raining on my too-hot skin.
I flip over, grab his wrists, and pull him next to me. “You look good out there.”
“Buddha, beam me up.” Leigh groans, opening her arms wide. “Thank God school is almost over.”
“Can you believe we only have a few weeks of classes left?” I say, and it sounds wrong. Seniors finish classes a week before the rest of the school, which gives us a week to decompress before graduation.
“Three weeks, baby!” Leigh high-fives the nearest cloud. “Which means three weeks until I unveil my senior art project. You guys’ll come, right? The Saturday before graduation. Just me and the other AP Art nerds.”
“Definitely,” I tell her. “We love AP Art nerds.”
“So, Leigh.” Wil turns onto his side. “What’s your plan? College, I’m guessing?”
“Art school.” Leigh opens the cooler and unearths one of the subs. “At SCAD.”
“Cool,” he says.
“Are you staying here?” she asks.
He nods. “Running my dad’s shop. I would’ve done it anyway, but now that—” He stares past us, at the ocean. “I want to keep an eye on my mom for a while, and she’ll be at the house, so—”
“Plus, you’ve always wanted to build boats,” I say.
“Right,” he says. He turns to me. “When are you supposed to leave for Miami?”
“Orientation is in August,” I say.
“August?” A shadow changes Wil’s face.
I scratch at the sand. I’ve been planning on Miami for months now. I’ve worked hard for four years, and I almost lost it all last summer. Now, next to Wil, I can’t imagine being without him. Losing him again. For the first time, the word stay flits across my consciousness, then zooms out of reach, piercing the folds of the bright sky.
BRIDGE
Summer, Senior Year
MAY brings sticky, slick-skinned days, each one reminding me that my hours with Wil are numbered. I know
that I am leaving soon. I have to, no matter how much I’ll miss Wil. Miami is only six hours away. We’ve overcome wider distances than that.
At school, we’re careful. I feel Ana’s eyes on me—on us—throughout the day, and when we’re both at our lockers at the same time or when Wil loses his pencil and has to turn around to ask me for another, the space around us gets quiet.
We spend our afternoons relearning each other, sitting in our old booth at Nina’s and bribing Leonard to make iced coffee. Leonard says it’s a trend that will never last, but obliges, since we’re graduating this year and all. We are giddy with caffeine and almost summer and each other. I remember how much I love his different laughs, even the fake ones when he thinks my joke is lame. I’d forgotten how his eyes change color with the seasons.
At the start of our last week of classes, I’m hanging in the parking lot after school, fiddling with the radio dial, when Mom texts. Code S, which means she needs help at the resort. Depending on which one of us you ask, Code S either means Short-staffed (me) or Shitshow (Mom).
On my way. I hit SEND just as a set of knuckles collides with my passenger window.
“Wil!” I screech.
Sorry, he mouths. His grin is lopsided.
The passenger side window only rolls down successfully once every six months or so, and I don’t want to risk it. I lean across the console and pull at the handle so the door swings open.
“You scared me,” I accuse as he slides into the front seat.
“Still haven’t fixed that window yet?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” I let him meet me most of the way for a kiss and another and another.
“You headed home?” he asks into my neck. “Want to go to the beach?”
A shiver runs through me. “I wish. Mom needs my help at work.”
“Doing what?”
I twist the keys in the ignition. “Answering the phone maybe, or setting the tables at blu. I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“Count me in.”
I pull out of the lot and we drive the few blocks to the resort. We park in the staff lot and sneak another kiss before we duck into the lobby.
Mom is standing behind the front desk, with the phone lodged between her shoulder and ear. I like seeing my mother when she’s at work. She looks contained in her black knit dress and black pumps. Her red bob is smooth.
When Mom sees us, her eyebrows leap behind her bangs. She smiles and waves us over.
“You’re absolutely right, sir. That’s unacceptable.” Mom rolls her eyes as we approach the desk. “Listen, as long as I’m sending someone up, I hope you won’t mind a bottle of the Pinot you enjoyed so much at dinner last night? On us, of course. My pleasure.” She hangs up, flutters her lashes, and mouths, Asshole.
“Another pleasant day at the office?” I lean over the desk and blow her a kiss.
“That’s one way to put it.” She comes around the desk and pulls Wil in for a hug.
“Mom,” I say.
“Well!” she says, with a giant grin on her face. Apparently, my mother hasn’t gotten the memo from Wil’s mother that says now is not a good time for us.
“Here’s the deal,” she says, releasing Wil. “My best housekeeper called in sick, and she brings her sister to work, which means I’m short two.” She chews on her bottom lip. “You can have dinner at blu as a thank-you.”
“What’s the special tonight?” I half tease.
“Seared ahi tuna with roasted-garlic-and-wasabi mashed potatoes and a grilled heart of romaine salad,” she says. “What do you have at home?”
“Granola.” I roll my eyes. “We’re in.”
“Okay, then.” She tells us where to find the cleaning supplies and gives us both key cards. She has special instructions for each of the rooms we’re supposed to clean, the kinds of details that only she could remember. The Freemans don’t like the smell of lemon, so we have to dust room 301 with the lavender-scented spray. Mr. Kildaire likes to come home to a chilled bottle of champagne. The Eddys need an extra pillow for the annoying-as-hell Jack Russell they’re not supposed to keep here.
“Got it?” The phone rings again, and Mom waves us off.
We start with the ocean-view penthouse, where this young stockbroker hotshot named Mr. Kildaire lives three months out of the year. Wil drags the cleaning cart inside and I shut the door behind him. The place is a disaster: dirty laundry everywhere; ties slung over the back of the leather armchair, and a skimpy red thong that Wil lifts from the pillow with the handle of the toilet plunger.
“Ten bucks say it’s his.” He grins.
“Nah. Bet it belongs to the . . . girlfriend? Mistress?” I unwind a pair of fishnet stockings from around an empty champagne bottle. “Wife?”
“Uh, I’m going with girlfriend or mistress.” Wil catapults the thong in my direction, and I bat it away with the bottle. “Wives wear ratty flannel bathrobes.”
“According to who?”
“My mom’s laundry basket.” Wil laughs. “I guess your mom’s too young to wear that kind of stuff?”
I scoop a pair of high heels from under the bed and line them up next to the dresser. “My mom’s never been a wife, so—”
“Oh.” I pretend not to notice that Wil’s face is red. “Well. It’s probably not all it’s cracked up to be, if you ask my mom.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Wil’s muscles look taut as he picks up a bucket of cleaning supplies. I strip the sheets and make the bed while Wil tackles the bathroom. Every now and then he yells, “Gross!” and I yell, “What?!” and he yells, “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Eventually, he emerges, red-faced, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, holding a stuffed clear trash bag.
“This guy,” he says, with a look that somehow contains disdain and admiration.
“You’re right. Definitely don’t want to know.” I turn my back to him, spritzing window cleaner on the balcony doors.
Behind me, Wil hums cheesy porn music until I’m laughing so hard I brace myself against the glass door and have to clean it all over again.
I vacuum while he dusts and then I wedge a fresh bottle of champagne in the bucket on the glass coffee table. When we’re finished, Wil reaches for the remote and flops onto the bed.
“No. No way. We have to get to the other rooms.” I reach for his hand and try to pull him up, but he’s too strong. With one quick tug, I’m facedown in a pile of pillow shams. I inhale ocean breeze fabric softener before I flip onto my back and blow the hair out of my eyes. “We have to get out of here. What if Kinky Kildaire catches us?”
“Just for a few minutes.” Before I can argue, he’s on top of me, trailing kisses from my lips to my chin, down my neck. My body burns with want for him, for the softness of his lips and the roughness of his hands. I kiss him back, map the muscular lines of his back with my fingertips.
“Wil,” I whisper as he tugs at my T-shirt. “I want to. But not here. We can’t.”
“Just for a second,” he murmurs, kissing my stomach.
I can’t catch my breath. “Seriously.” I laugh. “Not here.”
He groans and rolls us over so that I’m on top now. “Whatever you say, boss.” He looks deep into my eyes and everything is suddenly quiet and still. I run my fingers through his hair. I want to slow time. I want to live in this room, in this exact second in time, with him forever.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to live like this?” I ask him, pointing and flexing my toes. “To come home and have everything look perfect?” I slide next to him, tucking into his body.
“Look perfect.” He sighs. “That’s the thing. You never know what peoples’ real lives are like.” He kisses the tip of my nose.
“I know,” I murmur. “But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have everything just . . . taken care of.”
“You’d hate it,” he insists with a smile.
“Says you.” I shove him playfully, and he p
ulls me in even closer, fast.
“That’s what you like best. Taking care of people. You’re good at it.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
Wil says, “Besides, living with all this stuff doesn’t make a person happier. It’s just noise.” Cloud cover passes through him. Then his eyes are clear again.
“That view, though.” I prop myself up and watch the ocean colors pulse.
“I can see the ocean any time I want. I can see it up close, the way it’s supposed to be seen.” Wil moves closer. “Beautiful things are meant to be seen up close.”
“Really?” I murmur. “You’re going with that line?”
“I have to. It’s out there now.” His lips spread into a smile in the second before we kiss.
The phone bleats a shrill tone, and Wil jumps to his feet, accidentally knocking a glass off the side table. It hits the floor and shatters.
“Shit!” He stumbles back, his head colliding with the window. It makes a dull cracking sound. His hand flies to the back of his head and his breath comes out in short, rapid breaths.
I jump off the bed. “Wil!” I try to take his hand, but he is frozen. His eyes are distant, unfocused, like he’s miles away. “Wil!”
“I’m okay,” he finally says, sinking against the foot of the bed. I watch the adrenaline drain from him, until he’s nothing more than an empty vessel.
“You’re not okay.” My voice breaks. I kneel close to him. Not too close.
“I’m fine. I guess I scare easy these days.” He closes his eyes, shutting me out. “Sorry. That was so stupid.”
“No. No. It’s okay, Wil. Can I get you something, or—” He shrinks when I touch him.
The words Tell me, please hover on my tongue. But I am not the girl who wants to know the way everyone else wants to know. I’ve waited for him this long.
“Don’t. Just give me a second.” He slides his hands through his hair. His breath is thready. I watch his eyes race back and forth beneath his lids. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.”
I pull away. “It’s okay, Wil.” I am helpless, watching a storm inside him that I don’t understand. When his breath is slow again, I try to touch him. First on the knee. Then the arm.