Step Summer

by Gallagher, Tanya

  “It’s hot out,” I say to Mrs. Rosa. “Do you want me to help you find a chair in the shade?”

  She looks me up and down with her hands still on her hips. “Are you saying I’m old?”

  Actually, she’s ancient.

  “Just trying to be polite.”

  She nods and grabs my forearm with hands that feel like wrinkled paper. “Lead the way, Blake.”

  I help her find a chair underneath our deck, grabbing a cup of lemonade for each of us along the way. Then we sit and face out at the world’s activity like we’re both old souls.

  Mrs. Rosa takes a smacking draw of her lemonade and scans my face. “You look like someone peed in your cornflakes.”

  A startled laugh spills out of me, and I shake my head.

  She narrows her eyes. “Aren’t you enjoying your stay?”

  “It’s beautiful here,” I say truthfully. The enjoying my stay part? I guess that’s yet to be determined. There are good parts and bad parts and parts that drag.

  “Hmm,” she grunts.

  “Have you known McKenna’s family long?” I haven’t told Mrs. Rosa who I am, just that I’m here for the summer, and I wonder how much she knows about my situation. Right now, she eyes me like she knows I’m doing more than making idle conversation. She bobs her gray curls and sucks down another gulp of lemonade.

  “Known McKenna since she was a little girl. Her grandmother and I are good friends, you know. We played cards together for many years. At first, when our husbands were both alive, we played couples’ games, but after they passed, her grandmother and I still got together. We try to make it a point to see each other even when it’s not summertime, but it’s harder with everyone’s health these days.”

  A kid rides his bike down the sidewalk, trailing streamers and empty tin cans like a car after a wedding. It’s so festive and loud that Mrs. Rosa and I both stop talking until he’s halfway down the block.

  “I imagine you’ve seen a lot of change in the family.” How much do you know?

  She nods. “Jodi couldn’t have been more than a girl when she had McKenna. And that man—McKenna’s dad? He was bad news.” She wrinkles her nose. “Always with a bottle in hand, always drinking. Not surprised that one didn’t stick.”

  “He was a drinker?” The words knock the wind out of me.

  “The worst kind. A mean one.”

  My stomach turns over, and I draw in a shaky breath.

  Jesus.

  I had no idea, and look what I just made McKenna do.

  * * *

  “What are you still doing here?” Mrs. Rosa turns her ancient eyes on me. “Shouldn’t you be down with the rest of the kids watching the fireworks?”

  The sun set twenty minutes ago, pitching us fully into night, and the kids down the block have started lighting their sparklers, trailing lines of light in the dark.

  “Are you kicking me out?” I tease her.

  “I like you,” she says. “But yes. I am. Go head down to the beach and find your people.”

  My people.

  My person. Same, same.

  I say goodbye and walk down the block to the beach, kicking off my flip flops at the edge of the dunes. Cool, damp sand crunches under my feet, the heat of the day long gone by now.

  A few yards from the dunes, McKenna and Brooke and a few kids their age sit side by side on a pile of beach towels. I cross in front of McKenna’s view and feel her eyes on me, but I give her space and don’t interrupt. I just need her to know that I’m here.

  I sit with my back to the crowd and stare up at the sky. It’s a perfect night for fireworks—the sky dark and wide, and the ocean a soothing rush in the blackness.

  Only a few minutes pass before McKenna makes her way over to me, accidentally kicking sand in my direction as she navigates the dunes.

  “Blake.” Her voice is a sigh and a longing and a plea.

  She flops down in a heap and leans her head on my shoulder. She smells like shampoo and sunlight, and she’s warm and soft. I stop breathing at the sudden intimacy of her touch.

  She’s here.

  McKenna’s delicate hand slides up my bicep and presses over the dips in my shoulder. “I—I think I need to go home.”

  I turn my mouth to her ear. Closer, closer. An inch away. “You want to see the fireworks?”

  She shakes her head, and a few strands of hair brush my lips. “Too sick,” she moans.

  Sorry, sweetheart, I want to say, but I keep my lips sealed around the words.

  I slide out from under her grip, then offer her my hand. When she slips her palm into mine, I tug gently, and that small motion sends her crashing against my chest.

  God, she’s gotta be smashed right now. Dammit.

  I place my hand on the small of McKenna’s back to guide her as we leave the beach. She struggles on the sand, and we abandon our flip flops at the edge of the dunes. We walk barefoot over the bumpy concrete toward home.

  The crowd on the street has mostly thinned out by now—everyone down at the beach for the fireworks, which have started to boom in the distance. But Mrs. Rosa still stands outside, chatting it up with another geriatric. She watches us walk into the house, and a prickling unease crawls up my back.

  If I were a smarter man, I’d snatch my hand away from McKenna, but right now she’s here and she needs me, so I don’t move.

  To her credit, she makes it all the way inside the house and into the bathroom before she pukes.

  “Oh, shit, McKenna,” I sigh.

  I kneel on the tile floor at her side and hold her hair out of her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and watery. Even now, so sick, she gives me a weak smile.

  “Not in their back pocket,” she says. “Not your babysitter.”

  She looks so damn earnest, trying to prove me wrong, and all my anger slips away. I want to haul her against my chest and hold her close to me. What the hell is happening? She’s knocking me sideways, and I’ve never felt more sober even though the whole world feels like it’s spinning.

  I tuck her hair behind her ear. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  She leans into my touch and looks at me with those blue eyes. “Forgive me?”

  Unable to help myself, I pull her into a hug and whisper into her hair. “Of course, Flower Girl. How could I not?” I’m so close I could kiss her, and I force myself to lean back. “Think you can make it to your bed?”

  “Can is a strong word.”

  “You should try to get some rest.”

  “Shoulds are no good,” she says, then breaks into a loopy smile. “Do you like that? It might be my new life motto.”

  I grin back at her. “I like it, Kenn. How about the couch? Think you could crash there?”

  “Does the couch come with a bucket?”

  “Yep. The hottest new home design trend.” I climb to my feet. “Wait here.”

  I grab a few pillows and a blanket from the hall closet, then head down to the ground floor and locate a bucket in the garage. I set up a makeshift bed on the couch, then return to the bathroom, where McKenna lies on the floor curled in a fetal position.

  I help her to her feet, slower this time, and walk her into the living room. I tuck her under the covers, and before I can turn to leave, she reaches for my hand.

  “Stay with me?” she whispers.

  I shouldn’t, but, god, I want to.

  “Please, Blake?” She takes back her hand and pats the couch beside her. “I need you.”

  Those three little words break me. They’re everything I need to hear.

  My body shakes with tension, and I hold my breath as I lie down next to her, as far away as I can get while sleeping on the same couch. It’s an exquisite kind of torture to hold back from a temptation that’s asking for you, that’s calling you by your name.

  Story of my life.

  McKenna turns to me and curls into my chest, tucking her head under my chin. Oh, shit. Oh, holy fuck.

  I’m going to hell for this, no doubt. But tonight s
he feels like heaven, and before I can pull away, she’s fast asleep.

  11

  McKenna

  July

  I wake up alone, with a memory of Blake’s arms wrapped around my body and the scent of his cologne lingering on the pillow next to my face. I wiggle further under the sheets and breathe deep, inhaling his scent. He was real. He wasn’t a dream.

  The ceiling fan over the couch spins in a lazy circle, streaming a welcome breeze against my heated cheeks. I’m still wearing my outfit from last night, that white tank top that I wore braless, and it’s plastered to my body with sweat. I am so not smooth.

  I press a hand against my forehead and moan. Everything hurts. Even if I wanted to have a tolerance for alcohol, which I don’t, I don’t have one anyway. I don’t drink, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or three. How the hell can people think drinking is a good idea? And what was I thinking? It was taunting Blake to do that to him—to drink in front of him like a dare. It wasn’t fair.

  The sad restraint and anger in his eyes come back to me, and I wince, which makes my head hurt that much more. He looked like wanted to punish me and take the shot from me in equal measure. But he still took care of me. Still slept with me. God, he was so close and I didn’t even get to enjoy it because I was too sick.

  I hear a noise outside the kitchen door, and a second later it cracks open. Blake walks inside in a halo of sunlight, takeout containers balanced in his strong hands.

  I sit up too fast, and the room spins. Only slow movements from here on out.

  “She lives,” Blake says with a wry twist of his lips.

  “Yes, but the quality of life is so very, very low.”

  “Cheer up.” He slides the takeout containers onto the kitchen tables. “I’ve got waffles.”

  I perk up. “Really?”

  “Yes, but it’s a limited-time offer.”

  I ease my legs over the side of the couch. “Why? Because you’re going to eat them all?”

  He shakes his head and flashes me a knowing grin. “No, because the ice cream is going to melt.”

  I don’t know what I did to deserve him right now, but my heart positively dances.

  Blake takes a seat and opens one of the containers, and the scent of hot, sweet waffles fills the air. “Get your ass up, princess,” he says around a mouthful of food.

  “If you insist.”

  I walk the twelve steps to the kitchen table and slump into my chair. A little packet of Alka-Seltzer sits next to my container of food, and I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger and lift my eyebrows at him.

  “Priorities,” he says.

  I tumble the pills into a large glass of water and swallow down the drink. When I’m finished, Blake slides me a set of plastic silverware.

  “How’d you get so good at hangover cures?” I ask.

  He gives a bitter smile. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  I cringe and look down into my waffles. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I was so, so stupid. Pretty sure I just played into the whole reckless college-kid stereotype, and that’s so not me.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his chewing slows.

  I take a bite of ice-cream-covered waffle, but it lodges in my throat, and I know I have to tell him.

  “I’m sure it’s no great surprise, looking at my mom, but my parents had me really young.” I can feel Blake’s gaze on me as I trail the edge of my fork through the vanilla ice cream in the container, but I don’t meet his eyes. “My mom was pretty brave about the whole thing, and she adjusted. She was an awesome mom, and she could turn the smallest thing into the biggest adventure.” I raise my eyes and find Blake staring at me patiently, waiting me out.

  “My dad, though, had wanted to finish out college and be this big football star, or whatever. He couldn’t figure out how to make it happen when I was around, so he dropped out of school. He ended up starting his own construction company, which he really loves now, but I think he was secretly happy for the long hours because it was an excuse to be away from me and my mom.” My chest hurts, and nausea from last night rolls low in my belly. “I feel like he always kind of resented me for taking away his dream.”

  My fingers feel numb, like I’m not even holding on to the fork anymore, and I grip it tighter just to feel the plastic squeeze in my hands.

  “He started drinking when I was five or six or something, but for me as a little kid, it felt like my whole life.”

  Across the table, Blake’s jaw tenses, something hard in his eyes. Does he think I’m judging him or looking down on his drinking?

  I scrape out my next words, unsure what Blake’s going to think of me. How he’s going to feel about me now. All I know is I owe him the whole truth. “To hear my mom say it, he wasn’t always mean. But all I remember was him trying to tear me down. Every time I accomplished something in school or brought home a new friend, there was always some dig, you know? I spent my whole life trying to please him, but it was never enough.”

  “God, Kenn,” Blake says, and he looks sick to his stomach.

  I let out a long, gusting sigh and give him a lopsided smile. “It’s okay. Humans are supposed to be real, not perfect. Anyway, it got better once he stopped drinking so much. My parents got divorced, and he cleaned up, and things between us improved. But I know how destructive alcohol can be, and I hate it. What you saw last night isn’t me. I just kind of needed you to know I’m not here to babysit you. We’re in this weird-ass summer together.”

  I hold Blake’s eye, needing him to know how important this is. “I know how hard addiction can be, and I’m not here to throw it back in your face. And I don’t normally drink.” I give him another small smile. “As you can guess, it makes me really popular in college.”

  Blake’s implacable facade finally softens. “For some reason, I don’t think you have any trouble getting people to like you.” I groan, and he points at my waffles. “Going to eat those?”

  I look down at the melting ice cream on top. Blake even had the restaurant add chopped strawberries and a pile of whipped cream. “Why?” I ask.

  “Because I’m still hungry.” He nudges his empty container with his fork.

  I let out a tiny laugh and cut my stack of waffles in half. I slide his container my way, then add the waffles to his dish and pass it back.

  We sit in silence for a minute, enjoying breakfast, and it feels good to not be fighting with him. To get things off my chest. The waffles make me feel marginally better, like the carbs have fortified my stomach.

  I eat as much as I can and then push my food away with a sigh.

  Blake glances at me, concern still wrinkling his forehead.

  God, I must really look like shit.

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a bit?” he says. “When you wake up, I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?”

  I can’t help the way my smile grows, the way my chest feels like flying. I shouldn’t be this happy right now, but I am.

  12

  Blake

  July

  I lift the squat bar from my shoulders and return it to the rack, my quads stinging and my glutes burned out. My heart pounds and sweat drips into my eyes, a sign of a good workout. I drag the back of my hand across my forehead, then use a towel to wipe down the gym equipment.

  Sandcastle Athletics is a little busier than it was the other day, now that it’s closer to noon. Guess everyone sleeps in here at the shore, but my body hasn’t yet adjusted to sleeping too long. And last night I barely slept, McKenna in my arms making it impossible to close my eyes. I still don’t know what the hell I was thinking, and I should regret it, but I don’t.

  It’s like McKenna said the other night—shoulds are no good. It’s kind of catchy if you think about it.

  I step away from the equipment, and when I turn, I find a teenage guy standing behind me.

  “Can you show me how to adjust the rack?” he asks.

  “Yeah, man.” I wave him o
ver and wait until he’s standing under the squat bar. “First thing you want to do is adjust it to your height. It’s definitely easier when there’s no weight on the sides.” I slip the weights off the bar and lower it on top of the safety spotters.

  I point at one of the upright poles on the steel frame. “The J-hooks on these are kind of funny. You have to slide them over, then up, to wiggle them out.”

  The kid’s a head shorter than me, and I help him adjust the hooks to shoulder height so he won’t have to strain to lift the squat bar onto his shoulders. Then I lift the bar so it’s racked on the J-hooks.

  “Now just add on as much weight as you need.”

  “Thanks,” he says, and I nod.

  Mirrors line the wall of the gym, and I keep an eye on the kid even when I’ve moved on to deadlifts. His knees buckle out to the sides as he squats, and I stop mid-set and walk back over to him.

  “You’re going to bust your knees if you turn them out like that. You want to sit back into the squat like you’re sitting in a chair.”

  “Okay, cool. Like this?” He executes another rep with better form, and I nod my approval.

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks.”

  I fall back into my workout, hoping that keeping count will help clear my mind. One, two, three more deadlifts, but the whole time, I’m thinking of McKenna back on the couch at home. That tank top skimming her body, the way she cracked open her heart for me today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her lie to me, which makes all the difference in the world.

  I wonder if she’s awake yet, if she’s missing me, if she knows how close she wiggled against my chest when she was half-asleep. Yesterday we fought like we mean something to each other, which is terrifying. But I can’t deny that part of me is attracted to her, body and heart.