Sixteenth Summer

by Michelle Dalton

  I skimmed the ingredients: honey, orange zest, a little almond oil, maybe some crushed pistachios.

  If I wasn’t exactly moved, I wasn’t repelled either. I might have even been a tiny bit intrigued. It wasn’t a bad idea, if I could pull it off. We had all the ingredients. I could make up the custard now, chill it overnight, and churn it up tomorrow.

  With nothing else to do (believe me, nothing), I went downstairs to start separating the eggs.

  By the next day, I’d really settled into my new routine. Open eyes around ten, lie in bed staring through skylight until the sun rises high enough to blind me, then roll reluctantly out of bed for a day of reading and weeping.

  The wrench in this day’s plan, though, was Caroline. She arrived at nine, hauled me out of bed, and stuck a slice of toast in my hand. Then she barely gave me a chance to brush my teeth before she brutally kidnapped me.

  When I stumbled outside with her, I blinked at the stuff piled in a trailer attached to Caroline’s bike. In addition to a metal tackle box, a plastic cooler, and a bulging backpack, I saw …

  “What are those?” I said, my voice full of apprehension.

  “Fishing poles,” Caroline said with a grin. “My dad’s and my brother’s.”

  “We don’t fish,” I pointed out dully.

  “We do now,” Caroline said with a grin. “I hear it’s meditative.”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, no,” I protested. “I tried meditating yesterday and almost asphyxiated from all the bleach.”

  “Okay, I’m not going to even ask you to explain that one,” Caroline said. She fetched Allison Porchnik from beneath the screened porch and wheeled her over. “Hop on.”

  Within a few minutes we were sitting at the very end of the pier that jutted off the North Peninsula. I had to admit, after being such a shut-in, hovering out there over the gently lapping waves was blissful, even in the sweltering August heat.

  I closed my eyes to soak in the sun for a moment while Caroline began unloading all her equipment.

  “What are we going to use to catch these alleged fish?” I asked. “Did you dig for worms or something?”

  “Oh my God, Anna. I don’t even eat fish and I know that saltwater fish don’t like worms,” Caroline blustered. “They eat other fish.”

  She flipped open the cooler to reveal a plastic bag filled with raw fish chunks.

  “Ugh,” I said, putting a hand on my stomach. Caroline looked a little green too, but her stubbornness beat out her many food aversions.

  “Come on,” she said. “We’re doing this.”

  We actually started laughing as we picked up the disgusting fish chunks and awkwardly threaded them onto the hooks.

  “How is it that we’re expert ghost crabbers and clam diggers,” I asked, “but we’ve never been fishing?”

  Caroline shrugged and grinned as we got to our feet to clumsily cast our lines into the ocean.

  I sat back down and propped my fishing pole on the rail of the pier.

  “Okay, what do we do now?” I asked.

  “I guess we just sit here and wait for a nibble,” Caroline said. “Pretty lousy excuse for a sport, huh? That’s why we’ve never been fishing.”

  “Mmm,” I said. Now that we were past the giddy novelty of this expedition, I was quickly swinging back to my previous state—tragic and dreary. I drew my knees up beneath my chin, wrapping my arms around my shins. I sighed a shaky, on-the-verge-of-tears sigh.

  “It’s seriously annoying how much I’ve cried in the past few days,” I complained. “I mean, I’m not—”

  “—a crier. I know,” Caroline finished for me. “But sometimes you’ve just got to cry until you’re done.”

  That did it. I buried my face in my knees and wept. Caroline’s sympathetic hand on my back only made me cry harder.

  “If I’d known how awful it would be to say good-bye to him,” I sobbed, “I never would have gone out with him in the first place.”

  “No, no,” Caroline insisted softly. “You won’t always feel that way. You know that saying, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost …’”

  I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and wailed, “I always thought that saying was a load of crap.”

  Caroline gave a quick snort before slapping a hand over her mouth.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, looking at her through what felt like a river of tears. “You’re lucky you never have to know what this feels like—”

  Suddenly I stopped my soggy rant. I wasn’t the only one with boy troubles, I remembered. I hadn’t even asked Caroline what had been happening with Sam lately.

  Between sniffles and hiccups, I said, “So are things still weird with you guys?”

  Caroline allowed a small smile.

  “Actually, the other night,” she said, “we had our first good, meaty talk in ages. Maybe because we were just sitting on the beach eating huge, sloppy, sno-cones instead of doing the whole Dinner at Eight thing.”

  “That’s good,” I said, nodding as I blew my nose in my orange wrap.

  Caroline smiled a little wider, then fiddled with the handle of her fishing pole.

  “Sam finally came out and told me how much pressure he’s been feeling to make this relationship perfect,” she said. “So I told him that perfect is not only an illusion, it’s just no damn fun.”

  “Good answer.” I actually laughed a little. “So … what now?”

  “I don’t know,” Caroline said. “I guess we just wait and see. I’m hoping this is sort of like growing out a short haircut. You know if you can just stick it out, you’ll be rewarded with long, lustrous locks. Or you could freak out and chop it all off. I’m trying for the long and pretty hair.”

  “Somehow I actually understood that metaphor,” I said. I smiled, if wanly, rubbed the last bit of moisture out of my eyes, then grabbed my sports bottle and held it out toward Caroline.

  “Here’s to long, lustrous locks,” I said.

  She grinned and bumped her sports bottle against mine, making a plastic thunk. We both took big swigs of iced tea.

  Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I looked around.

  “What’s that sound?” I wondered.

  ZZZZZZZZZZ!

  Caroline gasped, jumped to her feet, and pointed at my pole.

  “Fish!” she shrieked.

  “Oh my God!” I cried. I’d forgotten all about our proppedup poles. Whatever it was at the end of my line was pulling so hard, it was threatening to take the pole with it. I grabbed it just in time and scrambled to my feet.

  “What do I do?” I yelled.

  “Turn the handle thingie!” Caroline said. She was gasping with laughter now. “Reel it in.”

  I started to crank the handle backward. The fish was really tugging.

  “It’s big!” I cried. “Help me hold this pole. I’m freaking out here.”

  Caroline grabbed the pole and I reeled. I reeled and reeled and reeled, but the fish didn’t seem to be coming any closer. I peered into the water and didn’t see a thing.

  “You want some help with that? You’re about two reels away from breaking your line.”

  Caroline and I peeked over our shoulders.

  “Sam!” Caroline squeaked.

  “Sam,” I huffed. “Take this thing, please!”

  Somehow, Caroline and I maneuvered the pole into Sam’s hands. With some mysterious rhythm, he began pulling at the pole, letting the line zing out, then reeling it back in. At the same time, he chatted with us as if this was the most normal situation in the world.

  “Hey, baby,” he said to Caroline. “So is this spontaneous enough for you? It doesn’t get any less formal than this, am I right?”

  Caroline grinned and gave Sam a kiss on the cheek.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  They didn’t make a big deal out of the fact that, instead of orchestrating some big date night, Sam had moseyed down to the beach just like old times. That he seemed more comfortable in his skin t
han he had in a long time. And that Caroline was looking at him the way she had when they’d first gotten together.

  I think maybe they got over themselves, I told myself.

  Sam finally pulled a thrashing, foot-long fish out of the water.

  “Redfish!” he announced, exchanging a gleeful smile with Caroline. “Good one!”

  I felt myself choke up again, this time from sentimentality. A dull glow of happiness for my friends was bumping up against my own shadowy sadness.

  Perhaps it had made a small dent.

  But despite Sam and Caroline’s sweet efforts, the emptiness I felt in the wake of Will remained.

  When I got home, I quickly retreated to my new normal—me brooding on the screened porch while my brother and sister played a noisy prebedtime game of hide-and-seek upstairs.

  My parents had given me several nights off from work, but I decided that I would head back the next day. Even if the idea of being out among people (read, couples) kind of made me want to walk straight into a riptide, anything would be better than another night stewing alone at home.

  Of course, I still had this night to get through. A few ping-ping-pings of rain on the porch’s tin roof, along with a distant rumble of thunder, were encouraging. A big ol’ storm would suit my mood.

  The rain’s gentle patter quickly became an onslaught.

  I got off the porch swing and pressed myself against the screen to catch a whiff of it. The rain smelled dark and acrid as it steamed up the clay and gravel in our driveway. In a few more minutes, I knew, it would start smelling green, as the parched trees and grasses began soaking up the water and coming back to life. When everything had been completely saturated, the night would smell blue. Clean. Renewed.

  I wanted to enjoy it. Or anything for that matter. But I felt as flat as a pancake.

  When I decided to go ahead and freeze the ice cream I’d mixed the night before, it was only because it would kill a half hour. I found myself wondering if the rest of the summer was going to be like this—incrementally trying to fill the Will-free hours.

  I went back inside and got the Greek Holiday mix out of the fridge, then pulled the ice cream churn from the pantry. But just as I was plugging it in—zap!

  The power went out.

  I heard a screech from my siblings upstairs, followed by my mother laughing to calm their nerves. Then there was that eerie silence that happens only during a power-out. No humming appliances, no thrumming air conditioner, no ticking oven timer, no nothing.

  “Seriously?” I sighed.

  It seemed a perfect excuse to just give up and go to bed.

  Instead, I glared stubbornly at the plastic container of luscious-looking custard. Then I went back to the pantry. I grabbed the flashlight from the hook on the door, then dug our manual ice cream churn, along with a box of rock salt, out of a dusty corner.

  After all, why snuggle up in my nice comfy bed when I could engage in the self-flagellation that was hand churning ice cream?

  I pulled some ice out of the dark freezer, then brought the whole business outside. I set up the churn on the front steps, where I could get a prime view of the rain from under the eaves.

  Then I started cranking.

  I almost didn’t notice that I’d started crying again. I suppose that was my new normal too. Through my tears I watched the rain puddle in the dirt and splash my outstretched feet. It made Figgy Pudding’s tired leaves do little shimmies; made them shine like they had on the Fourth of Jul—

  I closed my eyes, leaned my forehead on my knees, and stopped cranking.

  Now I’d gone and done it.

  I’d gone back to that night.

  So many of my dates with Will had seemed charmed, even the completely dorky ones like that putt putt golf outing.

  But the Fourth of July had been more than charmed. It had been magic.

  That was the night I’d fallen in love with Will.

  I’d realized this—that I loved Will—a while ago, but I’d never put it so bluntly into words, even in my own mind.

  But now, as I stared at the fig tree and remembered the way we’d leaned against its trunk, kissing and kissing and never wanting the night to end, suddenly the words were there.

  I almost said them out loud: I am in love with Will Cooper.

  Caroline had been right. There’d been no earth-shaking sign of it. No before and after. It was just a feeling that suffused my entire body, the way a hot bath warms you from the inside out on a chilly night.

  “What did I do?” I murmured. “Why did I let him go?”

  I’d told myself so many times since that horrible night of the turtle hatching that I’d done the smart thing, pushing Will away before he could leave me. That I was taking care of myself.

  But if that was true, why was I so broken? So pathetic?

  My tears were angry now. I stamped my foot on the rain-slick steps, spattering myself with water and sand. I went back to cranking the stupid ice cream. I wanted to crank until I got blisters on my palms.

  In truth, I wanted to scream my frustration out into the rain, but I knew that would only bring my mother running down the stairs to see what was wrong. So instead I cranked harder, almost glad to feel tender welts begin to rise up at the base of my fingers. As I cranked, I stared out at Figgy Pudding, awash in blissful, painful memory.

  And that’s when everything stopped—the scenes running through my head, my hand on the ice cream churn, and I’m pretty sure, for an instant, my heartbeat.

  Because just beyond the fig tree, at the end of the driveway, a figure had appeared—on a chunky red bike named Zelig.

  Will rode toward me, his hair rain-plastered, his T-shirt drenched, and his face looking both hopeful and tortured. His eyes looked about as puffy as mine felt.

  I don’t remember running down the stairs to the driveway. In hindsight, I’m surprised I didn’t fall on the slippery steps and break an ankle.

  But somehow, in an instant, there I was. With Will. Rain pelted down on me, soaking me almost immediately. I barely noticed it, much less cared.

  Will stumbled off his bike and let it fall to the ground without bothering to kickstand it. Then he stood before me, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

  For a long moment we just stared at each other. Looking at his face, I felt like I was getting my first bite of food after starving for days.

  “I missed you,” Will said. His voice sounded raspy and he was still breathing hard from his bike ride.

  I couldn’t talk at all, so I just nodded hard.

  I reached out to touch his arm, then pulled my hand back again. I’d just been telling myself that I’d been right to end things with Will. Completely miserable, but right.

  So now I didn’t know what to do.

  Will, however, seemed to have arrived with a plan.

  “Anna, I’ve thought and thought about this,” he said. “And being apart now isn’t better than seeing this through the summer. Because this is a breakup.”

  Hearing Will use that term—“breakup”—made tears spring to my eyes again. Over the past few days, I hadn’t ever used that expression because it had seemed so melodramatic and ugly.

  But Will was right. Melodramatic and ugly was exactly what this was.

  “If we stayed together,” Will said, “we would have to say good-bye at the end of the summer, yes. But we’d be saying good-bye to something amazing, Anna. Something happy.

  “But this?”

  Will held his hands out, his palms turned upward.

  “This feels awful.”

  “You’re right,” I said through the lump in my throat. “Terrible.”

  “And do you know why?” Will said.

  I shook my head, confused.

  “Because, Anna …”

  I saw a flicker of fear in Will’s eyes. He looked downward for a moment, the same way he had the other night after the turtle watch. He was considering his next words very carefully.

  When he looked up, he took a s
wift step toward me. He put a hand on each of my cheeks and gently lifted my face so that we were gazing into each other’s eyes.

  “I love you,” he said. He almost yelled it. “And I know that sounds crazy. That’s what you say at the beginning of something, not when it’s almost reached its end. But—I don’t care. I just want to be with you. Maybe it’ll only be for these next few weeks. Maybe it’ll be forever. We can’t know what’ll happen, Anna. All I know is I love you and … we should be together. We just have to be together. We need to be together.”

  I began to sob. I lifted my hands and put them over Will’s, which were still cupping my face. His skin was warm beneath the chill of the rain.

  And then I was kissing Will; crying and kissing him all at the same time. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the ground. All the hurt and confusion and regret of the past few days flowed off us along with the rain.

  When we pulled apart, I turned my face toward the sky, gasping as cold droplets landed in my eyes and mouth and even my ears.

  Then, suddenly, my crying turned into laughter. Incredulous, grateful laughter.

  I was getting a second chance.

  Will was right. Being with him now was worth braving the uncertain future.

  This was worth it.

  I blinked the rain away, gripped Will by the shoulders, and said, “I love you, too, Will.”

  Will grabbed me again, so hard it took my breath away, and buried his face in my neck. I felt his shoulders shake for just a moment before his lips were on mine again.

  And these kisses weren’t about cleansing away our hurt, or healing the rift between us. They were simply, and happily, about sealing the deal—Will and I were together again, for however long we had.

  Like Will had said, that was an amazing and happy thing. I was finally and absolutely certain of it.

  I just knew.

  I wanted to do so many things with Will before he left. I wanted to walk through all twenty-four of Savannah’s historic squares. I wanted to go back to The Swamp, play nothing but slow songs on the jukebox, and dance to them. I was going to teach Will how to eat crawdads, head sucking and all. I was going to invite him to family dinners and private picnics. Or maybe we’d just skip some meals altogether and proceed directly to making out (plus ice cream).