Cool for the Summer

by Dahlia Adler

  “Did I?” she says, and maybe I’ve been breaking her heart, but the sadness in her voice cracks mine wide open. “It feels like I never had one at all.” She turns to walk away, and I don’t know what to say, but I know I don’t want her to go.

  Then she turns back.

  “Look, I should tell you—I’m bi. I was questioning it for a while, but when you came along this summer I felt like I finally knew for sure. And maybe for you, it was liking the taste of my cherry ChapStick or whatever. But even though this has all hurt like hell and honestly kind of sucks, it’s good to know for sure who I am. So, thank you, I guess.”

  She sounds so certain. She’s been certain, while I’ve been floating along, thinking we were both in the same weird and nameless territory of summer.

  I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t know what to think.

  I don’t know what I am.

  And it doesn’t matter, because she’s gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  I don’t go back into the dance. I can’t see Chase now, can’t prance around in a tiara, and I definitely can’t see Jasmine. Luckily, when someone does surface to find me in the hallway, it isn’t either of them—it’s Kiki.

  “You know,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “You always did, didn’t you? How?”

  Kiki taps her nose. “I have pretty excellent powers of deduction. Also, you stare at each other a lot when you think no one’s watching. Like, a lot. And a few of the things you’ve each said about your summers line up, and that fire pit picture you texted us—Jasmine has a really similar one on Instagram. Finally, I looked up her dad. It wasn’t hard from there.”

  “Kiki’s on the case.”

  She smiles proudly. “Always.” Her face turns serious. “Look, I know Chase has been the dream for literally ever, but … how do you feel? Unless you don’t wanna talk about it.”

  Do I wanna talk about it?

  How do I feel?

  THEN

  Carter’s end-of-summer party is a lot like his beginning-of-summer party, which doesn’t have anyone complaining. On the beach laughing and drinking and dancing and staring into the bonfire with everyone else, I know this is going to be the summer I think about a billion years from now. I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow. I can’t believe I won’t be living steps away from the ocean anymore. I can’t believe I’ll never fall off Derek’s Jet Skis again or get destroyed by Keisha and Carter at spades or have spa nights complete with Brea’s sheet masks.

  I can’t believe this is it for me and Jasmine.

  As much as I’ll miss everyone, it’s killing me that we’re spending our last night with a billion other people. I keep trying to make eye contact with her, but every time I do, she’s swept away by someone wanting her to play flip cup, or I’m yanked into a selfie by Owen or Brea. I keep wanting to drag her close, to imprint the feeling of her skin on mine, but I don’t have any excuses. My mind can’t come up with a single justification for why I need to grab her hand right now, or how to pull her away for a walk along the water, just the two of us.

  We’re all about the excuses, the setup, the ways we happen to fall onto each other’s mouths and hands. It’s just what happens when you’re hanging out alone and watching a movie, or swimming, or lying in the hammock together, or spreading out on the grass to watch the stars, or taking pictures of sunsets, or feeling lazy in a canoe.

  It’s just what happens for us over and over again and it’s so good I can’t stop thinking about it, wanting to kiss that spot on her neck, wanting to touch the incredibly soft skin on her shoulder blades, wanting to feel her hands tracing my hipbone on a path to making me see stars.

  How can I not have an excuse for our last night?

  Watching her flirt with Carter certainly isn’t helping any, so I decide to give myself a little breathing room and take that walk on the beach myself. I have my phone to keep me company, and I scroll through pictures hoping the sight of Gia smiling hugely from a pyramid at cheer camp or Shannon posting a picture with yet another cute Parisian guy will get me excited enough about what I’m going back to that I’ll stop being sad about what I’m leaving behind.

  But it’s Kiki’s latest post that stops me. She’s been working on her lettering, writing cheesy quotes in funky fonts and posting them to Instagram. Her newest is “Seize the Day,” written in swirly hot pink gothic letters, and it’s such an un-Kiki quote that it makes me laugh.

  I’m still laughing when I take its completely cliché advice and retrace my steps on the beach right back to the party, to Jasmine, and whisper in her ear.

  “Look, I don’t have a clever way to say this, but it’s my last night, so I’m going to set the bullshit aside. The only thing I want to do tonight is go back to your house and take our clothes off. Can I say that?”

  For the longest minute in the world, I brace myself for a literal or metaphorical slap in the face, or worse. The words came out easily enough, but my entire body is trembling. Then she squeezes my hand and like magic it stops, long enough for me to make my rounds hugging and kissing everyone goodbye when Jasmine announces that we’re heading back. I make promises to text and otherwise keep in touch but I barely even know what I’m saying because I’ve just flat-out told a girl I want to have sex with her and we’re on our way to do that and I feel like I’m gonna burst into flames.

  We don’t say a word on our way back. We don’t say a word when we crash into each other the second we make it inside the house, kissing so furiously I expect one of us to draw blood. There’s no talking as we pull at each other’s clothing and fall onto her bed, shutting and locking the door behind us.

  There’s no talking, but it isn’t silent either. For the first time, I don’t waste precious energy holding in every desperate sound that rises into my throat at the scrape of her nails on my skin. I make no effort to hold still against the way her teeth have me writhing on the sheets. This is the most in the moment I have ever been, and with every gasp of air I’m grateful for the scrap of honesty that got us here.

  Beyond that, I’m not doing any thinking.

  Her breathing goes fast and shallow as I kiss and touch down her body to her hip bones, and look up for an okay for more even though I’m not a hundred percent sure that I’m okay. Her nodding is fast and furious but it’s the sight of her hands grasping the sheets with white-knuckled fists in anticipation that halts any hesitation I might’ve had at venturing into new territory.

  It isn’t silent, not when she cries out minutes later, and not when our bodies find new ways to fit and rock together, and not when we grasp each other so tightly we leave claw marks in each other’s skin. Every time I think we can’t get any closer, I learn I’m wildly underestimating us. We spend so many tangled and sweaty hours exploring each other that I’m not even sure at what point I finally pass out.

  * * *

  It takes a second for the night to come rushing back, for me to remember why I’m completely naked in Jasmine’s bed and clutching a sheet around myself. I spent last night having sex—so much sex, incredible sex—with a girl. A girl I’m leaving behind today when my mom and I fly back to New York.

  A girl I might never see again.

  A girl who might’ve left me behind first.

  Then I hear the clanging of pans out in the kitchen, and I’m filled with mixed emotions as I think about seeing Jasmine again after last night. But I only have a few hours left, and I still need to pack, so I’ll take being uncomfortable if it means I’m not missing my chance to say goodbye entirely.

  I rummage around on the floor for my bra and underwear and grab shorts and a T-shirt from Jasmine’s drawers—I’ve certainly spent enough of this summer lifting her clothing. But I still think oh, shit when I walk out of her room and see she’s not alone in the kitchen—Declan’s with her, sipping from a mug of coffee.

  “Larissa! I thought you’d be packing.”

  I don’t even know what to say. Jasmine and
I have had plenty of sleepovers this summer but for some reason I am convinced he can tell I slept with his daughter last night in a very, very different way. I will my tongue to unstick itself but can’t seem to get a single word out.

  “We wanted to hang out after the party, and Larissa fell asleep. I couldn’t, so I let her have the bed and passed out watching a movie on the couch,” Jasmine explains, pushing scrambled eggs around a skillet. “These are just about done, Dad.”

  There’s no invitation for me to stay, and I really do have to pack, so I say my goodbyes and a lukewarm thank-you to Jasmine for letting me stay over.

  We don’t talk when we hug goodbye.

  It is, in fact, silent.

  Later, at the airport, she texts me a single heart emoji. I text her one back.

  It’s the last we ever speak until she shows up at Stratford High.

  NOW

  Do I wanna talk about it?

  How do I feel?

  “She thinks she’s in love with me.”

  Kiki smiles without any trace of sarcasm. It’s weird and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that on Kiki’s face and I’m not sure what to do with it. “How’d hearing that feel?”

  The first word that comes to mind is confusing. I didn’t think love was in the equation. I didn’t think feelings were even an option. I don’t know what being in love means to her, and I definitely don’t know what it means to me. I thought I was in love with Chase all those years, but that wasn’t this. That made me feel feverish and ridiculous and like I wanted to follow him everywhere, to have done all these things with him.

  But now I’ve done so many of those things, and it feels like what I did was check off a list.

  With Jasmine, I don’t have a list. And I don’t want to follow her anywhere; I want to go everywhere together. I want to do things with her. I want us to make that list.

  My feelings for her are so different from what I thought love was, but does that mean it’s not love? Does that mean it is love?

  “God, I don’t know.”

  Kiki tugs one of my curls. “I may not have any relationship experience, but I’m pretty sure that’s okay. It is for tonight, at least. Look—you’re Homecoming queen, and ditching Chase would be kinda public and humiliating. I don’t think you’re really looking to do that.”

  “Definitely not,” I say quickly, my stomach sinking at the thought. “Chase has been amazing, and he’s having such a good time.”

  “Well, you deserve that too. Jasmine is already gone—she called an Uber. So, here’s what I think. Let’s finish out the night. Let’s go have fun. No big decisions, no deciding your romantic future, no stress. Just dancing and drinking and having one last big high school night. Tomorrow, you can deal. What do you think?”

  I think … it feels like finally taking a breath. “I’m in.”

  “Well, that is delightful,” says Kiki, linking her arm through mine, “because I am currently down a date and I could use the company.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Dealing” starts earlier than I expect it to, because when my mom wakes me up with a dish of pickled cucumbers—her surefire hangover cure—I know I’m in trouble. “Enough sleeping. Eat, Dotchka,” she says, holding it close enough to my nose to make me gag.

  “Mama—”

  “Don’t ‘Mama’ me when you are still passed out at two in the afternoon the day after a dance at which there isn’t supposed to be any drinking. Now eat.”

  I hate to admit it, but they work. “Did you really think there wasn’t going to be any drinking at Homecoming? Besides, none of us were driving—the limo brought me home.”

  “At what time?”

  I mumble “3:00 a.m.” as quietly as I can, but she catches it anyway.

  “Three?! Bozhe moi. Lara. There’s a reason you have a curfew, and I think it’s a pretty generous one—”

  “If you wanted me to take the limo and stay safe with my friends, I couldn’t come home until everyone else was,” I point out. In truth, I have no memory of what we were doing until that time, but judging by the gross, fuzzy taste in my mouth, it involved a lot of vodka. “Anyway, I’m home. Safe. And eating pickled cucumbers.” I take another one, as if it’ll make the argument for me.

  She raises one of her eyebrows. “I take it you had fun.”

  Did I have fun? I know I did all the things that are supposed to be fun. I danced and played drinking games and took a thousand pictures in my tiara.

  I also know I avoided fooling around with Chase as much as possible and spent most of the night thinking about Jasmine until I drank enough to stop thinking about anything at all.

  “I won queen,” I say instead of answering her question.

  “And was that fun?” she asks, because my mother is very smart.

  I hug my covers to myself. I want to tell my mom the truth. I want to tell her about Jasmine and how confused I am, and I want her to stroke my hair and call me Larotchka and tell me everything is gonna be okay and to just listen to my heart.

  I want to, but I am fucking terrified.

  “Of course,” I lie.

  My mother always knows when anything less than the truth is falling from my lips; it’s why I have to text if I’m being slightly dishonest about where I’m gonna be. My face shows everything. And I wonder what it’s showing that’s making her give me that “Oh, honey” look.

  But she doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand.

  And I fall apart.

  My mother holds me while I cry into her shoulder, not moving even when I’m definitely getting snot all over her shirt. The hair stroking I’d been hoping for happens like clockwork, and I know that I’m running the risk of feeling it for the last time.

  I can’t bear that.

  My mother is pretty literally my everything. It’s why I barely complained about going to North Carolina for the summer. It’s why I didn’t argue with my father about me going to a state school. It’s why I’ve never fought her having full custody.

  It’s why I have to tell her the truth, even though the very thought sends me into another round of tears.

  “Larotchka, what happened? Did he hurt you?”

  That’s enough to make me pick up my head and wipe my nose. “No, God. No. Chase was great. Chase is always great. It’s me. I’m a mess.”

  “You’re not a mess; you’re my wonderful daughter who is not fully escaping punishment for missing curfew, but that’s beside the point for now.” She gently wipes a tear from my cheek with a neatly manicured fingernail. “What’s going on?”

  I take a deep breath, and another, until I can talk without breaking into sobs. “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to hate me.”

  She looks like I’ve slapped her, which makes me feel worse. “You are my daughter. You are my whole heart, Larotchka. I could never.” She squeezes my hands so hard it’s like she’s trying to push that fact into my skin.

  “I … there’s someone. Not Chase. Not … not a boy.” I exhale slowly. “I met a girl. She’s not my girlfriend or anything, but I think … I think that I want her to be. And I think she wants that too. And I know we’ve never talked about anything like this, but I didn’t—”

  Her fierce hug cuts me off and sets off a fresh round of tears, her whispered “Larotchka” ruffling my mess of curls. “Bozhe moi, you had me so worried. This—happiness—is a good thing. Someone who loves you is what I want for my daughter.”

  I didn’t think I could clutch my mother any tighter, but I’m pretty sure I’m leaving claw marks in her back. “You’ve always told me how traditional baba Mila and deda Tolya are, how mad they were when you had me without marrying Dad. I didn’t know how much tradition was in you too.”

  “Do I seem traditional, Dotchka?”

  “Well, there’s a dish of pickled cucumbers in my bed, so, yes?”

  She laughs gently, releases me, tucks one of my messy curls behind my ear. “Some things about Russia, they stick. Their laws on gay p
eople, not so much. But I have to admit I am surprised after so many years of hearing about the legend of Chase Harding.”

  The mere mention of Chase, the knowledge that I have to tell him, makes me want to be sick all over again in a way Mama’s top remedy can’t cure. “It wasn’t a lie,” I assure her. “I’m not gay. I’m not sure what I am. I just know that this one girl makes me feel … everything. The rest, I’ll have to figure out.”

  “You have plenty of time for that.” She drops a kiss on the top of my head. “How about we have a girls’ day? I’ll get some ice cream and we can watch movies and put on those ridiculous face masks.”

  God, that sounds good. “Yes. Please. But I have to do something first.” There’s no point in putting off telling Chase. Whatever happens with Jasmine, he deserves to spend his senior year of superstardom with a girl who’ll appreciate him. And I’m no longer that girl. “I’ll come back right after, okay?”

  She nods, knowing exactly where I’m going. “I’m proud of you, Lara.”

  “I’m pretty proud of me too,” I say honestly, “even if this feels kind of horrible.” I get up to get ready, turning away, and something hits me.

  She hasn’t asked about the girl.

  She didn’t say we’d watch movies while I tell her all about the person who’s stolen my heart. She didn’t ask who could’ve possibly made me forget about Chase Harding. Is that her way of giving me privacy? Or is this her way of keeping it—the truth of me—at a distance?

  I want to say something, but I can’t. I don’t know if Jasmine told her parents the real reason she wanted to spend the year with Declan. What if she didn’t? I can’t put my mom in the position of keeping this secret from her dad, and I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one who outs Jasmine either. What if—

  “He feels the same way I do, in case you’re wondering,” Mama says softly to my back. “He and Sylvia both do.”

  I turn slowly back around. “You knew.”

  She shakes her head. “Not exactly. I knew there was something special between you. I saw the way you were together. I saw you turn into a happier, more confident person around her. You wear your love for each other plain as day. I just didn’t know what kind of love. Now I do.”