The Square Root of Summer(57)

Like a comet, I know: that’s how you stop a wormhole, that’s the opposite of grief—love.

Before I can think about it, I twist round to kiss Thomas—and boink my head on his. There’s a crack like thunder as we connect. Stars everywhere. Nothing spacetimey, just pain.

“Ow.” He rubs his jaw, looking at me with concern. “Are you okay? Of course you’re okay, your skull’s made of concrete.”

“Me?” I twist around and prod him in the ribs. “That’s twice now, you’ve chinned me.”

Then I flatten out my fingers and try to read him like Braille. Scrunch his cardigan underneath my hands. How are you supposed to be best friends with someone when they’re a hundred and eighty miles away?

“Third time’s the charm?” Thomas offers, jutting his chin.

We’re still laughing when we start kissing, messy and clumsy and happy. Dizzy and smiling and tentative, figuring out a way towards each other. I didn’t know it could be like this.

“Ready to face the death metal?” I ask, when I can finally speak.

*

We kiss-walk-stumble the couple of hundred yards home hand in hand, so by the time we get there, the party is in full swing. We stand in the driveway, hiding behind Grey’s Beetle. The hood is vibrating with noise. My skin vibrates too. I’m pulsating—with Thomas’s kiss, with Papa’s revelations. With what’s to come. My head has started to throb again. I can’t let go of Thomas’s hand; it’s tethering me to the world.

“Is there any way,” he yells in my ear, “that we can get to your room without anyone seeing us?”

I wish. From what I can see of the garden, this is not Grey’s party. No one’s in a toga, for starters. And his style of debauchery was much more aren’t-tea-lights-everywhere-romantic?-oops-I’ve-accidentally-set-the-rhododendron-on-fire. The hundreds of different-colored balloons pay lip service to that idea—I half expect to see Papa floating about up there—but ultimately this is Ned and his mates, rocking out.

“C’mon.” I lead Thomas into the melee. Immediately, we’re in a throng of people. Niall pushes a plastic cup of beer into my free hand and I accept it. He says to someone else, “That’s Ned’s baby sister.”

After that, “Heys” follow us through the garden as we push our way through clumps of people. And out of the corner of my eye, a pool of darkness follows us too. A kiss wasn’t enough.

“Heeey.” This comes from Sof, a vision in gold who bursts through the crowd to hug me. I let go of Thomas’s hand to hug her back, surprised by her warmth. When she peels away, I see her cheeks are flushed and both her beehive and eyeliner are wonky. She’s got a beer in each hand.

She peers at my own half-empty cup as someone bumps into us and we stagger sideways. I feel a sudden emptiness. “Gottie! You need to catch up! Where’ve you been?”

“The bookshop. And Thomas and I—” I break off. I’ve lost him in the crowd. “Where is everyone?”

“You see all these people?” she stage-whispers. I can smell the beer on her breath. “They are everyone!”

“People I know.” I only know her and Thomas and the band. “Ned.” Talking makes me wince, the headache building up steam with all the noise, and maybe Sof notices, because she says, “Drink.”

I follow her instruction, downing my cup like a shot, and she says, “Whoa, actually, slow down. You’re not used to it.”

Her fussing reminds me of last summer. We were both the same year, weren’t we? Both finished with exams, out of school uniform forever. I already don’t have a mum; I don’t not need another one.

“Seriously, where’s Ned?” I drop my empty cup on the grass. Under a nearby shrub, the darkness slides into view. A little bigger than before. I turn away, picking up an unopened can that’s sitting on the bench. Someone says “Hey” and not in a “Hello” way, and I shoot a glance at them: “What?”

“That’s my beer,” says a boy I don’t know, gesturing to the can I’m opening.

I stare at him. He has a weird chin and I don’t know who he is and I don’t care. “I’m the baby sister,” I explain.

“Gottie!” says Sof. “What’s up with you? Ned’s setting up.”

“I’m going to find Thomas,” I tell her, walking off, pushing my way through all these people I don’t know.

Behind me, I can hear her apologizing to the boy whose beer I took. Whatever. I fight my way to the kitchen, then beyond that to the bathroom.

Inside, I lock the door and stuff a couple of aspirin in my mouth, then chug the beer. That’s the plan anyway, but I only manage about two gulps. I’m not used to it. Sof’s right. How predictably annoying.

My reflection throbs, pale and tired, and my stupid, wonky haircut sticks up in all the wrong places, until I can’t see it anymore because the mirror is an untuned television. I turn away and put the toilet seat down and sit on it, closing my eyes, but that just makes my stomach lurch and someone’s knocking on the door anyway. I force myself to finish the can, then I go back to the kitchen.

I scour the fridge. Thomas’s Black Forest gateau nestles pristine among six-packs. What would Grey drink? Something effervescent. I find an old bottle of sparkling wine at the back of the pantry and take a mug from the dresser. It’s a celebration, isn’t it? There should be champagne bubbles and dancing. Every year at this party, Grey would waltz me across the garden on his toes. I want to dance. I want to feel joy. I want to exist.