The Square Root of Summer(64)

For a second, everything’s fine. This used to happen every day last autumn, until Jason, and then not sleeping altogether. There’d be a brief, delirious moment after I woke when I’d have no memory of what had happened. A garden full of laundry, Hey, Grey’s home. Then it comes roaring back.

Memories flood the room. Papa’s confession. Kissing Thomas. Stomping around the party, drunk and belligerent. Hiding from the wormhole. Trying to have sex with Thomas. Thomas saying no. I cringe under my duvet, but my brain won’t let me hide: Sof yelling. Ned yelling. The tap exploding. Meg telling everyone about me and Jason. Our fight. Thomas running away.

And the last wormhole. This is what this whole year’s been about. That wish, that stupid Viking wish. Who did I think I was, playing God?

Grey is dead and I wished it, I wished it, I wished it. And don’t tell me wishes aren’t real, because I’ve seen the stars go out and watched numbers fall like rain. It’s as real as the square root of minus fifteen. But, oh—it was only for a split second

and

I take it back!

I want to yell. I want to claw through the earth with my bare hands, screaming for him to come home. I want to bury this memory deep and never visit its grave. I want a hundred thousand million things, but mostly, stupidly, hopelessly, I want him not to be dead.

I cry till I’m raw, fat hot tears of self-pity. I cry till I’m forcing it, till my throat hurts, punishing myself. Then I lie in bed, scratchy-eyed, watching the early-morning light deepen and take on the color of the day. As the sun filters through the ivy, guilt slowly washes over me. And it brings me to shore.

The worst is over, and I’ve survived.

I’ll never reconcile myself over Grey’s death. Over the wish I made. But I can get out of bed. I can yank open the window, breaking through the ivy, and throw open the door—the room is hot and stuffy and green, and I want air and light.

When I stumble outside, the garden is all aftermath: empty bottles and beer cans wink from the grass, and there’s a table lamp in the plum tree. I lift it down and tuck it under my arm, heading for the kitchen.

Ned’s already there, mopping. He’s dressed down in black leggings and a giant, moth-eaten jumper. I recognize it as one of Grey’s—Ned said he took the clothes to a charity shop in town, but clearly he kept some. His hair is subdued under a beanie.

I knock on the door frame, unsure whether I can come in. “How bad is it?”

He looks up, green-faced. Too hungover to take a photograph of my dishevelment. “You mean Papa? Or this?”

“This” is the puddle of water that covers the floor. It looks worse than I remember from last night: the color of Sof’s mum’s vegan soup, topped with cigarette butt croutons. The chairs are stacked upside down on the table, café-style. I peer through them, stupidly hoping to see a loaf of bread or a pile of pastries.

“You can come in,” says Ned. He sounds amused. “You can’t make it dirtier.”

I put the lamp down and splosh inside, my sneakers instantly soaking. A disgruntled Umlaut sits on top of the woodpile, surveying Waterworld. The sitting room door is closed, which I hope means the destruction is limited to the kitchen. And that Thomas isn’t going to come in and help. My stomach twists as I think about facing him.

I pick up an empty can that floats by, and stand there with it, waiting for Ned to tell me what to do. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Tea. Always start with tea,” the expert advises.

I splash my way to the kettle, which is thankfully full—the tap is swathed in brown parcel tape like an amputated limb. By the time it boils and I’m rummaging for milk, you’d barely know anything had happened here. Only the tap and a garbage bag of bottles are evidence.

“Where is Papa?” I ask Ned, handing him a mug.

He slurps his tea, not answering.

“Are you not speaking to me?”

“Grots,” Ned sighs. “Meet hangovers. Talking’s like red-hot pokers.”

“Are you annoyed at me?” I’m stubbornly stuck on this point, I don’t think I can bear it if Ned’s still angry at me.

“’Course not. Like I said last night, you ignore me all year, all summer—”

“Me?” I’m incredulous. “What about you?”

“What about me? I’ve been here, in case you haven’t noticed. Fixing your bike, making dinner, rehearsing, whatever. I’m always around. But you’re not—you stare into space, or creep around in your room avoiding everyone, you upset Sof on a weekly basis. Then Thomas bats his glasses at you, and you’re all smiles—don’t get me wrong, that’s great, I’m glad you’re happy—except you refuse to get involved with Grey’s party, you won’t even talk about it, then you show up and bellow at us all for no reason … Never mind. ’Course I’m not annoyed at you.”

“Oh.” After last night’s shouting, I’m awash with relief.

“That was sarcasm, you idiot.” He laughs, plonking his mug down on the table. “Look, I know you hate it when I play the three-years-older card, but—”

“Two years and one month,” I correct automatically.

“Same dif,” he snorts. “I think you could be nicer to Sof. I think you should’ve come to me when Jason was sniffing around. But I also think it was probably nuts being here this year with just Papa for company. Maybe I should have come home at Easter. I get how hard it is, I do. It was shit, moving to London a week after he died. You’re not the only one who was upset, y’know? Maybe in two years and one month, you’ll see that a bit better.”