Every Summer After(46)

“I swear I don’t kick in my sleep,” I promised. His jaw twitched and he ruffled his hair again.

“Yeah, okay,” he said uneasily. “But I need to shower. I smell like onions and deep fryer grease.”



* * *





I BRUSHED MY teeth in the main floor bathroom and changed into the cotton shorts and tank top I usually slept in, arranged my hair in a thick braid, and then waited for Sam in his bedroom, which was neat and orderly even though he hadn’t planned on having a guest over. The photo of us sat on his desk, and Operation stood upright on the top of his bookshelf next to a photo of him with his dad. I had knelt down to get a better look at his set of Tolkiens when he came in, softly closing the door.

“I’ve never read these,” I said without looking up. He crouched down beside me and took out The Hobbit. His hair was damp and neatly combed off his face. He smelled soapy.

“I’m pretty sure you’d hate it, but you’re welcome to borrow it.” He handed me the book. “There’s a lot of singing.”

“Huh . . . I’ll give it a try, thanks.” We stood at the same time, and Sam loomed over me. When I looked up at him, he was turning a very pink shade of pink.

“That’s the shirt you wear to bed?” he asked. I looked down, confused. “It’s a little low from up here,” he croaked. The tank top was white with thin straps and, come to think of it, was kind of on the revealing side. A prickly heat climbed up my chest and neck.

“You could solve that problem by not looking down it,” I muttered, though a part of me—a big, hungry part—was thrilled. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up.

“Yeah, sorry. They were just . . . there.”

I eyed his cozy pants and T-shirt. It seemed like a lot of clothes for such a warm night. “Is that what you usually wear to bed?”

“Yeah . . . in the winter it is.”

“You do know it’s the middle of summer, right?” He shifted on his feet. It hit me then that Sam was nervous. Sam was almost never nervous.

“I’m aware. When it’s hot, I, uh”—he rubbed his neck—“I usually, you know, sleep in my boxers.”

“Okaaaay,” I murmured. “Sweats it is.”

We both looked over at the single bed. “This isn’t going to be weird, right?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said without confidence.

Sam folded back the navy-blue top sheet, and I climbed in. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was here. Should I face the wall? Or was that rude? Maybe I should lie on my back? I hadn’t made a decision when Sam sat down beside me, our bodies touching from shoulder to hip. I could smell his peppermint toothpaste.

“Do you want the light on to read?” He eyed the book I was still holding.

“I’m still pretty tired from the swim today, actually.” I passed him the paperback, and he placed it on the nightstand and shut off the lamp.

I decided lying on my back was best, and shuffled down the bed so my head was on the pillow. Sam followed suit. We were squished up against each other. I lay there with my eyes open for a good ten minutes, my heart racing and my skin sizzling everywhere it touched his.

“I’m really hot,” he whispered. Apparently neither one of us was sleeping.

“Just take off your sweats and the shirt,” I hissed. “It’s fine. I’ve seen you in your bathing suit. Boxers aren’t too different.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then wiggled his pants off and pulled his T-shirt over his head. I couldn’t tell, but I think he folded them before putting them on the floor. We were still both awake when Sam turned his head toward me, his breath hitting my cheek.

“I’m glad this isn’t weird,” he said. I burst out laughing. He tried to shush me through his own laughter, but that just set me off even more. He rolled over to face me, putting his hand over my mouth. Every cell in my body came to a halt.

“You’ll wake Mom, and, believe me, you don’t want to do that,” he whispered. “She was so tired she took her wineglass to bed with her.” He slowly took his hand away, and I fought the urge to put it back on my face. We lay there silently, him turned toward me, until he spoke.

“Percy?” he asked, and I rolled onto my side. I could barely make out the shape of his body—the nights up north gave new meaning to the word dark. “Do you remember when I told you about kissing Maeve?”

My heart picked up a pair of drumsticks.

“Yeah,” I murmured, not sure I wanted to hear what came next.

“It didn’t mean anything. I mean, I don’t like her like that.”

The question flew out like a reflex: “Why did you kiss her then?”

“We went to the end-of-year dance together, and the last slow song of the night was playing . . . and, I don’t know, it just seemed like the obvious move.”

“You asked her to the dance?” He had told me he went, but he didn’t say he had gone with a date.

“She asked me,” he clarified. “I know I didn’t tell you, but I figured we don’t really talk about this stuff. I wasn’t sure.”

I chewed on this for a second, then asked, “Was that your first kiss?” Sam was quiet. “You’re not going to tell me? You were there for mine.”