Every Summer After(70)

It turned out that Charlie was a lot less of a jerk without Sam around to harass. Much to my parents’ confusion, I decided to pick up extra shifts at the Tavern. Even when Charlie wasn’t working, he would give me a ride. Most days, he’d swim over when I was down at the lake to see how I was doing.

I was not doing well. More than a week had gone by without me hearing from Sam, even though he had finally got a cell phone before he left for Kingston. I knew he wouldn’t be big on texting, but I couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t responded to any of my HOW R U, I MISS U, and CAN U TALK??? messages. And when I called his dorm landline, he didn’t answer.

Charlie kept giving me questioning looks whenever I came into the kitchen to pick up an order. On the way home one night, he cut the motor in the middle of the lake and turned to face me.

“Spill it,” he ordered.

“Spill what?”

“I don’t know, Pers. You tell me. I know you’re bummed that Sam’s gone, but you’ve been moping around like Miss Havisham.”

“You know who Miss Havisham is?” I grumbled.

“Fuck off.”

I sighed. “I still haven’t heard from him. Not an email. No phone call.”

Charlie rubbed his face. “I don’t think he’s got his internet set up yet. And Mom told you he called home. He’s fine.”

“But why didn’t he call me?” I whined, and Charlie laughed.

“You know how expensive those long-distance calls are, Pers.”

“Or text?”

Charlie sighed, then hesitated. “Okay, you want to know what I think?”

“I don’t know, do I?” I narrowed my eyes. You never knew what you were going to get with Charlie.

“Honestly, I think my brother was a coward to keep the course a secret.” He paused. “And if it were me, I would have called you as soon as I got to Kingston.”

“Thanks,” I said, my face hot.

“Sam has it in his head that you belong to him. Not in a creepy possessive way, but it’s more like he has this belief that everything is meant to work out between you two in the end. And I think that’s pretty much bullshit.”

I blanched. “You don’t think it’s meant to work out?” I whispered.

“I don’t think anything is meant to be,” he said flatly. “He already screwed things up when you got that hockey player boyfriend. I hope he fights harder this time,” he said, starting the engine. “Or someone else will.”





15



Now

I sneak out to the car to reapply my makeup and have a few minutes alone. It’s bad enough having an attack in front of Sam and Charlie, but Jordie and Finn seeing me on my hands and knees is a special kind of humiliation. I’m frustrated with myself for not recognizing the signs early enough to find a quiet place to fall apart instead of what I did: jump to the conclusion that my heart was about to peace out on me, amping my panic up to one thousand.

I’m dotting on another round of concealer when my phone buzzes. The name on the screen is one I can’t ignore any longer.

“Hello?” I answer.

“P!” cries Chantal. “Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all day.”

I wince, remembering the message I sent her this morning. “Sorry. I, um, got a little caught up here. I’m . . .” I trail off, because I’m not sure what I am.

“Persephone Fraser, are you serious right now?” she screeches. “You can’t send me a text that says you need help, that you need to talk ASAP and then not answer your phone. I’ve been going nuts trying to reach you. I thought you had a panic attack and passed out in the woods somewhere and got eaten by a bear or a fox or something.”

I laugh. “That’s not far from the truth, actually.” I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen and then a glass being filled. Red wine, no doubt. She drinks red wine when she’s stressed.

“Do not laugh,” she huffs. Then adds more softly, “What do you mean that’s not far from the truth? Are you lost in the woods somewhere?”

“No, of course not. I’m in my car.” I hesitate.

“What’s going on, P?” Her voice has returned to its natural velvety texture.

I bite the inside of my cheek, then decide to rip the bandage off: “I had a panic attack. A little while ago at the wake. It’s not a big deal.”

“What do you mean it’s not a big deal?” Chantal erupts so loudly I lower the volume on my phone. “You haven’t had a panic attack in years, and now you see the love of your life for the first time in a decade at his mom’s funeral—a woman, who if I recall correctly from the handful of times you’ve told me about her, was kind of like a second mom to you—and now you’re having panic attacks at her wake, and it’s not a big deal? What about this isn’t a big deal?”

I splutter.

“P,” she says at a lower decibel but with no less force. “You think I don’t see you, but I do. I see how you keep almost everyone around you at a distance. I see how little you care about the pompous douchebags you date. And even though you’ve buried your shit with Sam under more piles of shit, I know this is a big fucking deal.”

This stuns me. “I thought you liked Sebastian,” I murmur.