Every Summer After(72)

“So tell us about these panic attacks, Pers. You a head case or what?” Charlie asks.

“Charlie.” Sam’s voice is hard as concrete.

When I look in the rearview mirror and meet Charlie’s eyes, there are no sparkles of mischief, only soft concern.

“They let me out just for the funeral,” I tell him, and he laughs but the lines between his eyebrows have become canyons. “I have a bit of an anxiety thing,” I say, looking back out at the road. I wait for the pressure to build up in my lungs, but it doesn’t, so I keep going. “I can usually manage it. You know—therapist, breathing exercises, mantras—the basic self-care practices of a privileged white girl. But sometimes the anxious thoughts get a bit out of control.” I find Charlie in the mirror again and smile gently. “I’m okay, though.”

“That’s good, Percy,” Sam says, and I glance at him expecting pity but I don’t find it. I’m surprised how easy it is to tell them both.

Once we get to the house, they change out of their suits and we each grab a beer from the fridge, taking the pizza out to the deck and eating it straight from the box with squares of paper towel in lieu of plates. We scarf down the first slices without talking.

“I’m glad all that’s done with,” says Charlie when he comes up for air. “Just the ashes now.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Sam replies, taking a sip of his beer and gazing out over the shore, where a boy and girl are climbing onto the Floreks’ raft.

“Me neither,” Charlie replies. Squeals and splashes carry up from the lake.

“The kids from next door,” Sam says, noticing me looking at them. “At your cottage.” They’re both dark-haired, the boy a bit taller than the girl.

“Don’t you dare!” she shouts just before he pushes her off the raft. They break into a fit of giggles when she climbs back on.

“How much longer will you be here for, Charlie?” I ask.

“About a week,” he says. “We have a few loose ends to tie up.” I assume he’s referring to the house and the restaurant, but I don’t ask—the idea of them selling this place is almost as heartbreaking as losing the cottage, but it’s none of my business. “And what about you, Pers? When are you heading back?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I say, peeling the label off the beer bottle. Neither one of them replies, and the silence feels dense.

“Did Taylor go back to Kingston after the funeral?” I ask to change the subject, and because I can’t shake the feeling that she should be the one sitting here right now. Sam murmurs a yes, but Charlie’s frowning. “That’s too bad,” I say, reaching for another slice.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Sam?” Charlie growls, and I jerk my arm back, knocking a half-full beer onto my lap.

“Shit!”

“It’s none of your business, Charlie,” Sam snaps as I stand, trying to brush the liquid off my dress. But it’s as though they’ve forgotten I’m here.

“I can’t believe you!” Charlie bellows. “You’re doing the same thing all over again. You’re a goddamn coward.”

Sam’s nostrils flare with each deliberate breath before he speaks. “You have no idea what I’m doing,” he says quietly.

“You’re right. I don’t,” Charlie replies, pushing back his chair so hard it tips over.

“Jesus, Charlie,” Sam shouts. “She knows Taylor and I aren’t together. Not that it’s your business.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Charlie snaps, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, anger radiating from him.

“Charlie?” I take a step forward. “Are you okay?”

He looks at me with a stunned expression, like he’s surprised to find me standing there. His eyes soften.

“Yeah, Pers. I’m fine. Or I will be after I roll a joint and take a long walk,” he says, and heads toward the house. “Get her some dry clothes,” he tells Sam over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

I start grabbing the dirty paper towels and empty bottles with unsteady hands, not looking at Sam.

“Here,” he says, taking the empties from me and bending down to my eye level. If it were anyone else, I’d say he was strangely calm for someone who was just told off by his brother, but it’s classic Sam, and I can see the scarlet streaks staining his cheeks.

“Will he be all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he sighs and looks toward the sliding door that Charlie disappeared through. “He doesn’t think I’ve changed much since we were kids. He’s wrong about that.” He looks at me carefully, slowly, and I know he’s deciding whether he should say more. “But you do need something dry to put on.”

“I can’t wear her clothes, Sam,” I tell him, my voice as wobbly as my hands.

“Agreed,” he says, gesturing toward the house with his head. “You can wear something of mine.”

In some ways, this whole trip has been a time warp, but I’m still not ready for the wave of nostalgia that bashes against me when I follow Sam into his old bedroom. The dark blue walls. The anatomical heart poster. The desk. The twin bed that seems so much smaller than it once did.