Every Summer After(85)

19



Now

I wake up in Sam’s bed with a pounding headache. There’s a faint bluish-pink light coming in the window. How long was I asleep for? I push the sheet back, hot. I’m still wearing his T-shirt and sweatpants, the knees covered in dirt. I lie there listening, but the house is quiet. On the nightstand are a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. Sam must have put them there.

After popping two pills and drinking all the water, I sit on the edge of his bed, my feet on the carpet, and my head in my hands, taking inventory of the wreckage I’ve caused. I bulldozed Sam with the truth at the worst possible moment. On the day of his mother’s funeral. I didn’t think about him; I only thought about getting the ugliness off my chest. And he knew. He knew, and he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, at least not then.

Sam has put my purse on the floor beside the bed. I dig around for my phone. Determined not to push anyone else out of my life, I call Chantal.

“P?” she says, groggy with sleep.

“I still love him,” I whisper. “I screwed everything up. And I love him. And I’m worried that even if I can get him to forgive me, I’m still not good enough for him.”

“You’re good enough,” Chantal says.

“But I’m such a mess. And he’s a doctor.”

“You’re good enough,” she says again.

“What if he doesn’t think so?”

“Then you come home, P. And I’ll tell you why he’s wrong.”

I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

When we hang up, I cross the dark hallway to the bathroom. I turn on the light and grimace at my reflection. Underneath the streaks of mascara, my skin is blotchy and my eyes bloodshot and puffy. I splash some cold water on my face and scrub at the black makeup stains until my cheeks are red and raw.

The smell of coffee hits my nose as I tiptoe down the stairs. There’s a light on in the kitchen. I take a deep breath before I have to face Sam again. But it’s not Sam. It’s Charlie. He’s at the table in the same spot where Sue used to sit. He has a mug in his hand, and he’s looking right at me like he was waiting for me.

“Good morning,” he says, lifting his coffee my way.

“You took my car,” I say, standing in the doorway.

“I took your car,” he replies, then takes a sip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize you would be needing to leave in such a hurry.” Clearly Sam has filled him in on a couple of details. “He’s down at the water,” he says before I ask.

I look in the direction of the lake and then back to Charlie. “He hates me.”

He gets up and walks over to me, smiling kindly as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You’re wrong,” he says. “I think his feelings for you are basically the exact opposite.” His eyes move over my face and his smile fades. “Do you hate me?” he asks quietly.

It takes me a moment to figure out why he would ask me that, but then I realize: Charlie’s the only other person who would have told Sam about what happened between us.

“Never,” I say, my voice cracking, and he pulls me into a tight hug. “I didn’t hate you then, either. After what happened. You were good to me that summer.”

“I had ulterior motives, but I didn’t ever plan to make a move,” he whispers. “Until that night.”

“That night was my fault,” I tell him. Charlie squeezes me and then lets go.

“Can I ask you something?” I say when we separate.

“Sure,” he rasps. “Ask me anything.”

“Did your mom know?” His face wilts a little, and I close my eyes, swallowing back the lump in my throat.

“If it makes you feel better, she was mostly mad at me.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I croak.

He nods, his eyes flickering like fireflies. “I tried to tell her how you seduced me with candy and hairy legs, but she wasn’t convinced.”

I huff out a laugh, and a little of the heaviness lifts.

“She told me to call you,” he says, serious again. I stop breathing. “Before she died. She said he’d need you after.”

I hug him again. “Thank you,” I whisper.



* * *





SAM IS SITTING at the edge of the dock, his feet in the water. The sun hasn’t risen above the hills yet, but its light casts a halo around the far shore that promises it will soon. My footsteps shake the wooden planks as I walk toward him, but he doesn’t turn around.

I sit beside him, putting two steaming cups of coffee down, then roll my pants up over my knees so I can dip my legs into the lake. I pass him one of the mugs, and we drink in silence. There aren’t any boats out yet, and the only sound is the distant, mournful call of a loon. I’m half-finished with my coffee—trying to figure out where to begin—when Sam starts talking.

“Charlie told me about the two of you over Christmas break when we came home from school,” he says, looking out over the calm water. I want to cut in and apologize, but I can tell he’s got more to say. And, at the very least, I owe him the chance to tell his side despite how afraid I am to hear it—to hear about what it was like for him to know what I’d done all this time, to hear him get to the part where he never wants to see me again.