Everything We Didn't Say(58)

I don’t often think about missing this little corner of Iowa, but days like this make me feel nostalgic for something I haven’t yet lost. Or maybe I never had it? I can’t quite decide why I’m so conflicted about this community and my place in it, but it might have something to do with the fact that it’s filled with so many contradictions.

Now, in the dusky haze of a couple of days spent in the sun and water, everyone is just a little short, nerves exposed. Who we are is less artfully hidden because the veneer has been buffed away by sand and a bit too much time together. Ashley’s forlorn, Jonathan is distracted. I can guess what’s troubling him, but it doesn’t make me feel any better to know the source of his sadness. Callum’s sunburnt, Phil’s hungover, Lexi’s sour all the time. There are just over twenty of us spread over six campsites in a collection of tents, tent trailers, and one Suburban where Jeff and Blake are sleeping on the benches. To a person, we’re done.

“Let’s go home,” I tell Jonathan when I catch him heading off toward the bathhouse alone.

He doesn’t even glance at me as I hurry to match his long strides. “This is our party, June.”

“Not really. It’s an excuse to get together and you know it. Has anyone said happy birthday to you?”

“My birthday is long past.”

“It’s not about that.” I snag his arm, and he finally stops to face me. “Come on. It’s been fun, but I want to go home. I think you do, too.”

“You’re welcome to go.”

I study my brother for a long moment, taking in the beachy sweep of his dark hair, the warm glow of his skin. His eyes are bright but hard somehow, and they don’t crinkle at the corners like they usually do when he looks at me. It makes me sad.

“What’s going on?” I ask him. “What happened to you this summer?”

Jonathan sighs. He passes his hand over his face, and when he’s done it looks as if he’s drawn his mouth down farther still. It’s a trick that should end with a reversal, with his hand sweeping everything up into the grin I know so well, but he just stares at me like his heart is breaking. I rise onto my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck. When Jonathan hugs me back, he shudders. I’m afraid that he’s crying, but after a few seconds he steps back and gives the end of my ponytail a tug. His eyes are dry.

“I’m okay, Junebug. I’ll be just fine.”

“Why won’t you confide in me?” I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice.

“I’m not trying to keep you out. It’s just…” He puts his hands on his hips and looks over my shoulder to where the moon has drawn a wavy line across the water. “I need some time.”

“Time to what?”

“Figure a few things out.”

“Is this about Cal and Beth?”

He lifts one shoulder. “In a way. But there’s more to it, June. I just can’t share it with you right now.”

“Will you ever?”

“Soon,” he promises.

It’s not nearly enough, but at least I got him to admit that there’s something going on. I’ll take it. “You won’t go home with me?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “I need to stay.”

I can’t for the life of me imagine why he has to stay at what’s supposed to be a fun campout with friends if he’s clearly stopped having fun. But after we roast hot dogs and Phil takes out a guitar and serenades us with classic country in a more than passable voice, a pair of headlights illuminates our camp. It’s after eleven. We all look up to see who’s arrived, but when I glance at Jonathan in the firelight, the set of his jaw assures me that this—whoever it is—is what he’s been waiting for.

Car doors open and slam, but the interior lights are too dim and too far away for me to make out who it is. Four figures approach us in the darkness, but it isn’t until one of them calls out that I realize it’s Sullivan.

“Hey!” he says, entering the circle of light around the fire. “Great night for a fire. Got a chair?”

A few people shift around, spreading out another blanket and moving a handful of roasting sticks that were leaning against a lawn chair. But Sullivan’s not alone, and when the others join our ragtag crew, my mind goes dark as a light switched off. It’s the rest of the Tate brothers. Dalton is just a couple years older than Sullivan but he looks much older than that. Hard living has left his face lined, his expression perpetually harsh. He chews tobacco, and it pulls his mouth to one side as if frozen in a constant sneer. And the other two Tate brothers are no softer. I don’t even know their names, but they’re grown men, clearly out of place among the kids who have gathered around hot dogs and country music. Kids. I haven’t thought of myself as a child in a long time, but next to the Tate brothers I feel small. Naive.

They commandeer chairs and produce bottles that I hadn’t previously seen. They swig and laugh while Phil (who’s roughly their age but half their size and clearly not cut from the same cloth) quietly puts his guitar away and slips off toward the scattering of tents. I’d like to follow him, but Ashley throws an arm around my shoulders and whispers: “Sullivan came!”

“And his brothers,” I mutter under my breath. “They’re not exactly a great fit here.”