All We Can Do Is Wait(32)

Kyle laughed, genuinely comfortable wherever he was, and seeming to see something, some charm or wit or elegance, in Linda that her own children had long been blind to. “I’d be delighted,” he said, and Linda clucked contentedly.

Dinner was airy and fun. They ate corn salad and grilled swordfish, good Massachusetts food, as Theo often said. Kyle kept Linda occupied, asking her questions about her days at Barnard.

“Though I’d probably rather live downtown instead of uptown when I move.”

Linda waved a hand at him in agreement. “Well, that’s where the young people go. And there are so many fabulous galleries down there.” She took a sip of wine. “Do you like art, Kyle?” she asked.

Instead of giving Linda a simple yes, the easy, accommodating answer many guests Kyle’s age, or any age, would have offered, Kyle actually thought about it for a second.

“You know,” he said. “I don’t really know art all that well? But I think I will like it, when I learn more about it.”

This just about sent Linda over the moon, as much as she ever went over the moon. “Well, I’d be happy to lend you whatever art books I have lying around here,” she said, referring to the huge, very expensive volumes she had littered on the coffee table and on the bookshelves in the living room. “So long as you take good care of them, and return them by Labor Day.”

“I’d love that, Mrs. Elsing,” Kyle said, somehow not sounding like a brown-noser. Like he actually meant it.

“And then of course you’ll have to visit Alexandra and us in Boston this fall,” Linda declared. “I’ll take you on a personal tour of the museum.”

“That would be great, Mrs. Elsing. Thank you so much.”

Linda sat back in her chair, beaming, pleased with herself, with everything.

After dinner, Linda was in an uncharacteristically generous mood, saying she’d wash and dry the dishes herself. “You kids go out and enjoy the night, it’s so lovely out. Show Kyle the beach maybe.”

Alexa rolled her eyes. “He’s seen the beach, Mom.”

Linda waved her away. “But not our beach.” (Kyle had, of course.) She turned to the dishes, and the kids did what she asked, walking out to the porch, the nearby ocean roaring with all its mystery and allure.

Jason had sneaked two more than the usual one Linda-approved glass of wine at dinner, so he was feeling buzzed and loose. He pulled the joint he’d rolled before dinner from the breast pocket of his shirt—one of Theo’s old blue striped oxfords—and held it up to Alexa and Kyle.

Alexa shook her head, said she just wanted to sit, that she was tired from standing all day at work. “My dogs are barking!” she moaned.

Kyle laughed—the best sound Jason had ever heard, he suddenly thought—and said, “O.K., but do you mind if I join your brother for a joint?”

Alexa shrugged. “I don’t care. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

So the two boys walked down to the beach, the tide high, pulled toward the beach by the moon, beaming and perfectly round in the sky. Jason lit the joint, took a deep hit, passed it to Kyle and watched him put his lips on it. Jason’s stomach felt knotty as Kyle exhaled then passed it back. Their feet were in the water, lapping at their ankles.

“Your mom’s so fun,” Kyle said, taking a step further into the water.

Jason shrugged, took a hit. “She certainly thinks so.”

Kyle laughed again, a sharp pierce that melted into a little song. “You’re funny, Jason,” he said, turning to face him. Jason held the joint out for Kyle and he approached and took it, their fingers brushing, a million shivers of electricity traveling up Jason’s arm. Something was different tonight.

Kyle looked at him and smiled, and then, very simply, put one hand on Jason’s cheek, leaned in, and kissed him. Jason hesitated for a second and then kissed Kyle back, his hand on Kyle’s shoulder, his knees knocking, the whole world gone spinning and tingling around him.

After a moment, Kyle pulled back. He smiled again, took a drag from the joint, almost burned down to the end. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first night we met.”

Jason was surprised. “Yeah, me too, I guess.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “You guess?” he said, splashing some water in Jason’s direction.

“I mean,” Jason stammered, “no, I know. I know. I just didn’t, like . . . know know. Until now.”

Kyle leaned in close, gave Jason a peck. “Well, now you know know.” He turned and started walking up the beach, then looked back at Jason. “Come on, your sister is waiting.”

? ? ?

Jason could see Kyle receding up the beach, toward the glow of the house, could feel the riot of elation and stonedness and horniness that had flooded over him after that first kiss. Kyle disappearing in the tall grass, the waves rushing in and seeping away. Jason blinked, the light of the hospital pinging back into focus. Your sister is waiting. Jason turned around, toward the table, but didn’t see Alexa, only that Morgan girl, hands hidden in her sleeves, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Hey,” Jason croaked at her, his voice sounding scratchy and tired. Morgan looked up, as if to say Me?

“Have you seen my sister? The girl with the—”

Morgan turned and pointed at a corner of the room, and Jason saw Alexa, curled up in a chair, face buried in her knees. She looked so small, so lost in this ugly, harshly lit place. Jason hated seeing her here, hated places like this. He knew it was a dumb thing to wonder, but why did it all have to look so clinical? All the inoffensive off-white walls, the sallow fluorescent lighting, the blond wood of the railings that were everywhere, for people too weak to stand on their own. Couldn’t a place like this be cheery and optimistic? Or, maybe more honestly, dark and stern and serious? Wouldn’t that be more truthful—a hospital painted in black, or a worried gray, dim lamplight in the hallways, somewhere entirely ready to be filled with ghosts, night after night after night?