Page 103 of The Summers of Us

Then everything around us turns from hazy pink to burnt orange. Beachcombers’ footprints are small orange mountains on the soft sand. Wind-blown hairs reveal their secret gold undertones. Seashells slip from their camouflage on the dark brown sand. The cream cheese smeared on empty plates glows.

Conversation buzzes between nothing and everything, as it often tends to. Packing woes, college itineraries, the state of Loggerhead Lighthouse after this fall’s restoration project ends. There’s plenty to silently ponder where the seagulls chirp against the ocean’s tune.

“I told my parents last night,” Holden says. “About me and Mason. Well, just about me, but they figured Mason and I were dating.”

“How did it go?” Everett asks.

“It was fine.” He smiles softly.

“Better than fine.” Haven brushes her hands through his wild hair. “They said they want to have Mason over for dinner.Formally. And that they love him forever. Just like we all do.”

Holden holds his neck behind his hands, but he smiles like he’s waited forever for those words. His cheeks blush and he looks like he could cry the happiest tears I’ve ever seen.

With the sun now part of the day and breakfast done, we disperse.

Haven and I play tic-tac-toe in the sand. I block her row of scallops with a cockle. Mason and Holden stand at the wet sand, so still their feet sink slowly into the world. Jorge picks through a pile of shells on the trash line, looking for shark teeth. Everett lies down next to me, his hands in his hoodie pockets, his head on the sand.

His eyes trace the only cloud in the sky.

“What is it?” I ask, looking between the cloud and his golden face.

“A seagull, but like people draw it,” he says without breaking his trance on the sky.

I draw it in the sand with my finger. Context turns the rounded “m” shape into a greedy seagull’s wings against an endless sky. My eyes turn it into the cloud soaring above.

The sticky sweet stingof summer’s end sweeps me off my feet.

Everett and I walk down the beach, as far as my ankle will take me. The sandpipers run from us, their little legs a blur of reckless abandon. A patch of seagulls finally decide to kick on their wings and flee. A beached cannonball jelly glimmers in the sun.

The water collapses over the sand, disrupting the stillness. Live coquinas shuffle away from the sunlight. Broken, discarded shells make twinkling music against themselves. Soon, they’ll whittle into dust, but they’ll live forever as bits of sand. The sand soaks up the waves, turning darker where water no longer reflects the brightening sky. In an instant, the waves make it wet and shiny again. A cyclical, infinite film reel.

The waves come and go, even with nobody to watch them.

I’m tired of hating the ocean.

Suddenly, I’m magnetized by the thrumming waves.

A moment passes with a gust of wind before I decide to just do it. I trudge over the increasingly darker sand, walking past freckled olives, nutmegs, baby’s ears, jingles, until finally I make it, gasping when water rushes over my toes. The water feels like it always has—jarring and cool and exactly the feeling worth waiting an entire school year to feel again. This time, it’s on my terms.

Everett takes each step with me. Beyond the band of jagged seashells, the sand is soft beneath my toes. I stop knee-deep, where the water still hugs my legs but my shorts stay dry. Where I’m not technicallyswimming, but sea foam still fizzes against my skin. Waves still thrum in the same spot they did seconds before. I put my hands in and let the water slip between my fingers.

I close my eyes, breathe in and out with the whir of the ocean.

The ocean is synonymous with summer and sunlight and sunscreen. Ice cream and itineraries and insects. Fireflies and fireworks and fluffernutters. Moon jellies and mini golf and moonlight. Constellations and carousels and cotton candy.Tres lechesand tanning and taffy.

I never hated you.

I open my eyes to show the ocean I mean it.

When I look at Everett, he wedges a hand in his pocket, then opens it out to me. Resting on his palm is a small pink coquina clamshell from our day on the bike trail. Four summers of us rewind in my mind. They live in rose quartz Saturn rings.

“It’s perfect.” I string the ninth shell onto the chain, then let Everett clasp it back.

“For your ninth summer at Piper Island.” Everett wills the entire summer pink despite everything trying to darken it. Nine summers stick to my skin like salt water.

Everett’s touch lingers on my neck, sending shivers down my skin despite everything trying to warm it. He pulls me in for a kiss. After he pulls back, he focuses in on my cheek, eyebrows furrowed as he swipes his thumb across it.

On his thumb rests a stray eyelash plucked from my cheek. “Make a wish,” he says.

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