Page 21 of The Summers of Us

Hadley and I claimed a shallow spot in the kiddie pool as Blair walked back from the concession stand, a shadow against the colorful concessions lit up orange.

She offered each of us a Rocket Pop. “An homage to summers past.”

“Thank you,” I said between my first licks.

It tasted like the past two July Fourths, melted fast in my hand, the juice dripping into red, white, and blue droplets in the water.

The floodlights cut out, followed by a blip of silence. A whole different set of lights cut in. Our eyes traced a glimmer of light, lost sight of it, then found it again as a dandelion puff against the night sky. A chorus followed, booming, whistling, and crackling so loud I couldn’t help but blink even when I knew it was coming. The air smelled like Haven’s room when she tried to straighten her damp hair. The lights danced on Hadley’s face, too many colors to spy before they fizzled out in curly smoke ribbons in the next blast.

Hadley watched the exploding sky in awe. She puffed her cheeks up and blew air out to extinguish the fireworks hundreds of feet away. To her, fireworks were just birthday candles ready for a wish, a simple obstacle before frosting and cake.

I wished I could see the world the way Hadley did, concerned there was a fire in the sky that needed blowing out, confident her breath was powerful enough to put it out.

July 1

“Hurry!” Everett shouts behind him.

The ferry waits for no one. I pick up speed despite the fact that I’m wearing my spilled iced latte. We round the corner of the loading dock, waving our arms like the ferry would even care. We scan our tickets and stumble across the ramp. At the bottom level of the ferry mostly full of locals avoiding the wind, we find a booth.

“We need to skip breakfast next time. And coffee.” I wipe coffee from my arm, cheeks, and neck.

“We need to leave four hours early next time.”

“Or just pull an all-nighter.” Everett laughs and slides two fingers down a strand of my hair. “You forgot some.”

This is the one thing Everett wants from our grand final summer—to climb the lighthouse on Loggerhead Island. Only accessible by ferry, the island doesn’t allow cars, so we have a golf cart rental waiting for us. Had we missed this ferry, it would have taken another hour for the next one and we might have missed our golf cart rental window. I thought waking up before the sun rose would give us enough time to make it, but my bacon came out too late at Landlubber’s Cafe and we stopped for coffee at a different cafe up the road. Too many locals were in line for coffee on their way to work, so it took longer than we anticipated.

On the water, the ferry rocks enough to tell me that we’ve taken off. With my eyes closed, it feels like I’m on a swing. About to fall off the rails. About to jump off just because I shouldn’t.

With my eyes open, the shrinking land teases me. The seagulls at the stern multiply by a pile of Cheez-Its. The waves juggle my life in their hands. I don’t like my chances. The subtle rock of the boat reminds me too much of last August, of Hadley.

I avoid eye contact with the windows and the sprawling ocean behind them, my eyes deciding that the linoleum table is more interesting.

Everett puts a hand on my knee under the table. Until then, I didn’t notice how vigorously I was bouncing my legs. His touch pulls my gaze up to him, pulls my heart like taffy.

His questioning eyes are beacons on a night sky. “You okay?”

I nod and swallow, then try to force a smile. His eyes ground me. “Yeah. You want to climb the lighthouse, so we’re going to climb the lighthouse.”

“Thanks for coming.”

Everyone else is busy today, so even though the what-ifs kept me up last night, I agreed to join him. I deserve to fall in love with living again, and that starts with ignoring the tornado of catastrophic thoughts that enters my mind whenever I’m out to sea.What if we capsize? What if a whale surfaces? What if I glance at the water wrong and hallucinate the ghost of her?

Everett points to a spot on the patterned linoleum. “This looks like a blobfish.”

The corner of my mouth turns toward the ceiling. There’s no blue sky above, no clouds either, at least not on the floor level of a passenger ferry, but Everett has brought the clouds to us. We can touch them. Decode their squiggles. Tell stories from the beige and white mosaic.

I point to a spot next to my forgotten coffee cup. “This looks like a tree with an owl hole.”

“Or the big red storm on Jupiter.”

The clouds on the table show us Christmas stockings, a cricket playing a banjo, two children fighting over a kite string. We map a new world despite the real world just beyond the windows. That world isn’t for us.

Until it is.

The ferry jostles into Loggerhead Island Marina. After we disembark, Everett slinks into the driver’s side of the golf cart and takes off for the lighthouse. The roads are shrunken, only suitable for bikes and golf carts. Landscaped trees line each side, breaking only for long driveways and the Cape Cod style houses sprouted at the end. We drive through palm frond shadows. I stretch my arm out to catch the wind, knit something like magic with my fingers.

The lighthouse, which is a mere chess piece from the banks of Piper Island, towers over the palm trees and mighty oaks. You could unearth stories from the shapes in the worn paint. The color of the moon and its craters, it looks straight out of a vintage postcard. From the parking lot, it’s as tallas the Boardwalk Ferris wheel, and since I conquered that one last year, I know I can do this. I didn’t get on a boat for nothing.