Page 28 of The Summers of Us

Haven cheers, then leans across the coffee table, brushing her hair behind her ear. She whispers as if nobody else can hear her, “Quinn, I dare you to kiss Everett.”

Even the partygoers across the street must have heard her. Certainly the hibiscus bushes by the outdoor shower did. My heart clenches up and pulses in my temples. I should have seen this coming.

I glance at Everett, who might as well be a statue. Like always, I can’t read his poker face, but it’s worse now that my brain’s gone to mush. It feels like I swallowed concrete, but isn’t this what I wanted? In an ideal world, surrounded by the people who make me feel steady in an ever-churning world, with varying levels of beer mixing with my blood, this would be the greatest opportunity to kiss him again.

Unfortunately, thick vines hold me hostage. Those vines do not sway like pampas grass in the wind.

Everett can’t kiss me without it meaning something.

Everett can’t kiss me and then go back to nothing.

Everett can’t take it.

I tell myself these things like I’m not just talking about myself.

I force a smile at Everett. Haven doesn’t seem to think she’s done anything abnormal. Holden, Mason, and Jorge are perched in silence like ospreys waiting for a fish to jump from the water.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

When I stand up, my feet fail me, and I nearly fall back on the sofa. But I quickly recover and slink up the stairs. I’m walking on clouds, up an escalator, propelling without thoughts to the front door. Talk about an escape. Inside, the dull kitchen sink light leads the way to the hall bathroom. I catch myself on the corner of the island, thankful it’s not sharp.

I do use the bathroom; I wasn’t lying. Too much motion has made the world spin on its axis. I steady myself on the edge of the sink, stare at myself in the mirror. My face is on fire. My mascara and eyeshadow show signs of their wear. My teardrop earrings fall in the wrong direction. My hair is swept into this mess with me. I laugh abruptly at my reflection.What is happening? Kiss Everett?

And what if I did?

Should I have kissed Everett?

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

I reach for the soap. The dispenser clatters into the sink.Shit. I cup my hand over my mouth. Silence. Are Everett’s parents stirring? Silence. Another laugh leaves me. Thank God their room is upstairs. Everett’s room is downstairs.What is happening?

Everett’s room is downstairs.

I float over to his room. It’s like a magnet or something, not me. Plus, the door is cracked. It’s not like I broke in or anything. I’ve passed his room a few times over the years, but this feels forbidden, dangerous. I flick the light on with a chuckle that might only exist in my head. His green comforter is disheveled. Everything else is spotless. A clean room is important, but beds don’t need to be made. Sounds like someone else I know.

On the wall above his desk, he’s tacked his collection of postcards. Most must be from his nomadic grandparents.Greetings from London! Hello from Manila! Banff National Park wishes you were here!

The Chihuahua, Mexico one is from Haven and Holden. They sent me a similar one.

The postcard of downtown Raleigh is from me. I sent it when I was fourteen from a class field trip to a museum. I turn it over to read my message:Today I saw a cloud that looked like a katydid. I could almost hear it buzzing from way up there. I think I heard it say, I miss you, Everett! See you under the same sky in June! -Q

I wasn’t surprised to see that Everett saved all his postcards, but what nearly knocks me over is what’s on the windowsill. Next to a turtle with a hat from the pier shop, next to the bouncy ball I already knew he’d kept from the Boardwalk arcade, sits his shark pressed penny from the aquarium four summers ago.

The memory feels blue. Moon jellies. Regret. Butterflies. Warm penny wishes. Even warmer cheeks.

Everett raps on the door. “You okay?”

I turn around and can’t help but laugh. He acts likehe’sintruding onme, but I’m the one caught red-handed in his room. I’m the weird one. I run my red hands through my hair. It doesn’t do what I thought it would. The tension still zaps between us. “Sorry, I don’t know how I ended up here.”

He laughs, his hands in his pockets. “It’s cool.”

I graze the penny with my finger. “You still have it.”

“Of course I do.” His eyebrows furrow. He enters his own room like he’s not welcome. Leans against his dresser. Arms crossed—the only other place he likes to keep his hands. “You don’t?”

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