Page 30 of The Summers of Us

The unknown of it all feels like standing waist-deep in the ocean, unsure what’s lurking just outside my line of sight. A defensive stingray, a perfect lightning whelk, something more nefarious, or nothing. It’s usually nothing at all.

These thoughts don’t leave my mouth, but they sit on the soft breath leaving my nose, the ache strewn across my face watching wet hair shade his face from the dull string lights. My eyes play tricks on me. I’ve been watching the rain for so long that looking at him brings lingering purple and orange motes to my vision.

I make a spot next to me on the hammock, brush my hand across the worn-down knots.

Come sit next to me, my hand says.

He stands up, makes some dramatic noise of it, and shuffles to the space next to me.

The hammock sways awkwardly until we find our rhythm. I steady us with my foot on a wooden beam. I’m dizzy again, but it’s from more than beer and swaying—his body pressed against mine. His wet hair drying in tame ringlets. The smell of Old Spice. His biceps once pearled in water droplets, now dried off with a towel. His room that got to watch. What would his arms look like if we ran to the end of the driveway and let the rain make a mess of us?

His skin is warm from the steam, even warmer in the rainy midnight air. He smells like petrichor on a full moon night, something equally as light as it is dark.

“I could fall asleep out here,” I say. My head lands on Everett’s shoulder. I’m too tired to move it. I don’t want to move it. My head is full of concrete. This time is ours, a sneaky chasm of our days usually packed with other people, a cave of secret moments only the rain and insects have ever seen. The rain claps for us against palm tree leaves, car windshields, scallop-encrusted driveways.

“It’s like sleeping on a cloud,” Everett says.

“I used to watch the clouds out my car window and wish I could sleep on them.”

“Me too. I didn’t realize sleeping on clouds would mean falling from the sky.”

“Were you drunk earlier?” The words escape my mouth without thought, without hesitation.

“Does it matter?” His voice cracks.

“Yes.”

“Then I was.”

“Tell me the truth.”

He clears his throat in the silence. “I wasn’t.”

I nod. He knows how badly I want to kiss him. All my cards are on the table, both of us staring at them, neither of us picking them up. He was sober when he laid his own cards on the table.“Not like this.”That can’t mean anything but“I want to kiss you when we will both rememberit.”

We’d both remember this. It’s hard to forget rain this heavy.

“Are you still drunk?”

“Not like I was.”

“What are you thinking right now?” he asks. Unspoken words dance between the spoken ones.Tell me how you feel about me.

“Nothing.” My unspoken words stay that way.

I want to kiss you, but I’m too scared.

I want to fall asleep out here with you by my side.

I want you.

“Tell me the truth.”

I open my eyes to look at him, until it’s too hard to look at his puzzled expression, so I make eye contact with the dark, wet street again. “Rain.”

“No, what are youreallythinking?”

“That sleep would be nice.” I lean my head back, smiling so my teeth glow the color of stringlights.

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