Page 62 of The Summers of Us

“I deserved that one, but my point still stands. Listen, I love you to death, so I feel like it’s okay for me to say you messed up. You don’t have to kiss him or anything, but you should at least explain yourself.”

“Explain why I can’t ride rollercoasters?”

She shrugs with her own smirk. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I deserved that one.”

After we finish our ice cream, Haven guides us to Beachy Keen, the gift shop next to Sunset Scoop. She’s on the hunt for a new one-piece for surfing, so I busy myself on a hunt for the most ridiculous item in the store.

It’s while walking through the aisles in the gift shop that I get the idea. Not from the shot glasses with boobs, the pool float ash trays, or the beach towels with the marijuana leaves print. No, it’s the tray of mood rings that speaks to me. It isn’t the silliest item by a mile, but it reminds me of Everett and our day at the aquarium. So, my hunt shifts from the most silly item to the most Everett item, which isn’t difficult; tonight, just about everything reminds me of him.

I pick out two mood rings. I have reason to believe they’ll change from opalescent green and settle on dark blue—supposedly forcalm, but actually just average body heat. I fill an entire bag with piña colada taffy and hide one buttered popcorn among it. I finish off my spree with an Almond Joy and a postcard of the Piper Island Fishing Pier.

Haven does a fashion show with the bathing suits she picked out. After much deliberation, we settle on an ugly tie-dye one guaranteed not to fall off in a nasty wave. My mood ring that started green has slowly eased into deep, ocean blue even though I’m far from calm with all the reminders of Everett in my hoodie pocket.

Haven offers to drop me off at Everett’s, but I want to arrive alone—this is my mistake to fix, after all—so I board my bike and plan the conversation in my head. A few times, my throat lets a few words out, but there’s only the fleeting wind to hear.

I don’t give myself time to think when I get to Everett’s. I set my bike down and march to the front door, past the hammock from last night and the recycling bin likely full of beer cans.

The door opens to Liezel, who smiles at me like Everett hasn’t yet told her about this morning at the pier. “Quinn, hello! Everett’s not here, but I have something of yours. Come in?”

I nod and follow her to the entryway. The house smells like pistachio and vanilla. It looks different with the lights on, different since I have the time to take it in. Hank sits at the kitchen table over a half-assembled jigsaw puzzle. Liezel’s empty chair, two glasses of wine, and a steaming tray of purple cookies tell me I’m interrupting something. Hank raises an eyebrow at me, but he smiles and tells me Everett is at the pier with “everyone,” then gets back to sifting through the puzzle box.

Liezel comes around the corner with certainly more grace than I did last night. She holds out her palm, where my teardrop earrings gleam in the entryway light. “I found these in the guest room. Yours?”

I grab them like concealing them in my palm will erase her memory of them, but this action is confirmation enough that I slept over without their knowledge, so I nod and thank her for keeping them safe. I can’t bring myself to look at them anymore, but I manage brief eye contact and another smile before I turn for the door.

“Quinn, wait.” Liezel grabs my arm gingerly, stuns me in place with beckoning brown eyes. She has eyes that make you want to stop and listen, just like Everett’s. The wrinkles that hug her eyes feel like home. She walks to the table, wraps a small plate of the purple cookies in plastic, and places it in my arms. “Yam cookies. For you and Blair.”

I nod and my heart splits in two. “Thank you.”

It feels like an eternitysince I was on the pier this morning. A day of nothing does that to your perception. Shame also mucks it up, but hopefully I can do something about that.

Halfway through my walk down the pier, I find what I’m looking for; all my friends are at the end of it.

Haven sees me first and waves me over, her lips red from a slushy. Holden has a rod cast into the water, absentmindedly reeling in for line tension. Mason slices bait fish with Holden’s pocket knife. Jorge bites his tongue against afish-have-feelings-toospeech, tapping his foot with his arms crossed.

My knees are almost trembling as I stand on wooden planks over the roaring ocean.

Everett either doesn’t see me or is avoiding my gaze, instead watching Mason until a fish starts to bleed, then he looks to the blur of water past the blue orb of the floodlights, the gibbous moon hiding behind stray clouds.

This morning’s roles are reversed. With my hands in my hoodie pocket, I walk over to Everett and fish for his attention. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”

He nods and stands up.

Nobody else notices the tension, or maybe they pretend not to. Haven finally steals a glance my way with a sly but encouraging smile.

Neither of us says anything on our way off the pier, which is the direction we both silently agree to. The pier isn’t private enough. Not with families out for late night fishing, people-watchers strolling with their slushies, couples holding hands since their heads are screwed on right. Not in the nosy blue gaze of the lamp poles.

Just before the doors to the pier shop, I turn for the stairs to the sand. It’s also crowded down here, but in the shadows, everything feels private. I sit in the dry sand beneath the pier. Everett follows suit, but he leaves a mound of sand between us. Above us, solar-powered string lights hang from the rungs, so artificial stars listen in. I let them.

“I’m sorry.” I rest my hand on his arm, a lifeline, proof of my words in my actions. “For making you think I only want you when I’m drunk.” It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever said to his face, but Imeanit, so my gaze doesn’t waver from him. “I do want you.Especiallywhen I’m sober.”

The creaky pier and staticky waves fill the silence. I think I even hear my heart croak.

Everett’s in a trance on a banded tulip shard between us, but he breaks it to look up at me. He chews the inside of his cheek. I try to read his emotions—the bite of apprehension and the taste of acceptance right after. With a curl of his lips, he says, “Pinky promise?”

He laughs, proud of his ice-breaking joke. I know it’s a joke, but I still pull his pinky from the sand into mine. My chest springs to life like it’s lit up with string lights.

---