Page 72 of The Summers of Us

Hey, is this Quinn?It’s Charlie from the party the other night. You wanna go out sometime?

I threw my phone at the foot of my bed.

Slunk back into the covers.

The sun rose. Then fell.

Asleep.

August 1

July falls into August like time pushed it off a cliff.

The car screeches to a halt when we turn onto Adriana’s driveway, an hour inland from Piper Island. Adriana is the twins’ friend from school who moved away in sixth grade. I’d never met her, but the twins stayed friends with her all these years. She invited the six of us for the night to celebrate the slow unwinding of summer since she heads off to college two weeks before the rest of us.

The house borders a lake, but it’s not on stilts like the waterfront houses in Piper Island. It doesn’t have to be. There are no storm surges, tides, or rip currents here.

“The drive here was unbearable,” Holden says from the front door. “Has this town ever heard of paved roads?” He pulls Adriana into a hug, kisses her cheek, and walks to the kitchen in one motion.

Adriana rolls her eyes, looks at Haven. “How do you live with him?”

Haven shrugs. “Painkillers.”

I formally meet Adriana, then we all follow Holden inside. The living room bleeds into the kitchen, both overlooking Lake Lockwood from the sliding glass doors. In the kitchen, the sun glints off the refrigerator. Adriana’s dad shucks corn at the sink. Her mom chops raw potatoes. A game show streams from the TV. This snapshot of domestic bliss is too potent.

We set our things down on the hardwoods. I text my mom and Blair that we made it in one piece, then leave my phone zipped in my overnight bag. I help myself to a carrot stick from the veggie platter on the granite island, occupying my hands, still antsy for a text back from my dad.

“You guys need to meet Mia and Tanner!” Adriana leads us to the tiled outdoor patio.

A girl walks barefoot on the patio, hands out to keep her balance, her brunette hair cascading behind her. A boy sips a Coke at the picnic table. His sun-bleached brown hair tells the story of summer days spent at the lake.

We exchange hellos, then shift into the lull of new people in new places—the push and pull of what to do and say next. Holden settles us into the day, heading down the dock with a fishing rod and his tackle box. Mason runs past him to cannonball into the water, Adriana right behind. Jorge challenges Holden to a fishing competition. Mia takes Haven on the jet ski. Tanner catches up to them somewhere on the lake.

That leaves me and Everett on a swinging bench on the dock, taking turns with a bottle of sunscreen.

The lake is sweet tea. The sun’s late morning position has driven away the early dawn locusts. Splashy sounds ring out around us: Holden’s bobber, Mason and Adriana vying for the same watermelon float, something from behind us plopping in the shallow water. It’s comforting to look at a body of water and see the land on the other side. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the water was still, a postcard of peace and domestic bliss.

Everett takes it all in with me.

“This reminds me of a lake I used to go to in Illinois. We stayed for one week every summer when Dad finally took off work. We spent all day swimming and grilling at the beach. Dad tried fishing every day. He never caught anything, but he always told us fishing is about the company you keep, not the fish you catch.” He makes his voice deep like Hank’s, then laughs at himself, Hank’s corny adage, or maybe both.

I laugh because he does. “You think that’s why he picked Piper?”

“Mom always loved North Carolina’s lighthouses, always did puzzles of them and collected souvenirs, so my dad made it happen for her.”

I look out at the lake and imagine I’m Everett. I take in how the ripples catch the sun’s rays, how small the pine trees look on the horizon, how water dances carelessly on the surface. I feel the memory like it’s my own. What’s it like to watch your dad suck at fishing but still believe your presence is the reason the moment is perfect?

“I’m glad.” I wipe a line of unblended sunscreen into his forehead with my thumb. My mood ring catches in the sun.

“Thanks.” He smiles.

I point to the only cloud in the sky. “That cloud looks like an upside-down hot dog.”

“It even has mustard on it.”

“I hope you mean ketchup.” I smirk, searching for a way to disagree, like old times.

The cloud changes with the wind. We race to tell stories about it, read it like a fortune. An octopus riding a bike. Apple pie. An elephant playing tennis. An umbrella pitched on a mountaintop.

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