Page 81 of The Summers of Us

Until I was in full control, our conversation was enough. Passing glances were. Nudging legs as silent acknowledgment of their touching.

“I always wanted that as a kid, to be older and make my own rules,” Everett said.

“My mom always told me I’d regret wishing my childhood away, but itiscool to think about sneaking out for a swim, then actually do it.”

All my life, my mom had kept me from it, which was really just to cover the real truth, that it was my dad’s absence that held the knife. I was working on forgiving my mom for life happening to her. She lost all her fluffernutter and firefly moments, too, but she stayed. She took care of me all by herself. She knew where I found comfort and allowed me to spend the whole summer here, every year.

She made sure I was safe.

What was the logical next step after doing the most dangerous thing at the beach? I wouldn’t tellher about the swimming, but I’d tell her about Everett.

Maybe one day, I’d tell Everett about Everett, too.

Age 17, July 25

Everett sat across from meat Holy Mackerel, his shoulders sharp and his face in a permanent, albeit subtle, smile.

I knew that smile. I wore the same one. I hoped he liked my new tank top, my wavy hair from last night’s braids, the new shade of blush I was trying out on top of the sun’s.

He smelled of what I imagined was expensive cologne swiped from Hank’s dresser. He’d ironed his tee shirt. Styled his hair to look different than usual—wild and free, like how it looked the day at the beach when I told him where coquinas got their holes. That summer, I felt the first stirrings of this feeling that had yet to let go.

But things were finally different. I’d finally taken control, even if I was murdering my straw wrapper in my fidgety hands.

A few days after Everett and I snuck out for the moonlit ocean, I went to a movie with him. The whole time, I was glowing from the magnetic tension between us. At the dinner table later, Hadley asked if Everett was my boyfriend. I almost choked on my pizza, but managed to tell her I was working on it. There was only so much I could do at once, but I was trying. While Hadley wasn’t old enough to understand the hold-up, she understood bravery. She told me so over ice cream dessert, how she’d finally faced her fears and conquered the big slide at Pirate’s Bounty earlier that day. It wasn’t close to the same thing, but it was enough encouragement to text Everett after she went to bed.

That put us here, eight o’ clock at Holy Mackerel on the Sapphire Beach Boardwalk, picking away at the last crunchy French fries. We met here four summers ago, which was not lost on either of us.

The sun was still with us, peeking in from a window out back. Sometimes I thought the sun set so late in the summer because it wanted to stay out past curfew, stay at the beach forever. Maybe it was just like me, and it wanted to sit across from Everett, confused about what to callhimbut almost positivethiswas a date.

My whatever-he-was smiled at me, deaf to the wrestling in my head. A couple on the karaoke stage in the corner finished a duet of “Don’t You Want Me” by the Human League. We joined the applause.

Everett looked at me with a playful grin. “Sing with me?”

I considered conquering my fears, but when I looked at the stage, I pictured myself standing there. The microphone shook in my hand, my voice cracked, eyes from the crowd drilled a hole into me and strung me onto a necklace. The thought made my skin crawl, but I didn’t want the fun to end. I had to find a middle ground.

“Singtome?” My voice raised with my eyebrows. I hoped Everett wouldn’t be able to resist.

He nodded, didn’t take even a moment to process, and stood up to stretch. He sipped from his freshly refilled virgin piña colada, cracked his knuckles, dramatically exhaled, and walked to the DJ.

I shook my head at the nobody at the table beside us, rolled my eyes at the nobody in the corner.I’m with him, I told the nobody sitting at the bar.

From thirty feet away, I tried to read his face for any indication of what song he would pick. He nodded, whispered something to the DJ, and walked on stage.

“Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Everett,” the DJ said.

The crowd roared. It wasn’t enough people for Everett to back out, but enough to justify the loud gulp made audible thanks to the microphone. My heart roared for him. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and held my hands over my mouth in anticipation.

He swallowed what appeared to be the rest of his fear, speaking with the same confidence he gave me. “This is for a special someone in the crowd.” He winked at me while the first notes of “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” filled the room.

“Oh my God!” I mouthed at my own special someone. My lips pressed hard into a smile. I shook my head, a blush working its way to my cheeks. Even if I wanted to hide my face in my hands, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He rocked back and forth, grabbed the microphone, and began.

He sounded so off key that Rupert Holmes himself would have told him to give up singing forever. He didn’t care, so nobody else did either. He wasn’t up there to sound good. He was up there for me, hislady, who I hoped he wasn’t tired of, who I hoped he never had to write the newspapers to escape from.

He was having fun. People like him did.

He delivered the first chorus, singing of piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, and yoga. Singing of infidelity that was okay because it was mutual.Ironic, even. A couple who fell back in love. A couple who stoked dead flames with sex in the dunes of a midnight cape.

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