Page 85 of The Summers of Us

At the house, Adriana’s mom takes a closer look and decides I need more than an ice pack. I don’t need convincing, and neither does Everett. I tell them to start a movie without us. Holden carries me to the car and Everett drives me to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy for painkillers and a wrap bandage.

He leaves the car on and tells me to stay put. I don’t need convincing.

The first beats of an Adele song bleed from the radio. I turn it up and let out a faint chuckle. It was a lifetime ago that Blair grounded me for going to Kelsie’s party, but this song sounds like my first taste of the open road, pointless errands, and a magnificent dinner with Blair. For that reason, it also sounds like tears, beer, and Holden’s echoey truths.

There are a million ways my life is different now.

I check my phone for a text from my dad, and still, nothing.

Everett walks out of the pharmacy, swinging a yellow bag beside him. He slinks into the driver’s side and shuffles through the bag. He pulls out a pint of Gibson’s cotton candy ice cream, wearing a smile as big as the ocean.

My face lights up like the fluorescent streetlights outside. “They have Gibson’s? It’s been years since I last had this!”

I’ve only had this brand once. I was nine and mom found it at our local grocery store. It was one of the nicer memories with Mom that year, going home and sharing it with her in front of the latest animated movie. After that, Mom and I hunted for it at every grocery store and we never found it again.

Everett and I take a picture with it. I text it to Mom who I know will text me as soon as she wakes up tomorrow. I lock my phone before I impulsively check the unreplied text again.

“They only had the one, so I figured it must be good.”

“Better than medicine. Thank you!”

“But you do still need medicine.” Everett pulls painkillers from the bag and hands me a water bottle.

“Well, of course.” I take two tablets. In the bag, I spot a bottle of aloe and the wrap bandage. Those can wait for after my shower, but my ankle demands medicine now. “Thank you. For everything,” I add so he knows “everything” goes as far back as everythings can go.

“No problem.” Everett pulls out of the pharmacy into the darkness of the North Carolina countryside.

Everett’s headlights illuminate the dark road, robust corn fields on both sides. I roll the window down to hear the tired, steady stream of cicada, katydid, and locust songs. Warm night air spills in. I put one hand out the window and brush through the thick air, distracted until “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” starts teasing on the radio.

“No way!” I crank up the volume with an ear-splitting laugh.

“Sing with me, Dr. Kessler?”

I respond by singing the first line, using my closed fist as a microphone. It’s impossible not to. Everett joins me for a duet. What an oxymoron to belt out such a song on a slow, meandering road. An oxymoron to be this happy after everything I’ve been through. An oxymoron to sing a song about an affair with a boy I could never imagine falling into a dull routine with, a boy I never want to escape.

A moonlight I never want to shut the blinds to again.

Still, we sing of escapes, piña coladas, and making love in the dunes. It sounds like crunchy French fries, Boardwalk lights, real cotton candy.

It sounds like our first kiss.

There are a million ways my life is different now.

I don’t want this moment to end. When we approach the sign for Lake Lockwood, I suggest we stop at the lake access to eat the ice cream. Unfortunately lakes don’t have dunes. Unfortunately, I’m still me.

“You know, so everyone doesn’t feel left out,” I add. “Of the ice cream.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Everett plays along, parking in the vacant lot. We overlook the black lake nowdesolate without sun. Not even the moon is out right now; only houses from across the lake break the darkness.

Absent of motion, summer night heat streams in the car. The lake is eerily quiet, but the cicadas, katydids, and locusts have yet to fall asleep. The ache in my ankle has calmed since the medicine, realandmusical.

Everett opens the ice cream. The lid is already overflowing and soggy from sitting in the car’s heat. He puts it on the dashboard and licks the drip from his thumb. I find a plastic spork in his glove box, ripping it out of its wrapper with my teeth.

Orange heat lightning in the distance cracks across the sky, weaving through a thick blanket of clouds.

“You first.” He holds the pint out for me.

I thank the warm air for softening the ice cream. Then I thank my sweet tooth for all the joy I find in crunchy pink and blue sugar sprinkles lodged into sugar-flavored ice cream.

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