Page 87 of The Summers of Us

Hating my dad is to hate half of myself.

Not just the parts of me that I already hate, but the parts of me that make me worth the effort to clean dirty grout, sneak lollipops, find shapes in anything as a distraction, sway in a hammock, trek at 5am to comfort on a pier, slow dance under the stars, drive on a late night pharmacy run.

Hating my dad is to hate the part of me worth falling in love with.

He didn’t deserve to be your dad anyway.

“I know.” A tear finally falls down my cheek. I let it fall, then wipe the rest away with the back of my hand. I fight the tremble in my chin until my jaw hurts. The pressure finally fades. In the silence after, there is relief in finally having found the words to describe what haunts me.

I feel the weight of Everett’s hand on my shoulder.

A raindrop falls on the windshield with a muted thud. We both follow the sound, then look at each other as more raindrops follow. They splatter on the roof like giant needle pricks,tap tap tappingon the car. Rain streaks down the windshield, distorting the distant porch lights. I once told Everett how much I liked this sight. That hasn’t changed. The rain comes fast. Like me, the sky couldn’t hold back its tears anymore either. We rush to roll the windows up before it’s too late.

Then an idea strikes like heat lightning across my face, like lyrics of my and Everett’s song running across a karaoke machine. “Let’s get caught in the rain,” I say and push open my door.

Everett circles around to me, pulls me into the rain that feels nothing like needle pricks. I gasp at the rush of cold, look up at the sky. Millions of raindrops fall, visible in the streetlights around the vacant lot. My eyes blink as quickly as my heart pounds.

I buckle from the pain in my ankle, forced to lean on Everett for help. He hoists me up onto the hood of the car. It’s sopping wet, but all I can do is laugh quick, breathless laughs that can’t catch themselves in the cold. Everett sits next to me, glowing under the streetlights made brighter as they reflect off the rain-soaked air.

“I like getting caught in the rain,” Everett says.

“I was hoping you would.” I wipe raindrops off his beauty mark with my thumb. What an oxymoron, to wipe rain off a boy’s cheeks when the sky isn’t done crying. Happy tears, this time.

He grabs my wrist, smiles at me through the sky’s happiness. “Of course I do.”

That’s what moonlights do.

They illuminate you.

Even the parts of you not worth anything.

What an oxymoron, to live in the same world as Everett Bishop and believe all men are like my dad.

August 10

It comes in the middle of the night—a white, alien light that fills my room.

I open my eyes at the same moment, roused by one of my nightly twists and turns. I think I’m being abducted for the first few seconds, but when I type in my password and let the light stun me awake, I know it’s worse.

Quick, panicked breaths break the eerie silence, peel me out of dreamland.

I read the text my father sent back.

I’m sorry.

I blink a tear down my nose. Exhale to calm my trembling jaw.

I know, I type even though I don’t really know anything at all.

August 10

My phone has no response this morning.

It’s the first thing I do: shift in my sunlit covers, unlock my phone, and stare at the conversation still open on the screen. I close my eyes again, rest the phone on my chest.

I picture that conversation if it happened face to face.

We’d be on the public dock on the sound. He’d come to visit and we’d go fishing to rekindle a long-lost father-daughter relationship. I’d tell him about everyone and everything. How the twins and I fished on the same dock and how I thought of him whenever marshmallow creme glued my fingers together. I’d tell him about the days spent smelling of sunscreen, wearing a bikini under my clothesjust in case.Thoughts of him when fireflies flickered. Laughing over a takeout box of warm hushpuppies. Popsicles. Ashe’s doughnuts. My feelings for Everett.

---