Page 88 of The Summers of Us

The good life I managed without him.

He’d smile and tell me he’s happy for me. He’d wish to be part of the rest, work to earn my forgiveness, tell me it’s okay to stop being so guarded due to his mistakes.

We wouldn’t catch any fish, but he’d think my company made it worth trying. We’d have one of those moments under the purple sound sky that only happens in movies. Same as the ones we used to have with the fireflies back home. Only now, the fireflies would be frog croaks from the edge of the marsh. We’d try to predict the next time a frog would croak. He’d mimic one at the perfect moment, at almost the exact pitch. I’d laugh like it was the funniest sound I’d ever heard.

Because it would be.

And I’d be happy.

Then I’d say it, more confident than I’ve ever been: “I love you.”

Then he’d apologize.

I can’t figure it out after that. My daydream rolls into a credits scene that only happens in movies.

Is there remorse in his eyes? How does the “I’m sorry” leave his mouth? Is it a gentle inland breeze on reddening skin? Is it stormy beach wind that rolls like beach thunder? Is it the most windless day Piper Island has ever seen? I can’t decide, but the most telling thing is how void it is of “I love you, too.”

He doesn’t say it over text, but could he tell his daughter he loves her while he stares at the parts of her that bleed his shade of red?

He can’t. He doesn’t. Hehasn’t. If he really loved me, he would have said so. He wouldn’t have left me waiting so long for a reply. He would be here. He would see the woman his daughter has become. He would be here. He wouldn’t have left me a fatherless mess nine years ago.

He would be here.

I know that. I know my dad stopped loving me years ago. I was stupid to think otherwise.

My reply taunts me on the screen:I know.

Why did I respond in the middle of the night, the exact minute he sent his? Why did I respond at all? In my sleepy stupor, I was a desperate puppy waiting at the door for my owner to return. Ready to douse him in kisses, already clueless about how long he’d left me alone.What an idiot.

I find a different reply from that same night at the Rivera-Sanchezes’. From someone who didn’t need time to respond. With my mom, it never takes more than thirty minutes.

I love you, too, baby. Is everything okay?

I reread her excited response to the Gibson’s selfie with Everett. My mom, who I’ve painted as cold and broken since everything happened, sent me a selfie back, smiling beside a glass of mango smoothie. Most of all, she loves me back.

Good morning, I text, and vow to have one myself.

I slink from my bed and ignore the dull whine in my ankle. I wake up in less pain each day, but I’ve kept it wrapped since Lake Lockwood.

That night on Adriana’s couch, my sunburn and sprained ankle took turns keeping me awake. The sunburn lit a fire within me while my ankle throbbed in a rehearsed beat. I felt like I was roasting on a spit. I listened to the ceiling fan squeak, listened to Everett breathe rhythmically on the air mattress next to the couch. Eventually his breathing turned into the silent, awake kind. I whisperedfor him, and we spent whatever time passed between sleep hypothesizing about what happens in a blackhole. He was close enough to touch, close enough to quell the scary, deep-rooted thoughts that befell a dark, lonely room, close enough to help me defeat my night demons.

On my way to the kitchen, I pass Blair on the couch. Her hair’s up in a lazy Sunday morning ponytail and she watches a couple on TV get their beach house remodeled.

I grab a mandarin orange from the fridge and sit next to her. I find an empty space on the coffee table, prop my ankle next to a stack of books and a day-old coffee mug. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Her tone shifts when she sees my face. “What’s wrong?” There’s no sense in questioning how she just read me like one of her romance books. She is Blair Reinhart, after all.

I look at my orange, shove my thumb into the skin, feel the juice run down my arm and think of Haven and cherry popsicle juice. “Do you think my dad still loves me?”

“Oh, Quinn. What’s gotten him on your mind?”

The first thing I notice is the deflection—how she doesn’t answer my question but instead makes her voice pillowy and disarming. The second thing I notice is her body shift my way, her fingers pulling at the ends of my hair.Comfort, because the outlook is not good. If anyone knows that, it’s Blair Reinhart.

“I texted him a few weeks back. Told him I loved him. He responded last night. Didn’t say it back.”

“What did he say?”

I shrug, peel the fleshy webbing off the orange slice. “He said he was sorry.” My nose starts to tickle. I can’t afford to keep crying, but my eyes don’t keep a tally.

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