Page 35 of Summer Romance

Frannie puts her hands together in prayer and bows her head. “Thank you.” She refills my water and narrows her eyes at me. “So what gives?”

She knows. I have kissed her brother and infiltrated the universe with impure thoughts about him ever since. Saturday night I lay in bed and I could still feel the pressure of his lips on mine, his hand on my waist. She has to know.“Nothing.” I shove eggs into my mouth to thwart a confession.

“Ali. Hard pants, clean hair. I swear when you walked in here you were wearing lip gloss. What gives?”

I laugh with relief. “Yes, I made a fresh start today. And it feels pretty good. These jeans even fit. Did you notice that?”

“I did. And if I didn’t know better I’d think you were preparing to date a real grown-up man.”

“Oh, please,” I say.

She walks away because someone’s short stack is ready. I’m not going to admit to her that I get to see him at noon today. Last night I got in bed with Iris and Cliffy on either side of me, listening to them disagree about what we were going to read, and rubbed my fingers together to try to re-create the feel of his hands on my skin. I like the way I’ve contained things. Nothing in public because my kids can’t know. And neither should Frannie. No sex because that might put me on a slippery slope emotionally. Just a fun, easy summer where the end takes care of itself. The magic of the summer romance lies in the constraints.

My phone beeps, and it’s him: Is it noon yet?

I smile at my phone and my face goes hot.

“What?” asks Frannie as she walks back.

“Nothing. It’s just Scooter. He wants me to come help with the house.” I busy myself with replying so I don’t have to look at her: Be there in 15.

20

Frannie packs me a to-go lunch of a giant turkey sandwich and a garden salad, and I head to Ethan’s. The door is ajar, so I let myself in. The four piles in the living room have grown since Saturday, suggesting a little progress.

“Ethan?” I call out.

“Up here,” he calls from the second floor. I find him in the master bedroom, lying flat on his back on the king-size bed.

“You okay?”

He smiles when he sees me and then motions toward the closet. “I cannot do this.”

It feels natural to plop down next to him on the bed, so I do.

He takes my hand, and I feel relieved. Like I’ve plugged back into an energy source. Warmth moves through my body as our fingers entwine. “So what are we going to do?” he asks.

“We’re going to clean this place out. Frannie made uslunch, and we get to eat it after we’ve worked for one hour. I’m going to set a timer on my phone.”

He groans and squeezes my hand. “I’ve been in that closet since eight a.m. Every single article of clothing feels like a relic, like a piece of history. It’s like it’s alive and someone’s asking me to kill it.”

It’s time for me to exert my forward-moving energy. I have an arsenal of questions that will unstick this stuck homeowner: Do you plan to use these items in the future? Would it be enough to photograph them and put the photos in a book to honor the memory? But I know exactly how he feels, every time I try to sort through our basement to clear space around the washing machine. Little-boy corduroy pants that crawled in the sandbox. Tiny Mary Janes that sashayed in the kindergarten play. I can’t let any of it go.

I stand up. “We are going to walk into that closet and choose the ten best costumes, and we are going to respectfully box them up and keep them. Is ten a good number? Can you commit to just ten?”

“I cannot remember ever being this overwhelmed.”

“It’s a thing,” I say. I know this because I feel this way in every room of my house.

“Can we move to the basement?” he says.

“No. One hour in the closet.” I let go of his hand and pull up the timer on my phone. “Starts now.” I walk into the closet and am hit with a wall of full-length ball gowns. Some of them are hilarious, and some are exquisite. He stands next to me as I pull each one out.

“Donate?” he asks.

“Okay, start a pile there.”

I pull out a shimmery silver flapper dress and hold it up to myself. “What about this?” He turns around and looks me over, up and down, and then settles on my face with that look that is absolutely not how Cliffy looks at me.

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