Page 107 of The Summer of Everything

Mrs. Rossi is right. At some point, everyone has to move forward.

So, Wes does. He presses his store key to her desk. Then he eases his arms around her for a hug. It lasts too long. But that’s okay. Sometimes, it’s appropriate to hold on longer than necessary.

Neither one of them mentions how wet Mrs. Rossi’s shoulder is when he pulls away. They don’t comment on their damp cheeks, or the way they keep sniffling.

They just… move on.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“You have one new voicemail.”

“Buenos días, Wesley. ¿Cómo estás? It’s Nico’s mom. Oh, you know that already, don’t you? Duh!Today’s Nico’s father’s birthday. We’re getting together, as a family, down by the beach to watch the sunset and have a small memorial for him. Please come. Around 6:00 p.m. I’m cooking dinner after. You still love my cooking, yes? Te amo.”

“End of message.”

The sun over Santa MonicaBeach has begun its lethargic dip behind the horizon. Wes haphazardly rolls his white shirtsleeves to his elbows. He presses down the shirt’s collar. Then, discreetly, he lifts one arm, sniffing.Still fresh. He didn’t have a chance to shower after his shift.

Behind him, an ivory house trimmed in blue looks over the soft sand. Wes spent half of his high school years in that house. He knows the legs of the table on the patio are uneven. He knows there’s a spare key under one of the potted spider plants. He knows the open window on the second floor is Nico’s.

Wes knows Mrs. Alvarez’s scent—mangoes and light roast coffee—when she finds him. She tugs him into a long hug. He holds her tightly as evening joggers and cyclists maneuver around them.

“Te extrañé,” she says into his ear.

Wes knows this, too—I missed you. It’s what she always says, no matter if it’s been months or hours since they were last around each other. She steps back, auditing him. He rubs a damp hand across the back of his curls.

“You look great,” she finally says.

Embarrassed, Wes stammers, “Thank you Mrs. Alva—” but she cuts him off.

“Guadalupe,” she insists, just like Mr. Alvarez would. “Just Lupe, you know that.”

He can’t fix his lips to say Lupe. “It’s good to see you,” he replies instead.

“You too.” She fires off a series of questions. How was Italy? How are his parents? How is Leo? She’s heard about the wedding and wants all the necessary details. After Wes has rambled about how Leeann’s checklists make his look inferior, Lupe talks about her daughters with this unnamable glow. She mentions Nico and Stanford, and Wes dutifully forces out a grin that his lips barely hold.

“I bet you’re excited about school,” says Lupe.

“So hyped.”

Lupe hums. Wes suspects she notices the flatness in his tone, but she says, “Just like that Nico. Undecided,” without any explanation.

“Uh. Sure.”

“Come.” She links her arm with his, gently pulling. “Walk with me.”

They follow the bike path. She leads him onto the sand, closer to the pier and roaring Pacific Ocean. The water drifts so far up the shore, it shreds someone’s forgotten sandcastle. Wes loves the way the sun looks against Lupe’s already warm face.

“Martín loved this hour,” she says to the ocean. “He loved the sunset. He’d talk about how this is when you knew it was okay to let whatever was troubling you go. Because the day was ending. “Don’t carry today into tomorrow,” he’d tell our children.”

Her mouth falters, almost frowning.

She’s inches shorter than Wes, just like Nico. Carefully, he leans close. A reminder. If she needs comfort, he’s here.

“It doesn’t hurt as much to miss him now. Not for me.” She tilts her chin up; her eyes blink shut. “But I know it’s still hard for Nico.”

Wes is expecting tears when her eyes flutter open, but there are none.

“God, I’d never wish to lose that wonderful man, but if I had a choice, it’d be for it to happen later. When Nico was away, doing things for himself.” Her mouth twitches. “He doesn’t have to tell me he misses Martín. He doesn’t have to explain why he’s going to school over three hundred miles away to simultaneously fix something that wasn’t his fault and to get away from the painful memories of it all. But I wish he was doing this for himself; not for me or Martín.”

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