Page 63 of The Summer of Everything

A colossal, giggling monster stumbles past him. Well, not a monster. The heavy shadows make it difficult for Wes to identify that it’s two people, one piggybacking on another. Cooper’s perched on a tall Asian girl’s back as she trudges through the sand. Her face, soft with a round nose and a thick lower lip, is familiar, as if Wes has seen it more than once.

Then it clicks:Devon. Cooper’s BFF. Manu’s cousin.

They carry on: Cooper shouting, Devon galloping. They manage a few more feet before eating sand. Wes laughs into the crook of his elbow. Then he pulls out his phone.

Is it kind of creepish to log on to Instagram to see if Manu’s posted any photo evidence or maybe a live story of himself at The Howls?

As of last week, he and Manu are online mutuals.

Wes is formallyallowedto casually scroll through Manu’s Insta while standing in the middle of the beach at night with the smallest morsel of hope that he’s here.

They’ve spent the past week liking each other’s old posts. Some mornings, Wes wakes up to four different notifications—all from @manus808. They leave single-word comments under each other’s captions. “Love.” “Sweet.” “Wow.” Occasionally, Manu drops an emoji, like a palm tree or the blushing face.

Once, Wes tapped the red heart emoji, then quickly deleted it. What was he thinking? Everyone knows full commitment is required when using that emoji. Things haven’t escalated to that level.

Manu’s last post was two days ago.

Wes slides his phone into his back pocket. If he’s here, maybe Wes will stumble into him the way he did on the pier. It’ll happen organically. Then they can talk, face-to-face, like adults. Except, with no Manu or Nico or Ella, Wes realizes he’s all alone.

Is that what being adult is? Making all these mature executive decisions that result in loneliness?

Wes staggers down the beach.

“You look lost.”

Planted on the sand closer to the shore, Wes watches the water slither up to his feet. He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting when Zay plops down next to him. Ten minutes? Thirty? His whole life?

Wes shrugs lazily. “I’m cool.”

“Brooding,” Zay says.

“Placid.” Wes groans. He hates that word. He doesn’t know why he said it.

But Zay laughs, then coughs into his fist. “Tranquil.”

Wes likes this game. He likes that Zay, despite all the fun and noise and bad singing, is willing to play along. He whispers, “Desolate,” to the ocean.

Zay’s elbow touches his. “That’s heavy.”

Without looking, Wes slowly nods.

“Where’s your sidekick?”

“Who?” Wes knows who Zay’s referring to, but he’s willing to act ignorant if Zay obliges.

A rolling grin pushes Zay’s cheeks upward. “Okay.” And Wes has never been more thankful for the way Zay changes the subject. “I’m meeting with the school’s academic advisor.”

“What? When? Tomorrow?”

“No. The first day of school.”

Wes’s eyebrows feel permanently stuck at the top of his forehead.

“My momma emailed a bunch of people. I don’t know.” Zay runs a hand through his hair. It’s so thick, his fingers disappear, and all Wes can see is his wrist. “Since UCLA doesn’t have an early admissions option, we’re going to discuss ways for me to jump headfirst into things. Maybe extra course loads.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I mean,” Zay pauses, pulling at a few tangled curls. “I want to go to UCLA. And I want to be ready.”

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