Page 82 of The Summer of Everything

He does, but Wes knows it’s not why Zay’s doing this. It’s not pity either. It’s just Zay. The silly kid always acts as though he owes the world when, really, it’s the other way around.

“It’s settled then.” Ella stalks over to the front counter. She tugs on her leather jacket, swings her car keys. “We’re going out.”

“Ella,” Wes says hoarsely, throat dry. “This is unnecessary. We have to be here for the bookstore and—”

“It’ll be fine,” Ella says sharply. “The bookstore, like any other day, will prevail. We’re leaving.”

Before Wes can launch into his next desperate plea out of a night sure to be filled with alcohol and crying and feelings, Anna says, “I’m going too.” She’s already armed with her denim jacket and a light gray beanie.

Shit. Wes has no reinforcements to battle Anna’s determined, Teflon smile. He’s defenseless when they gang up on him.

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

Going outis code fora trip to Downtown Los Angeles. It only takes forty-five minutes in traffic on I-10 for Ella to regret her decision. But she blasts pop grunge mayhem the entire way, so her road rage is minimized to a few choice swear words and middle-fingered salutes. Anna wails along from the backseat while Wes rides shotgun, slouching. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he creeps on Nico’s Instagram, searching for clues to who this girl is. It’s masochism at its finest.

Since Nico hasn’t updated his feed in days, Wes dives into his older posts. He clicks on every tag in a photo for an unfamiliar account. He zooms in on every image for the barest hint of a hand or a foot or anything that might resemble someone other than Nico standing on the beach with a sunset backdrop and a cheesy expression. He achieves total stalker stardom by scrolling through Nico’s followers as if those tiny profile photos will unlock the mysteries of Red Hair Girl.

They don’t.

He’s nauseated and broken and embarrassed by the time they pull up on Fatburger for fries and milkshakes.

Wes manages to huff half a Maui banana shake with minimal brain freeze before they reach their true final destination: the top deck of a random parking garage near Seventh Street. Moonlight bursts through rangy clouds east of the city. Each breath is charged with the scent of greasy fries and polluted summer air and motor oil. They sprawl out on the hood of Ella’s car, three-deep, munching and slurping.

The car’s windows are cracked. Fortunately, Wes took control of the music before they arrived. Weezer’s laid-back, power pop anthem “Island in the Sun” serenades the city. It’s a cool night. July’s dead and August has arrived to wear summer’s pale gold crown.

His phone buzzes. A text from Calvin to join the ones from Leeann and Leo. Wes ignores it, turning on his side to face Ella and Anna.

“How do you get over someone?”

Ella, knees bent, eyes on the few visible stars in the sky, replies, “Try not to get under them?” with an unreasonably serious face.

Anna snorts, and Wes joins her, a hand over his eyes.

“I don’t know. Feelings are overrated,” Ella says. “They’re messy. And emotions, if allowed to run wild, are way too controlling.”

“True story,” Anna mumbles, her mouth filled with fries.

“I mean, look at it. In high school, we treat relationships like a bragging right. We’re not really in it. It’s a game.” Ella sips on her chocolate shake. “And all the adults around us act as if being in love is this cure-all. Love doesn’t fix anything.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to,” Wes says, head propped on his forearm.

“Exactly. Stop trying to fix your issues with love or sex or a damn puppy.”

“Puppies are nice,” Anna says.

“Okay, admittedly, any pet that will openly show you affection without needing anything other than food and somewhere to nap is hella awesome,” Ella agrees. “But why do people try to use other things to repair something inside themselves? Like, a kid won’t help you resolve long-ignored mental health issues just because someone on TV suggested children are the foundation of a strong relationship.”

Wes nods, though Ella’s not looking at him.

“I swear it’s the transitive property.” Ella glares at the indigo sky. “No one thinks about how much of your own shit you transfer onto someone or something else when you unload all that on them.”

“I don’t think that’s the transitive property,” comments Wes.

“Whatever it is, it’s harmful and abusive and ignorant.”

“Word,” Wes mumbles.

“Do you know I had to beg my mom to go to therapy?” Ella laughs roughly. “And get this—she’s so determined to make sure none of her wine o’clock plastic friends find out about it that, when she finally agreed, I had to find a therapist online.Skype sessions only. Poor Mrs. Graham couldn’t afford the social landslide that would occur if anyone spotted her fat, less-than-perfect daughter walking into an actual office building to work through her issues.”

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