Page 1 of The Edge of Summer
PROLOGUE
DELILAH
There are toomany casseroles in the refrigerator.
I always thought the sheer onslaught of food after someone dies was a bit ridiculous—a Hollywood movie cliché—but after the funeral, people started coming out of the woodwork offering bakeware I’ll probably never get around to giving back.
What I could really use help with is navigating wills and final wishes and estates—all the things I didn’t think I would have to worry about for decades. Instead all I have is twenty casseroles and no desire to eat any of them. That, and a slew of unsolicited opinions about how I should be handling everything.
Are you sure you can manage two children? You’re only twenty-five.
Of course you should take them. It’s what your parents would have wanted.
You aresobrave. I would be a totalmessin your situation!
The biggest thing I have come to realize in the past fewweeks: people suck at navigating death. I wasn’t good at it either. I’m still not. No one knows what to say, and when they think they do, whatever comes out of their mouth makes me feel like punching something. Possibly them.
Maybe I just want someone to blame—somewhere to hurl this ugly ball of hurt churning in my chest beneath the film of numbness. One of these days, the numbness will wear off, and I fear then that I will shatter.
There are so many things I wish I could say. So many things I wish I had done differently. Regret has never tasted so bitter. If I hadn’t taken that picture, would they still be here? My parents certainly wouldn’t have been out driving that afternoon if it wasn’t for me and the mess they had to clean up.
The rain slants sideways as it pelts the windows of my family’s James Bay home. Rain isn’t exactly a novel concept on the west coast, but the torrential downpour and the cracks of thunder feel angry, like the earth is seeking revenge.
I never used to be afraid of thunderstorms. As a kid, each time lightning lanced the blackened sky, I would watch in quiet fascination. Storms are as natural a phenomenon as any; Mother Nature taking back her power. But ever since the night that police constable knocked on my apartment door, that appreciation for the weather has been lost. In its place is a low-level anxiety that lives in the pit of my stomach, making me wonder whose family the natural phenomenon will claim next.
My phone chiming with a text pulls me from my stupor. I realize then that I’ve been standing in front of the open fridge, staring at nothing. I half expect my mother to appearand chastise me for letting the cold air get out. But I’m alone, like I have been for weeks. I pull the device from my back pocket and check my messages.
Mitchell
Have you come to your senses yet?
Asshole. I came to my senses the day I found out he was cheating on me and proceeded to dump him.
I want to scream. I want to hurl my phone at the wall and let it smash to pieces. But what if someone needs to reach me about my siblings or my parents’ estate? My life isn’t mine—not anymore. I dropped out of my masters program two days after it happened, back when the numbness was fresh and every task I checked off the list felt like I was one step closer to feeling normal again. Except normal doesn’t exist.
I’m not changing my mind. Leave me alone.
Mitchell
We were together for eight years, Delilah. I deserve more than a shitty excuse of a reason.
I don’t really give a shit what you think you deserve. I didn’t deserve to have my private pictures splashed across the internet but life isn’t fair, is it?
Mitchell
Baby, I told you that wasn’t me.
And I told you to go fuck yourself.
The slamming of the front door distracts me. The sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs steals my attention altogether. I pocket my phone and instantly forget about my asshole ex. By the time I make it to the foyer, Parker is long gone, though his backpack rests haphazardly at the foot of the steps.
I quickly poke my head into the living room. Sophia is still set up on the couch, watching whatever mind-numbing kids’ show is popular right now. Days with her are easy. It’s only at night that her emotions wreak havoc. It’s only at night that I hear her cry. Sleep hasn’t come easy for either of us lately.
Upstairs, I find my brother in his bedroom. He angrily tugs at the tie from his school uniform that is still looped around his neck. His fingers shake, making the task impossible.
“Let me help,” I say. I brush his hands away, and then I work to gently loosen the knot. “Want to tell me what’s wrong? Why are you home so early?”
Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving school? Going out in the rain?
