Page 58 of The Summer List

I’m still holding Naomi’s hand when we make it back out to the road. I use my other hand to push the last few stalks of corn out of our way, and as soon as my feet touch the strip of dried-out dirt that runs between the edge of the field and the side of the road, I squeeze my palm extra tight around hers to remind us both this isn’t some heatstroke-induced dream.

This is real.

I really told her I like her. I really asked her out on a date, and maybe getting tangled up in whatever’s happening between us is the exact opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing this summer, but it’s just like I told her: the second she took off running, I knew I had to run after her.

I knew I needed her to know I was as close to kissing her last night as she was to kissing me.

Sparks shoot up and down my arm, radiating from our joined hands, and I fight the urge to stop and just kiss her here and now. It’s stupid and cheesy, but I can’t help thinking Naomi Waters is the kind of person you kiss at sunset or midnight or in the pouring rain, when the world looks as magic as being with her feels.

Then again, I was full prepared to kiss her while floating around in an inner tube in a hot tub, but still, it was raining.

“Is that…another car?”

Naomi comes to a halt so fast I get jerked back beside her. We popped out of the field a few meters down from the van. I look over and see the hint of another car parked in front of the van.

We jog the rest of the way up to the vehicles and find Shal and Priya talking to an old woman with frizzy grey hair who’s wearing a sundress and passing around a bag of what looks like trail mix. They all turn at the sound of our approach, and I notice Shal and Priya’s eyes widen when they spot my hand clutching Naomi’s. I give Naomi a quick glance and squeeze her palm one last time before I let go.

“We were wondering when you’d make it back,” Shal says, her voice laced with a suggestive note. “Meet our new friends, Mary and Bobby.”

The woman with the trail mix waves, and a balding guy I didn’t even realize was here pokes his head up above the hood of the van to say hello.

“They have a tire changing kit,” Shal says. “They passed by on their way to the rest stop and offered to help.”

“We’re saved!” I say, leading the way over to the others. “That’s amazing. Thank you so much.”

“No problem, sweetie,” Mary answers. “Want some trail mix?”

We spend the next fifteen minutes eating trail mix and pretending the lingering tension between Priya and Naomi isn’t thick enough to choke on. Our rescuers refuse any offers of buying them lunch at the rest stop, and once they’ve driven off, we’re left standing in silence.

I’m about to offer to take a walk or sit in the van to give them some privacy when Naomi clears her throat and looks straight at Priya.

“You’re right,” she says.

Priya shakes her head, her expression pinched. “Naomi, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, I get it,” Naomi cuts in. “I get why you didn’t tell me about the guy at music school. I get why you wanted something that was just for you. I…I’ve been so scared, and I’ve taken things way too personally when really I should have just been excited for you. You shouldn’t have to be the rock all the time. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Priya’s eyes get all shiny before she rasps the words, “Thank you.”

I’ve never had a conversation like this with a friend. I’ve never had a friend like this at all. I filled up my life in Montreal with so many people, but I’ve barely thought about any of them since I left. I never got to know them well enough to feel like we could depend on each other—or let each other down.

They were just people to pass the time with, people to laugh with or go on drives with or peer pressure into singing along with me while I played guitar. I didn’t have to worry about disappointing them because that’s all they saw me as too: some fun and nothing more.

“I don’t want you to have to feel like that anymore, Priya,” Naomi says. “You’re not a sidekick. You deserve people in your life who can celebrate your wins, and I want to be one of them. I promise I’ll do better. I promise I’ll be there for you too, even when it’s scary or hard for me, because you being happy is one of the best things in the world, even when it’s some random saxophonist dude with bad dance moves making you smile.”

Priya lets out a watery laugh as a few of her tears manage to escape and slide down her cheeks.

“He plays trumpet,” she says in a choked voice, “and his moves were not that bad.”

She lifts her arms in a tentative invitation, and Naomi hesitates for a second before rushing into the hug. My chest aches as I watch them squeeze each other and sway back and forth.

For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about all the times I’ve apologized to my mom for one thing or another and how I always waited for that moment when she’d tell me everything was okay, when she’d lift her arms just like Priya did and wait for me to run into them.

Only she never did. Hugs were for when I got things right, not when I got them wrong.

I hear Priya sniffle before she pulls back enough to look at Naomi.

“I didn’t mean t-to call you p-pathetic. I’m so sorry. I don’t think that at all. I was just hurt, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

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