Page 11 of Roses in Summer

Opening my eyes, I shift on the floor and reach into my back pocket, pulling out my phone and bringing it to my face to unlock it. I ignore the texts and social media notifications that sprout up, instead going straight for the name of the one person I never wanted to speak to again.

Seraphina: We need to talk.

His reply is instant, as though he was waiting for my message.

Mitch: I knew you’d come to your senses.

Hatred, sharp and painful, hits me in the chest. I resist saying what I want to: telling him to fuck off and fall into a ditch. Instead, I ask him to meet.

Seraphina: Meet me tonight at Arlow’s Diner. Seven.

Mitch: See you there, babe.

Seraphina: Do not call me that.

I seethe at his nonchalant attitude. How can he be so calm when my world feels like it’s falling apart?

4

Lincoln

I sing along to the lyrics of The Gaslight Anthem’s “Old White Lincoln,” tapping my thumb in frustration as I weave in and out of traffic on the NJ Turnpike South. All morning, as I counted dishes and stacked plates, I thought of Seraphina.

All afternoon and evening, when I scraped food and remnants of shared meals, I worried about Seraphina.

And now, driving back from the city and toward home, I’m consumed by thoughts of Seraphina.

When we first met and exchanged numbers, there was no ritual or habit to our text sprees; sometimes, they would come in the morning, other times at midnight. But as we’ve grown comfortable and learned each other’s schedules, we’ve fallen into a pattern. I always text her in the morning since I’m least likely to wake up before eight, and she typically texts or calls at night so that I have something to look forward to on the drive home from work.

But tonight, she broke that pattern, and I can’t help but feel that asshole who followed her outside at school is the reason why.

“What’s going on, little ciern?” I speak into the dashboard, wondering if voicing the concern out loud is akin to the Sandman or Bloody Mary, where you’re supposed to feign ignorance and not call attention to them for fear of an attack. Or, in my case, the worst situation to come true.

My phone vibrates rapidly in my cupholder, and I fish it out, hoping it’s a call from Seraphina, but I deflate as soon as the name on the screen pops up. Lowering my music to background noise, I swipe to answer the call.

“Czesc, Mamo.”Hi, Mom.

“Czesc, Kochanie.How was work?” My mom seamlessly switches from Polish to English; barely an accent remains as she oscillates languages. Growing up on a dairy farm in the Polish countryside, she met my dad, a Louisiana Creole talent manager, when she started modeling as a young adult. They’re a study in contrasts, with my father’s dark skin, dark eyes, and patient personality and my mom’s fair complexion, white-blonde hair, and quick temper.

“It was good. I’m on my way back to the house.”

“Good. Now I wanted to speak with you about Mother’s Day.” I roll my eyes at my mom’s words. It’s November, and there’s no reason for us to speak about a holiday in May this far in advance.

Instead of telling her that, though, I humor her and let her absurdity distract me from my worry over Seraphina. “And what about it? It’s the second Sunday of May, right?”

“Tak, and on May twenty-sixth. There are two we celebrate, as you know, American and Polish.” Yes, but only one Father’s Day in our house.

“Of course.” My tone is serious, but inside, I’m laughing at her.

“I’d like to go away the week between the two days this year. A family trip would be very nice. Can you arrange your schedule to take off?”

Since the request will come six months before I need it, I’m sure that won’t be a problem. But again, instead of snark and sarcasm, I give my mother the respect she deserves and commands. “Yes, I’ll tell Franki.”

“Good, good. And please, give Francesca and her wife my love, yes? And tell her to pass along to Sylvia that I’ll be calling her for lunch.”

“Why don’t you just call Dante’s mom yourself? You don’t need Franki to tell her that.” In high school, my parents became close with Dante’s parents, especially his mom after his dad was killed, and also Grey’s dad. Knowing each other for so long eased the transition from high school to college, and now, as adults, it makes the step into senior year and impending adulthood less dramatic.

“Lincoln.” My mom huffs, sounding about as scary as a housecat.

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