Page 47 of Same Time Next Summer

Travis picks me up at the train. “Did you know Wyatt’s coming out for the weekend?” I ask, like I’m just making conversation.

Travis smiles at the steering wheel. “I did not know that.”

“He gets in tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” he says.

“What?” There’s really no one in the world who can use silence to convey as much ironic disapproval as a sibling. All that unspoken history fills the space.

“Nothing. Just interesting that he’s turning up here. And you’ve somehow managed to leave Jack behind.”

“Oh come on. Jack didn’t want to come. He hates it out here.” I’ve exaggerated, of course, but somehow I feel like I need to defend myself. It’s not like I planned a weekend with Wyatt.

“He does?” Travis has dropped his edge. “What’s there to hate?”

“ ‘Hate’ is the wrong word. He just prefers Mom andDad in the city, where they’re a little more standard. Out here, the wacky house and all the stuff is a little much for him.”

“That’s who they are, Sam. That’s like the best, happiest part of them. Jack’s going to have to embrace it. And as much as you act like a tight-ass, it’s a big part of who you are too.”

We’re on West Main Street now. Flags left over from Fourth of July are getting a second chance for Labor Day. A couple stumbles out of the Old Sloop Inn. We turn onto Saltaire Lane and pass Wyatt’s house; no lights are on. Everything feels different than it did a few weeks ago, like without Jack as a buffer it’s an actual step back in time.

We let ourselves in through the front door, and I allow myself to feel, maybe all the way down to a cellular level, how good it feels to be home. Everyone’s asleep, and I smell garlic roasted potatoes that were likely burned a few hours ago. On the table by the front door is the usual assortment of mason jars, now with one full of rubber bands in different colors. I smile to myself, wondering if they’re for a tie-dye experiment or for securing braids. With this crew, it could really be anything.

My mom’s moved the dining room table back into the dining room, but it’s still covered with driftwood and large pieces of peeled-off bark. There’s a basket with a collection of sticks perched on a wingback chair. Travis finds me standing there, staring.

“You new around here?” he asks.

I laugh. “It looked like so much crazy garbage last time I was here. Now it just looks so happy.”

Travis finds an open bottle of red wine on the counter next to a bowl of nuts and we take it all out onto the porch.

“Hugh can’t stand it either, if that makes you feel better,” he says.

“The house?”

“The stuff. He wants to kidnap them and take every last random piece of garbage and throw it out. He thinks that if Dad lived in a minimalist house, he’d be painting again. He daydreams about it.”

“Clean lines?” I ask.

“Oh my God, it’s all he talks about.” We laugh.

“I like how they know what makes them happy,” I say.

We’re quiet for a bit, listening to the waves break. I’ve never been able to decide if the waves sound different at night or if there’s just less noise to compete with them.

Travis says, “I feel like I should apologize for not telling you about Wyatt, but I’m not really sorry. It was hard for me, the thing with Mom and Dad and then seeing you totally fall apart. It was such a nightmare, and I was away at school, totally useless to you. By the time that song came out and Wyatt’s life had changed course, you were finally okay.”

“So you thought I’d fall apart again if I knew.”

“I was afraid. And I waited two extra years to come out, waiting for you to feel normal again. That was a really hard time for me, and I figured telling you would start all the drama again. Maybe selfish in retrospect.”

“I’m sorry.” I never really thought much about how my falling apart affected Travis. I always pictured him having a big time in college, having escaped at the exact rightmoment. But I do remember all the calls to Mom to check in, the texts to me about absolutely nothing. He was taking our family’s temperature and biding his time.

“But it’s okay seeing him now, right? Like, it’s good that you know all that before you marry Jack and move on with your mostly functional life.”

“Mostly functional.” I raise my glass to that. “Do you think Missy McGee knows she’s singing about Wyatt’s old girlfriend all the time?”

“I’m guessing no.”

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