Page 8 of Same Time Next Summer

“No. I just like to listen to music. Like anyone.”

“What’s that like?”

Wyatt rolled his eyes. “What’s it like to listen to music? Same as it is for anyone. I close my eyes and listen. I can see the different instruments coming in and out of the song. I like to pick it apart, I guess.”

“That’s not the same as it is for anyone.”

Wyatt let out a breath. “Great, we’ve discovered a new area where I’m a freak.”

Over the course of two weeks, they talked about how he thought Michael was partying too much. How he thought his parents either were scared of Michael or had given up on him. They talked about Sam and Travis and how their family was perfect, how easy everything was for them. Wyatt described the braid Sam made in the front of her hair, the ease of it.

“I have no idea why I told you that.” Wyatt eyed the guitar.

“Listen,” said Dr. Nick. “Between you and me, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I think you’re a surfer stuck in the middle of the country in February. I think you might be a little in love with this Sam person.” He held up a hand against Wyatt’s protest. “But that’s your problem, not mine, to fix. I’m going to release you from these sessions, if you agree to my terms.”

Wyatt wasn’t so sure he wanted to meet the terms; he kind of liked coming to Dr. Nick’s office. He still hadn’t talked about the thing between his parents, and he felt like he finally wanted to.

“I need you to go to class. Every class. I need you to eat. And every night after dinner, you are going to go to the music department for guitar lessons. First one’s tonight. Take this.” He handed Wyatt his guitar. Wyatt ran his hand along the smooth neck and let his fingers rest on the frets. He dared to pluck out a sound, and he saw it take shape the second he heard it.

7

Sam

The summer that Sam was fifteen she found herself safely tucked into a group of girls. They gathered on the beach in the late mornings and went to town or to each other’s houses when it got too hot. In the afternoons they’d swim or watch the boys surf until the sun went down.

There was a lot of talking in a big group of girls, and Sam tried to keep up. They talked about the boys on the beach, whom they simultaneously ignored and hoped would come talk to them. Every time the talking slowed down, Sam jumped in with a suggestion: swim out to the jetty, dig a hole big enough for all of them, bike to the bakery.

She still spent her mornings with Wyatt, swimming down to the cove and adding shells to her design. They never made plans to do this, but Sam would walk out onto her back deck each morning and find Wyatt sitting on the steps waiting for her.

“Hey,” he’d say, getting up.

“Hey,” she’d say, and they’d walk straight through the dunes and into the ocean.

On a morning in August, Sam came out for their swim with half a granola bar and a frown. “You okay?” Wyatt asked.

“I’m fine,” said Sam, and walked past him through the dunes. She really didn’t want to talk about it. Last night her closest girlfriend, Cayla, had called her and said that all of the girls were going to go to a boy’s house in Sunnydale. His parents were away and there was going to be a party.

“It’s going to be like boys and beer and stuff. Not really your scene, but I just wanted to tell you, like not to leave you out.”

Sam could have told Cayla that she’d love to go. But the truth was that it wasn’t really her scene. She didn’t want to go hang out with a bunch of strange boys; she didn’t want to drink beer. She just wanted to wake up early and collect shells. As she swam down toward the cove, she wondered what was wrong with her.

Sam swam straight to the cove without stopping. When they were coming out of the ocean, Wyatt stopped to catch his breath. “God, Sam. The only way I can do this is if you take breaks to look for shells.”

Sam wasn’t out of breath at all. “I forgot,” she said, and walked into the cove.

Wyatt followed her and watched as she moved a few shells around and then moved them back to where they had been before.

“Let’s just go,” she said.

“Sam, what’s wrong with you?”

She didn’t say anything. She looked at her shellcollection carefully strewn around under the tree. She wondered for the first time what her friends would say if they saw this.

“You’re right,” she said. “This is weird.”

Wyatt walked over to her and took her hand. It was the first time he’d ever held her hand, and the feel of it completely distracted Sam from feeling sorry for herself. She felt like the heat from his skin on hers was moving all the way up her arm. She placed her other hand on top of his so she could keep this feeling a little longer.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m freezing. Let’s dry off.” Wyatt let go of her hand, and she followed him to a patch of sun at the edge of the cove. They sat looking up the beach, where the sun was still low on the unspent day.

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