Page 20 of Same Time Next Summer

23

My dad frequently borrows Harold Meyer’s boat. In return, he does Harold’s hedges. We drive to his house on the canal and get ready for our sunset outing. The boat seats eight, which was fine when we were my crew of nine, but now that Wyatt is coming, it’s going to be way too tight. Wyatt arrives with Travis and Hugh. Granny hugs Wyatt, tight. Gracie throws herself at Wyatt, who picks her up and swings her around.How long has this been going on?I wonder. My dad loads two large coolers on board. Travis and Hugh are laden with champagne and plastic cups for the boat ride, and Jack hops off the boat to help them. It’s too much, the weight of it. I worry the boat can’t hold it all.

The ride to Starfish Beach is twenty minutes, but my dad’s cruising slow enough for us to get through the champagne. Of course, we could have driven to any number of other beaches for a picnic, but my dad has no respect for efficiency. Granny Annie’s face is in rapture as it’s hit by the salt air. My mom has a scarf over her head, and I wish I’d thought to do the same. Honestly, I just wish we’d driven toa restaurant. We’d be there by now and my hair would be normal. I never go anywhere without a hair tie, and I am slightly stunned that I’ve chosen today to let this happen. As the wake sprays a delicious mist on my arms, my fingers want to braid, but I won’t allow it. Jack keeps his arm around me as I hold my hair in a ponytail. I think Wyatt is watching us, but I don’t dare look.

We pull up to the dock and my dad kills the engine. The silence fills my ears. For a split second I look at the players on this stage, smiling and windswept, and nothing makes sense. We climb out of the boat and I watch Travis and Wyatt walk down the dock together. Jack wheels both coolers behind him, and I take Gracie’s hand for reassurance.

The picnic tables are right on the beach, and we push two together to accommodate our crew. My mom lays out pink and white tablecloths and plastic plates and cups. She scatters baguettes, cheese, and mounds of prosciutto along the center of the table. When we’re seated, my dad pours rosé. “To the bride and her bridegroom!” he says. And we all clink glasses.

Dinner is cold fried chicken and grilled vegetables, and everything feels surprisingly easy. Wyatt and I are on opposite sides of the long table, separated lengthwise by four bodies.

“So what about you two?” Wyatt asks Travis and Hugh. “Any wedding plans?”

“Sort of,” Travis says.

“Well, we would,” says Hugh, “but it’s not really a good idea tax-wise.” Travis rolls his eyes.

“More like it’s Hugh’s worst nightmare to have thatmany people in a room looking at him,” says Travis. “He wants to elope; I want a little hoopla. So we don’t get married.” He puts his arm around Hugh’s chair in a way that makes me know they’ll figure this out. I can’t imagine either of them with anyone else.

“Ah, romance!” My mother laughs. “What about you, Wyatt? Anyone special out in Los Angeles?” What the heck? I don’t want to know this. I look down at my food and am super-intensely aware of the fact that no one else is uncomfortable but me. I am living in a decade past where my mother wouldn’t have dared mention Wyatt’s name, much less casually ask if he had a girlfriend. I feel a flush of embarrassment at my own thoughts. I want to be a person who has moved on so completely that she’s only mildly interested in the answer to this question. I look up and try to organize my features into neutral. I tilt my head the way dogs do, for good measure.

“Well, ‘special’ is a strong word,” he says. “I’ve dated a singer on and off. Nothing serious.” Wyatt looks satisfied that he’s completely answered her question and bites into a chicken leg.

Granny is looking at me like I’m liquid in a beaker and she doesn’t know what color I’m going to turn. I sip my wine.

“Where does she sing?” asks Jack. It’s a good question. A great question. One that totally follows the thread of this conversation.

Wyatt is wiping his hands and is considering his answer for longer than I think the question warrants. Unless she sings in prison, this is a pretty straightforward question.

“Wherever she gets a gig,” he says. “She’s good.”

“And you write songs?” My voice is small, like it’s testing itself out after a long hiatus.

“Yes. And tinker around with cars. Which is how I got this dinner invitation.” He raises his glass to my dad, and this line of questioning is over.

24

The next morning, I bike to town as soon as Jack leaves for the gym. It’s Tuesday and I’m pretty sure I told my mother we would leave Wednesday. Jack insists I said Thursday, which I can’t imagine I did. Pedaling my bike, I feel like I’m going for ice cream, but I really need a coffee. I’ve already had coffee, of course, but I don’t feel like reading and I don’t feel like staring at the ocean and watching my life story replay behind my eyes.

As soon as I round the corner onto Main Street, I realize that the highlight reel is still playing. The town of my childhood has not been so much as painted since I’ve been gone. The library where Wyatt stood and waited; Chippy’s Diner, where we had a regular table and always shared fries; the ice-cream shop; Ginnie’s Bakery. I stop in front of Chippy’s and lock up my bike on the bike rack. The bike rack in front of which Wyatt ran his hands over my bare back and told me I was beautiful. I really need some coffee.

“Sam!” says Chippy as soon as I walk in. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Hi!” Chippy has lost all of his hair and none of his charm. “I’d just like a coffee please. To go.”

Chippy’s smiling over my shoulder, and I know without turning around. “Hey there, Wyatt,” he says.

I look down at my ten-dollar bill and pretend I haven’t heard. Which is the only way I could have made this more awkward than it already was.

“Hey, Sam,” Wyatt says, positioning himself next to me at the counter. “That was fun last night.”

“Yeah. Thanks for fixing my dad’s car.” I force myself to turn toward him and look him in the eye. He hasn’t shaved and has the faintest shadow along his jaw. This is different, and I can’t look away from it. My hand wants to reach up and see what that feels like, Wyatt all grown up.

“Sure.” He turns back to Chippy. “Can I have a coffee too please?”

Standing that close and looking right at Wyatt makes me feel like I am stuck in quicksand. I don’t know how to be casual with him, like he’s just a regular person. I turn back toward Chippy, and Wyatt and I wait in silence. I steal a glance at his hands, which are resting on the counter, and they are the same. Maybe a little sun-worn, but basically the same. I think there is something I should say to Wyatt, like there’s an innocuous question I should ask, but my mind has gone blank, and it’s becoming evident that not saying anything is more awkward than the awkward thing I might have said.

It takes forever to make these coffees. Chippy starts to fill my cup and the percolator is empty. He grinds more beans, empties and refills the filter, and sets it to brew. We can’t walk away because we’ve ordered them, so we stand there, waiting. When Chippy has finally filled our paper cups and we are almost free to go, he hands them to us and goes into the kitchen to hunt for lids. We are marooned.

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