Page 103 of The End of Summer

“Why not? I paid her bail.”

“I heard her dad tell the guard to hold her until morning. Think he’s trying to flex.”

Fuck.“You sure?” I asked.

“Yeah, man. I heard it myself.”

So, I left with him. Reluctantly. Drove myself home. I texted Gretchen to let me know when she got out, and I also left a note on her door. Then, I came inside and immediately passed out.

Until just now.

I check my phone first, of course. Nothing but a text from my mom, just checking in on me. I take Advil and make myself some toast.

I don’t know what to do.

My head starts to clear, and I realize that if Gretchen’s not home, she can only be in one of two places: a) jail (but I can’t imagine her not getting out bynow, especially since I drained my bank account to ensure her freedom), or b) her parents’ house. I need to talk to her, but I keep hearing her father’s voice booming in my head, and I want to approach this situation with care.

So, instead of being a hot head and driving up to Eastport, I stay at home.

And wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

GRETCHEN

Iam not okay.

I’m wearing an oversized Wellingham PD t-shirt and pleather hot shorts, and I’m barefoot, because my choice of footwear last night was not appropriate for my brief incarceration.

By the time my father releases me from jail and drives me back to my parents’ house, I am rapidly deteriorating.

I need to talk to Brady.

But first, I need to talk to my mom.

We pull up into the driveway and I feel the tiniest bit of relief at the familiarity of the seashell gravel crunching beneath the tires.Home,I am reminded by the sign on the porch,is where our story begins.I suppose that’s true. It really all began with my parents falling in love and settling down in this house, in this town. They had me, and placed all their hopes and dreams and wishes upon me, and I did everything I could to make them proud.

Until I didn’t.

I walk up the driveway straight to the back deck, where I open the slider to the kitchen. My mom rushes at me and wraps me in a warm hug. “Sweetheart,” he says, burying her face into my hair.

She begins to cry.

The weight of all my decisions, everything I’ve done this whole summer, all comes crashing down on me and I can feel myself crumble. “Mom,” I whisper. My shoulders sag. I begin to sob in her arms, and she holds me up as the catharsis of letting go washes over me. We stand there like that as my father enters the kitchen, and no words are exchanged as he wraps us both in a family embrace.

“It’s going to be okay, Gretchen,” my mom whispers into the group hug.

It takes a few minutes and several tissues for me to catch my breath, but I finally do. My father is quiet. He excuses himself to go lie down. Mom offers to make me breakfast, and I politely decline, but she starts cooking anyway. It calms her nerves. She makes me a plate of bacon and eggs along with a fresh cup of coffee, and my body surprises me by gratefully accepting all of it. Turns out I’m actually very hungry.

“Baby, are you okay?” she asks me.

I sigh. “I thought I was.”

She nods, patiently waiting for me to go on.

“I made a mistake.”

Sitting across the table from me, she crosses her legs and sips her coffee. Then, she asks, “Honey, which part of it was a mistake?” The cadence of her voice calms me, reminding me that this is a safe space.

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