Page 33 of The End of Summer

But not right now. Right now, I need to stretch.Nothing worse than pulling a muscle on the pole, I think.

I shake my head.Wow. When did my headspace make such a huge departure from thoughts of nursery rhymes and basic language arts?

Who evenamI right now?

CHAPTER NINE

BRADY

Icould not sleep last night.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was definitely tired, but I kept tossing and turning, thinking about those damn fishnets.

I had a filthy dream about Gretchen. We were in my kitchen, only it was pitch black, except for a lamp in the corner that glowed fuchsia. She was up on the counter, but instead of sweatpants, she was wearing her mermaid-inspired bottoms with her loose t-shirt, and she begged me to rip off her clothes. I couldn’t picture her naked body, but I could feel its curves and her baby soft skin as if it was really happening. Dream Gretchen wrapped her legs around me and buried her face into my neck, leaning up to lick and bite my earlobe. She closed the gap between our bodies by grabbing my ass cheeks and thrusting me into her, and just as kernels of popcorn rained down around us, I woke up to discover that I was, quite actively, stroking myself.

I checked the clock on my phone. 3:00 in the morning.

There was no way I would be able to fall back to sleep with a boner the size of Idaho under my covers, so I grabbed a hand towel out of my laundry basket and milked the popsicle in an attempt to clear my head (no punintended).My God,I thought.This hasn’t happened to me since high school.I was fairly sure I’d be able to nod off after that, but my mind kept replaying the more innocent parts of our time together: the conversation in the kitchen, how embarrassed she looked recounting the mishap that got her fired, the way she gently blew on the first bite of popcorn so she wouldn’t burn her mouth.

I wondered how I might find a way to see her again that seemed natural, not forced or contrived. Then, I wondered if any of the bizarre events that twisted our worlds together were lodged in Gretchen’s mind, keeping her awake.

Chemistry’s a weird thing.

Lying there, I remembered my last serious girlfriend, Miranda. We met the summer before my senior year of college. I was covering a shift for Big Mike (after he had one too many the night before) parking cars at the Sidewinder, a hot spot in Wellingham known for its shorefront party vibe. Miranda rolled up in a Jeep with no doors, wearing a triangle bikini top, unbuttoned denim shorts, and a pair of Ray Bans. She was with three of her girlfriends, a rowdy group with the radio blasting the Zac Brown Band into the otherwise fairly quiet airspace. It was just shy of noon, and I could feel my already sunburned shoulders taking a beating. She left me to valet her car, giving me a flirty once-over before hopping out, barefoot. The Sidewinder is conducive to the dress code Miranda and her friends donned that day: it’s all fish tacos and live music and people laying out in the sand or playing beach volleyball.

But anyone with half a brain knows it’s a mistake to walk around barefoot in the gravel parking lotof a bar.

So, not three minutes after she and her girl-crew exited the vehicle, I returned to my station to find her doubled over, bloody and crying. Surprisingly, her friends were nowhere to be found.

“Shit! You okay?” I asked.

She looked up at me from under her tear-streaked sunglasses. “I stepped on a piece of broken glass,” she hiccupped.

“Hang on – I think there’s a first aid kit in the booth.” I ran to the key booth and found the kit tucked away in the corner. I pulled out a small stack of alcohol pads, the biggest Band-Aids I could find, and a roll of gauze.

Back at her side, I crouched down beside her, uncapped my Poland Spring bottle and carefully poured water over the wound. “Where did your friends go?” I asked.

“They went inside to find help,” she sighed. “But they had mimosas at brunch, so it’s no surprise that they’re taking so long.”

“Jeez,” I said, examining her foot. “Well, the good news is I don’t think you’ll need stitches.” I ripped off a piece of gauze and pressed it against the cut. Then, I tore open an alcohol swab and said, “This is probably going to sting. You can squeeze my arm if you need to.” I cradled her foot in my hand and swiped at the cut, lighting up her sensitive nerve endings. I blew on it, like one might blow on a child’s scraped knee, and she dug her fingers into my bicep, sucking in her breath. I fanned the cut with my hand, inspecting it to make sure it was clean. I placed the Band-Aid over it and wrapped the pad of her foot up in gauze. “This is going to mess up yourbeach day, you know.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I know.”

I introduced myself. “By the way, I’m Brady,” I said.

“Miranda,” she replied. “Thank you for helping me.”

I nodded. “You here on vacation?” I took my folding chair out of the booth with one hand and helped her up with the other. She sat down in the chair and squinted up at me from behind her sunglasses.

“My family has a house in Truro.”

“Nice,” I said.

“What about you?”

“I live here year round. But not out this way. I’m actually just here covering for a friend of mine today. I’m from Sandwich.”

“Cool. Are you in college?”

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