Page 71 of The End of Summer

“I could never remember yours. Just that you were a unicorn.”

“I didn’t know yours either. They always just called you ‘Big Boy’ or something like that.”

“Big Guy,” he corrects me. “Because I was tall.”

“Holy shit. So we go all the way back to –”

“Six years old,” he says.

“That explains so much.”

“About what?”

“About our connection. I guess it’s deeper than even we realized.”

“That fucking song,” he says.

“What about it?”

“Iknewthere was something. It always made my pulse speed up a little.”

“Maybe it made you nervous,” I suggest.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that.” He pauses for a moment, and I see a lightning bug flash nearby. “I think my heart remembered you,” he says. “My brain might not have, but my heart did.”

A lump forms in my throat and I swallow it, just as the first fireworks go off against the black backdrop of the clear July night.

It’s about the only thing that can make this moment any more perfect than it already is.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BRADY

Just like that, we areserious.

I can’t get enough of Gretchen, and the feeling appears to be mutual. Actually, Iknowit is, because exactly one week later we’re having dinner at her parents’ house.

We’ve come up with a story that is 75% true. We work together at the Diamond Excelsior, and I live next door for the summer. That’s it. Nice and simple. She doesn’t feel comfortable explaining our real occupations and I don’t blame her; it’s embarrassing, and especially considering these are herparents, I really don’t want them to lose all respect for me straight out of the gate.

She explains that her family is very tight knit. She and her mother share almost everything, and her father is your typical, overprotective dad. He happens to be the Eastport Chief of Police, too. Not that I’m intimidated by that, but… well, you know. It might be a little less nerve wracking to meet her dad if he was, say, an investment banker or an accountant – someone with whom I might have a little in common with. I could make myself seem like a guy who’s on the up and up, worthy of his daughter, as opposed to a couch surfing glorified waiter, which sadly is a huge step up from my current reality of sausage-slinging stripper.

The fact that we’re having dinner on a Tuesday makes sense given our respective “professions,” since Tuesday was always a slow night at the restaurant and the pub. I pick Gretchen up (read: I walk 30 feet and knock on her door) at 4:00 p.m., and she lets me in with a smile. She’s wearing an apron.

“Smells delicious. And you look adorable,” I say, giving her a kiss.

“Thank you! Brownies. They’re always my contribution when we have a family meal.” She points to the bouquet of flowers I’m carrying. “Aw. Are those for me?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, babe. These are actually for your mom.”

“Oh my goodness, Brady! She’s going to love you. That’s so sweet.”

“I didn’t know what to get your dad, so I was thinking maybe we could swing by the liquor store on the way up and you can tell me what he likes to drink?”

“Dad’s fine with beer. We can grab a six pack of Cape Cod Blonde and he’ll be very happy. I never bring him anything. Except the brownies, of course.”

We head to the car, stop at the store, acquire provisions. By the time we get to her parents’ house, I find that I’m working extremely hard to keep the butterflies in check.

“I promise you, Brady. They’re going to love you,” she whispers as we walk up the crushed seashell driveway to the cottage. It’s robin's egg blue with a lineup of hydrangeas in the front surrounding a modest porch. The window boxes are overflowing with petunias in every color imaginable. This home is clearly occupied by an artist. My mother would adore it.

---