Page 92 of The Edge of Summer
Once I get set up inside, Carole sticks her head into the room, waving goodbye. And then I’m alone. Just me and my thoughts. I haven’t truly been alone in a long time. If I’m not with my siblings, I’m at work. The odd time I haven’t been, I’ve been with Luke. Other than quiet moments as I try to fall asleep or the brief stretches where I’m in the shower, I’m never by myself.
Without my permission, my thoughts drift to Luke again. Perhaps it has to do with the photo of him that peeksout from beneath the pile of others. Will he still come to the exhibition? The thought of him not being there, even though it would be my own doing, is a sucker punch to the gut. He’s the one that pushed me to get back into photography, and I want him to be proud of me. I want someone I care about to see my accomplishments.
I’ve done this—put my work on display for others to see—once before. When I was in grade twelve, my high school had a winter open house. My photography teacher encouraged me to submit my portfolio to be exhibited in the gymnasium with the other students’ artwork and photographs. I was excited. At seventeen, that was the highest compliment I had been paid. My work was good enough to show off.
I invited my parents to the open house. I wrote it into their calendars, circled and underlined. I was giddy with the knowledge that I had done something impressive. Not every student had their portfolio on display. I was one of the chosen ones.
After the first half hour, I was confused. An hour in, I realized they weren’t coming. My photography teacher reiterated how proud she was, but it felt hollow. Not the same when my parents weren’t there to share her pride. Apparently, they had forgotten about my open house when they agreed to attend a function that same night. A dinner with the Minister of Something for one cause or another. I hadn’t known what it was like to resent my father’s profession before that night, but I knew then. The hate grew steadily until I wished that everyone in the province would forget his goddamn name.
Just for one night, I wanted him to belong to me again. Too much to wish for, evidently. The memory alone leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, followed by the foul tang of guilt. It was almost nine years ago, and he’s dead—I need to get over it.
Thoughts of my parents inevitably morph into thoughts of Parker. Back then, he was seven years old and he looked at me like I was his favourite person in the world. I didn’t expect to live on that pedestal forever, but being knocked off so abruptly is jarring.
When the thoughts get too loud, I silence them. I stick my earbuds in and turn my music up to a decibel that is sure to cause some kind of hearing damage. And then I really get to work. As I mouth the words to that one Carrie Underwood song, I lose track of time.
When I eventually resurface and reality slams back into me, it’s hours later. I check my messages and realize that Parker has sent some, each getting increasingly worried.
“Shit,” I mutter. I didn’t mean to cause him any anxiety. I may not exactly be happy with him right now, but I would never be that cruel on purpose.
I open my thread with Parker and begin to type.Sorry, lost track of time. I’m okay. Going to ge— At the same time, I grab my camera bag and sling it over my shoulder. My eyes are on my phone, so I don’t realize I’ve knocked anything over until I hear the shattering of glass.
The broken frame doesn’t mean all that much on its own, but the picture it houses sends a shot of grief straight to my heart. It wasn’t supposed to be in this pile. Somehow itgot mixed in with the pictures I plan to share in the exhibition.
My back hits the wall and I slide down. The strap of my bag slips off my shoulder, and the bag falls to the floor the same moment I do.
And then I lose it.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
LUKE
I have contemplated reachingout to Delilah about a hundred times. I find myself reaching for my phone, only to remember that she doesn’t want to hear from me. So when said phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call, my traitorous heart thinks for a moment that it will be her. The second I think it, I know it’s not true. If anyone has to cave on this one, it’s me. And fuck, I am damn near close.
The number is one I don’t recognize, but that’s par for the course. Half the island has my personal cell number and isn’t afraid to hand it out to whomever they deem in need of it. The 236 area code, however—the same as Delilah’s—has me picking up without hesitation.
“Hello?”
“Luke? It’s, uh— It’s Parker.”
“Parker.” I relax back in my chair. We haven’t spoken since that day in my office, so I’m surprised he’s calling me now. “What’s up?”
The first time I tried to talk to him—get him to open up—didn’t exactly end well. Maybe after the spray paint incident, he’s ready to give it a go. Even though I’ve made a mess of things with his sister, if Parker wants to talk, I’m not going to deny him that.
“It’s probably nothing, but…” He trails off. “Have you seen Delilah recently?”
I haven’t seen her since she rushed out of the station after him, not even sparing me a glance. Not looking at me when all I could do was look at her. “Not since you were here the other day.”
“Oh.”
The worried tinge of that one word has me sitting straight in my chair again. “Why?”
“I know it’s probably fine. But she hasn’t checked in in a few hours, and ever since our parents... We just always check in, even if we’re mad at each other, and she’s not responding and I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay, Parker, just take a breath.” He says he knows it’s most likely nothing, but the way he’s speaking a mile a minute tells me he doesn’tfeellike it’s nothing. “Do you know where she went?”
“She said she was heading to the gallery. That was about three hours ago.”
