(an awesome name that i’m shocked my parents came up with)
Purple Post-it notes cover my puzzle mat, detailing Ella’s life. I lean over them on the soft cream carpet of my bedroom floor, chewing on one of the strings of my white hoodie.
A fuzzy unicorn alarm clock blares a magical whinny at me, and I reach up to my bedside table, turning it off without looking. Since we started Summer Love a couple years ago, I’ve set an alarm on days we’re working, not to wake up—I’m up by nine no matter what, dancing and singing to wildlife (as August puts it)—but to wake up August, who’d gladly sleep until two without noticing. It’s not that he won’t set his own alarm, but he’ll hit snooze until the last possible second and then stumble out of his house like an unkempt swamp monster with good hair.
I take one last look at my Post-its. There’s something about this case that’s making me nervous, like there’s something important I’m missing, and it’s driving me nuts. I scour Ella’s social media again and check all my notes, but whatever the thing is eludes me. So with a sigh, I roll up my puzzle mat, putting it back in its canvas bag, hidden from my parents.
I grab my shoulder bag off my vanity chair along with my fake catering outfit and leave the lavender-and-white room—a color combo I chose when I was eleven that still makes me happy. I head downstairs to our living room, which looks like it was plucked straight out of a Hamptons magazine with its tans and navy blues. The couches are oversized, the art is impressive (or so my parents’ friends say), and my dad’s music awards on the far wall always get ooohs and aaahs.
I make my way into the kitchen, where my parents sit at the breakfast table next to a large picture window facing the water. Dad’s typing away on his laptop and Mom’s doing a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
“Morning, Valentine,” they both say, looking up.
“Morning, parents of mine,” I say, giving Dad a quick hug. He’s not my biological dad, but he’s the one who raised me, and the one who proposed to my mom a mere six months after she found out her IVF worked. She desperately wanted a baby but never knew if she might have a partner in it. She likes to joke that he behaved like she impregnated him. And when I was old enough to fully understand, he offered to adopt me, which I said I’d only agree to if I could have his last name. He cried. And not that it matters, but anyone who saw us together would assume we share DNA. Even though my biological dad is supposedly Italian and not Indian like my adoptive dad, I have straight, dark hair and dark eyes with long eyelashes that resemble his. I also have my mom’s small nose and heart-shaped lips.
“Have some food,” Dad says with a smile, gesturing at the table. “Your mom’s ordered the good bagels again and those warm chocolate croissants.”
I grab two of everything for me and August on my way down the table to give my mom a kiss on the cheek.
“I always order good bagels,” my mother, a serious connoisseur, corrects him. She even wears her blond hair in what can only be described as a bagel-shaped bun on top of her head. Only in this moment, she’s too smiley. Don’t get me wrong. My parents are happy people, but her grin is suspiciously big.
I look from one to the other, to see if I’m missing something. “What are you working on over there?” I ask Dad.
“Actually, we’re working,” Mom corrects me with an uptick in her voice. “Planning your dad’s company party.”
Now I smile, too. Dad’s big work party—an annual event of epicness August and I look forward to all year, also known as an upscale cookout that we host for Dad’s fellow music producers, important execs, and some of their top clients. It involves transforming our backyard into a sea of white twinkle lights and pitched tents. Some drool-worthy musicians inevitably wind up stopping at our little town country store or homemade ice cream shop in their limos, and it’s the talk of the town for about a month afterward, not to mention the celebrity gossip sites.
But as I look at Mom, a half-finished crossword puzzle by her coffee cup, my thoughts flash back to our case. Ella’s mother told us that she used to do the Times puzzle every Sunday with her daughter. Hmmm. Methinks I have an idea. I pull out my phone and grab a quick picture of the answers my mother filled in. Then I slather the two bagels with cream cheese and wrap them in paper napkins.
“I’m out,” I say to my parents.
“Another catering job?” Dad asks, looking up from his computer screen. “You’ve been working hard this year.”
“Yup.” I lift my ironed white shirt and black dress pants as evidence. Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind if they knew about Summer Love—well, besides the fact that they’d kill me for lying about it for two years. But August cares. A lot. He says if my parents know, then his mom will find out. But what he won’t say is that his mom would immediately spot the reason we started this business in the first place—August’s sister, Desiree.
Des passed away two years ago in an accident, which August analyzed front, back, and sideways for answers that don’t exist. An event he felt driven to rationalize, like if he could come up with the right answer, then maybe it’d hurt less, or better yet maybe she’d come back. And his analysis always led to the same thing—Des’s boyfriend, Kyle. But that was before. That was when he still talked about her.
After he stopped, I thought he’d slowly relax into being himself again, but he didn’t. He got quiet. He quit theater, he quit soccer, and he quit the one thing I never thought he would—coming over. But I devised a plan to get my best friend back, a plan that focused on the thing he was obsessed with—crappy relationships. So Summer Love Inc. was born. And August the breakup artist is similar to August when Des was still around. But August in his everyday life is still closed off, not with me of course, but with the world. He just doesn’t trust it anymore.
“Have fun, Valentine. Text us what time you’ll be home,” Mom says.
Shoving my breakfast spoils into my shoulder bag, I stare out the window toward Bentley’s yard, where he’s doing push-ups, once again shirtless. As ridiculous as he is, it’s hard not to admire the view. I say a quick goodbye to my parents and step out the back door onto the porch. Bentley looks up when the door closes behind me.
I head straight for him. “Yo, Bent,” I say, doing my best bro voice, crossing the grass with purpose. “Wicked push-ups, man.”
“Yo, Sharma,” he replies, calling me by my last name like I’m one of his football buddies. “I know.”
I smile even though what he said wasn’t witty. He pauses his workout to drink water and wipe his forehead with what I suspect is his mother’s dish towel, given that it says something about wine and chocolate being major food groups.
“Don’t pretty yourself up for me,” I say, weirdly amused by his towel choice. “I just wanted to ask you before I went ahead and stole your newspaper.”
Bentley laughs. “Why ask if you’re stealing?”
I shrug. “I’m a polite thief?” I clock his question as agreement and take a step toward August’s house.
“That’s it?” he says, the disappointment obvious on his well-proportioned face. “No pointless small talk while you secretly stare at my six-pack? I feel so used.”
I laugh, not bothering to point out that employing small talk as a front to stare at his body would be the definition of using him. “Send me a shirtless selfie,” I say as I backstep across his yard. “I’ll show it to all my friends and we’ll giggle behind our hands.”
Bentley sighs dramatically. “If only.” He gets back into push-up position and I turn.
“Will I see you at the cookout later?” he yells as I walk away.
“Maybe,” I answer over my shoulder, although I doubt there will be time with this new Ella case, and even if there is, I double doubt I could convince August to go.
“Then maybe I’m excited,” he replies. This is Bentley’s thing—charm, charm, charm, date for two weeks in a showy PDA way that makes everyone uncomfortable, and then on to the next relationship. Good at the wooing, bad at the commitment. Bentley and I have been doing this dance for four years now, but only recently he’s been more enthusiastic about it, like he’s made a bet with himself that he can get me to kiss him before I leave for college. And honestly, I’m not against it. Guys like Bentley are basically made for summer kissing. Not that I’d ever admit that to August, because he’d probably turn purple and stop breathing.
I climb the ladder secured to the side of August’s house and push open his second-story window with one hand. I step easily into his bedroom, where I find him with his head shoved under his pillow, arguing with his ancient cat, who has one gray paw on August’s back, claws extended. I drop my shoulder bag on the hardwood floor, feeling the familiar sense of accomplishment of an awesome entrance.
The ladder wasn’t exactly my idea, but it was a stroke of brilliance nonetheless. The summer before seventh grade we marathoned all six seasons of Dawson’s Creek, and I was totally inspired.
“That’s us,” I said, sprawled across August’s bed, admittedly getting popcorn on his comforter. “And if you sprinkle in some summer tourists and some Massachusetts accents, that’s our town. Can you even believe how weird this is? Oh my god. What if there are lots of us, August? Lots of smart, beautiful, level-headed girls hanging out with clueless dork dudes.”
And despite the fact that this is New England and the weather is wicked unpredictable, I could not be talked out of it. I even convinced August’s artsy mom to build me a custom ladder that connects to the house, because while I’m not afraid of heights, I’m also not an idiot. And I’ve been enthusiastically using it ever since, much to August’s disappointment.
August doesn’t say hi. Instead, he mumbles something about the unfairness of mornings.
“Want me to feed him?” I offer, nodding at his cat, Swee, even though he can’t see the gesture because he’s still face down.
He groans, removing the pillow from his head. “Are you strategizing with my cat to wake me up?”
“Are you strategizing to win the grumpiest-sloth award? It’s ten thirty.”
He runs his hands over his face and glances groggily around his room. Where my bedroom is all light colors and new furniture, his is dark blues, dark wood, and antique lamps. Papers lie haphazardly across his desk, where he undoubtedly stayed up half the night researching Ella. His bookshelf is overflowing with nonfiction. And his favorite charcoal-gray grandpa sweater with the wooden buttons is draped across his desk chair.
“Exactly. And we don’t need to be at the coffee shop until noon, sooo—” He stops abruptly as I head for his closet. “Tiny,” he says like I should know better.
I look at him. He looks at me. A standoff.
He raises a warning eyebrow.
“Fine,” I say with a long exhale, lifting my hands in surrender. “Pick out your own clothes. See if I care.” I pause, unable to restrain myself from commenting further. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of you and your three favorite James Dean outfits, but I think you’re gonna need something more Holden-ish for this one.” I pull a pair of boat shoes (swiped from Dad’s closet) from my bag and toss them on August’s floor with a satisfying thud.
He eyes them wearily as he pops into his bathroom to open a can of cat food for Swee. He used to feed him downstairs in the kitchen, but when you have a creaky twenty-year-old cat whose life is built around lounging in bed, it’s easier to have food nearby. And the sacrifice of having a stinky bathroom because it makes his cat happy is a perfect example of why we’re best friends. He likes to pretend that he’s so rational and unflappable, but he’s actually the most sensitive and thoughtful person I know.
“I was doing some Ella research last night—” he says over his shoulder.
“Leonardo DiCaprio,” I squeal, too excited to let him finish his sentence.
“I’d be weirded out that you knew where my thought was going, but then I remembered you have access to my window,” he says with a sly grin.
I roll my eyes, not bothering to tell him that I don’t need to spy to be three steps ahead. We both know I’m the mastermind in this friendship.
“So anyway,” he continues, heading toward his closet. “I rewatched Romeo and Juliet.”
Some part of me is secretly delighted by August studying Romeo. It’s not that he doesn’t love a good rom-com or a dram-rom (???) in this case, but August was once supposed to play Romeo in our town theater. And when Des died, he gave up not only on the play but on acting in general. I never thought I’d see him pursue Romeo again in a million years. I imagine now that the sheer idea you could fall in love at first sight and then be willing to die for that love makes him queasy. I, on the other hand, am all for falling head over heels.
I clasp my hands together. “Oh. My. God. Please tell me you want to ditch our Pretty in Pink strategy in favor of Star-Crossed Lovers!”
His widening smile confirms it. “Ella’s mom told us that Ella’s making decisions based on her friends and boyfriend instead of her own best interests, right?” He pauses, and I stifle the urge to interrupt. “So, I’m thinking I come in as the Star-Crossed Lover”—he grimaces at the word lover, and it makes me smile—“let’s say Star-Crossed Friend in this case. Basically, the exact opposite of her current relationship and social group. Make her feel like everything she’s interested in is important and doable. A painter, not a football player. Someone who has everything but couldn’t care less about popularity. You get the idea.”
For a moment I hesitate, shocked that he’s bringing art into this job. He hasn’t so much as lifted a paintbrush since his sister died. No more line drawings in the margins of his notes, not so much as a doodle. A glimmer of hope zings through me and I want to comment, but I worry that if I make a big deal out of it, he’ll change his mind. So instead, I dig through my shoulder bag for my rainbow notebook that has all our Summer Love Inc. lists in it.
I land on the page I’m looking for. My feet inexplicably do a little two-step in happiness. We rarely use this move, but it’s always been one of my favorites.
STAR-CROSSED LOVERS—showing up as an opposite to the subject’s person’s current situation, letting him or her fall for your way of thinking and enthusiasm, entranced enough to change his or her life.
August pulls a pair of plaid shorts and a Johnny Cash T-shirt out of his closet and steps into the boat shoes I brought over. Preppy enough to be convincing and Johnny Cash enough to be cool.
Victory is mine! A Holden-shaped star is born.
I turn around and pet Swee’s oddly flat head while August throws on his clothes and pops the top off his deodorant. Not that he needs it. The temperature goes above eighty and I instantly smell like an onion, but he only ever gets a slight musky scent that makes him smell familiar instead of bad. It’s the most unfair thing ever.
“Good?” he says and holds out his arms for my evaluation. And as it turns out, he’s a thing of wonder. His shirt is faded in all the right ways, the red plaid of his shorts is showy, and his hair leans slightly to the messy side.
“You’re so ready to spread the love,” I say.
“More like ready to crush a bad relationship.”
“Same same,” I say. “The ending of a bad relationship creates an opportunity for a good one. For love. Who knows, the next person Ella meets might be her soulmate.”
He snorts.
I point at him, and my neon bracelets give a satisfying jingle. “Don’t snort your disbelief at me, sir. I know you don’t believe in soulmates, and I’m here to tell you that you’re dead wrong.”
“I think what you mean to say is that you’re romanticizing—” he starts like he’s preparing for a dissertation.
I plug my ears in self-defense. “Nope, not letting you rain on love today. No room in my schedule.” I toss him the keys to my Jeep Wrangler. “You’re driving.”
I pick up my shoulder bag and head out of his bedroom door before he can respond. As I reach the top of the stairs, though, his footsteps cease in the hall behind me. I don’t need to look to know where—he’s by Des’s door.
I turn around to find his face blank, his enthusiasm from thirty seconds ago missing, replaced with a calm, unreadable force field that I call The Wall. No one gets past The Wall. Not even me on my best and brightest days. He wipes the dust off Des’s doorknob with his shirt, not opening his sister’s door, which (I’m guessing by the dust) hasn’t been disturbed in months, her things from two years ago frozen in time behind it and poised to evoke tears from whoever encounters them.
I move to August’s side, but he doesn’t look at me, just stares ahead silently thinking his piece. I sigh, not for me, but to shake him out of his statuesque position. He doesn’t acknowledge me, however, and the familiar ineffectual feeling of being trapped outside The Wall rises in my chest. I want to hug him and tell him that I miss Des, too. I want to yell at him for not trusting me with his hurt, cite my love for her and for him as good reasons. But instead, I stare unsure and tongue tied at the watercolor of Des’s name twisted with sunflowers that’s tacked to her door. August made it for her when he was eight. And I’m instantly mad at myself for not knowing how to talk to him about this and for not being better at weaving her into our everyday lives instead of uncomfortable isolated moments.
“Des, what are you going to do, I mean later, after you finish college?” I asked, gesturing at all the college brochures on her bedside table. “I feel like you’re going to be in charge of stuff, or people. Or both. Mayor, maybe?” I used the same sophisticated voice my dad always used when he asked me about my goals and attempted to stand taller than my twelve years to emphasize my maturity.
Des moved around her room, putting on a silver charm bracelet and a black choker. She paused in front of her vanity mirror, pink lipstick in hand, and turned to look at me. No matter what she was doing or how much she was hurrying, she always seemed to have time for me and August.
“Right idea about the helping-people thing, but politics aren’t for me,” she said, giving it some serious thought. “I was playing around with the idea of being a vet, but I think my heart is too breakable for that. You know what I’ve secretly always wanted to do, though?” She tilted her head like she was entrusting me with a hidden treasure. “Be a relationship detective.”
August looked up, considering the fanciful idea, probably specifically so he could ask practical questions about it. “Is that a job? How would it work?”
Yup, there he goes.
“See, that’s the awesome thing,” Des said. “It’s not a job. But it should be.”
“Let’s go,” August says quietly. It’s the kind of quiet that shuts you up, the kind that tells you his heart is breaking and that if you push, you’ll shatter it into a million pieces.
We didn’t talk about that conversation with Des when we started Summer Love, even though we both know this is about her and righting some inexplicable wrong of a boyfriend August can’t make peace with. I’ve avoided bringing it up since, nervous that if I shine a light on it before he’s ready, our company will disappear behind The Wall, too.
I follow August down the hall, looking momentarily over my shoulder. This one’s for you, Des, I think.