I pack up a container with cream-cheese-stuffed French toast to share with August. Mom has been having all kinds of amazing cravings, and I’m shamelessly reaping the benefits.
For the past hour, I’ve been telling my parents how August made an epic play for Ella and how I had an equally epic sparring match with her parents, where they not only apologized for revealing our website to the press but agreed that maybe it was okay for August and Ella to see each other. I even tell them how her parents admitted it was wrong that they lorded money over us, and that I in turn said we didn’t want to be paid.
“I know August wouldn’t accept it,” I say. “And I totally get why. But they may have agreed to anonymously contribute to his college tuition after I laid out the fact that we got Ella back on track to follow her dreams while they not so nicely ruined our business, inhibiting our ability to pay for ours.”
“You know we’ll help, right?” Mom says, sipping her lemon tea. “Even if they don’t do the right thing. August is family.”
I smile. “While I don’t think he’d easily accept, I do think he’d buckle if it was for an off-campus apartment where he could bring Swee,” I say, and I can already see the wheels turning in Mom’s head to make this happen. “Who knows, though, maybe Ella will soften him? You should have seen him in that Romeo costume. I wanted to videotape it so bad.” It feels good talking to my parents openly about Summer Love. I shove the food in my shoulder bag and swipe my finger through a glob of whipped cream, licking it clean. “Okay, I’m going to get these over to August before they lose their warm gooeyness.”
I head out the back door and skip down my porch. Bentley is already outside working out, sans shirt, and I waver, promising myself it’ll be a quick detour.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just here to engage in pointless small talk while I secretly stare at your six-pack,” I say, repeating back his joke from a month ago.
“Finally!” he laughs, like I’ve come to my senses. “What do you say to a beach day, Valentine? You and me, waves, sand, me pretending I tripped so I can rub shoulders with you?”
“Wellll, I was going to make you stew in your doghouse a little longer.”
“Believe me,” he says. “The stewing has been real. Go ask the twins.”
“But then there’s always the argument that summer is short,” I say. “And that I’m going to California soon, so we should probably take advantage of this.”
“Exactly,” he says and reaches for me with a look that asks if it’s okay. And when I smile in answer, he places his hands on my hips, pulling me forward. “No time like the present.”
I laugh, giving him a coy look and lightly resting my fingers on his chest. Our mouths are only inches apart.
“You’re awfully close,” I tease.
He grins. “I’m just a close-talker. This is how I talk to everyone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“Your teachers and Old Man Hairy-Nose at the supermarket?”
“Especially them.”
I laugh, and he smiles down at me, his eyes so focused on mine that I feel tipsy. “And about California,” he says quietly. “I hear they have some good waves. Might have to check out setting up a surf camp there.”
My chest flutters, and on impulse I run my fingertip across his lower lip. He inhales a fast breath, and the hungry look in his eyes tips me right over the edge. I kiss him, hot and fast and greedy.
“Okay,” I say, pushing my hand against his chest, trying to regain my composure. “I have to go.” I take a step. “But I’ll come find you in a few hours.”
He falls backward into the grass, gripping his heart like I’ve slain him.
I force myself to turn away, a grin lighting up my face all the way to August’s.
I climb the ladder and slide through the window. “Rise and shine, Romeo—” I say, but the only one in August’s rumpled bed is Swee, who’s belly up and snoring.
I walk into the hallway, heading for the stairs, when I hear something clunk in Des’s bedroom. For a second, I think I imagined it.
“August?” I say, stopping in my tracks.
“In here,” he calls, his muffled voice giving me a start.
I gently push Des’s door open, my heart rapid firing. But I’m not greeted with the musty smell of stagnant air. Des’s windows are open, blowing in a fresh breeze, and her summer-rain candle is lit on her nightstand, a scent so familiar that I half expect to find her lounging in bed, doing her nails and reading poetry.
August sits on the floor surrounded by photo albums.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling like I intruded on something private. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Mom just ordered you some food and . . .”
“You’re not interrupting,” he says and looks up at me. “I just thought I might go through some of this stuff. Maybe reclaim my paints?”
“Yeah?” I say, my throat suddenly tight. “I mean, great. Yes, you should totally do that.”
“If you want, you could—”
“Yes!” I exclaim, before he can finish. “I want to.”
He smiles as I sit across from him on the rug, a familiar spot we occupied as kids. Des wasn’t ever annoyed by us following her around; in fact she encouraged it—said it made her feel like the captain of some awesome team. Childhood memories swirl around me, projected translucently in the air like an old-time movie reel. I reach out to where a ten-year-old version of myself once rolled on her back, choking on laughter, creating yet another business with her best friend, building a future out of fanciful ideas and dreams.
And then I find myself staring at August, the emotionality of the memory resting high in my throat. “When you said you wouldn’t come home for summers, did you mean that?” I don’t know why, but this feels like the most important thing I’ve ever asked, like somehow those happy childhood versions of us hang in the balance.
He lifts his head, thinking for a few seconds. “No,” he says, and his eyes dip downward, vulnerability flushing his cheeks. “I’d miss it here.”
This simple admission hits me hard. Knowing he feels it, too—that inexplicable connection to home—is comforting, like a hug I didn’t know I needed. I find myself fast-nodding, pushing my chin upward to keep it from wobbling. Once again I see us, not ten anymore but college students, wearing matching Berkeley hoodies like dorks, still laughing, still creating. Only it doesn’t feel separate from this place, the way I once thought. Our office on the dock and the ladder to August’s window aren’t forgotten but right there, woven into the fabric of our beings.
He lifts his eyes, and when he sees my expression, he pauses, a question lingering on his parted mouth. But all he says is, “Tiny?”
“Well, I hope you don’t think I’m going to let you enjoy a life of endless summer and epic business classes without me. Because I’m not.” I mean it to sound lighthearted, but instead my words are weighted—an admission that while I’m going to miss being home, I’d miss something bigger if I didn’t go.
He nods. No gloating. No grumbling about how long it took me to decide. Just a smile that’s so uninhibited that I have to look away so I don’t get blubbery. August and Tiny. Tiny and August. Off on an adventure once more.
“I’m hanging out with Bentley later,” I tell him, changing the subject and for the first time not feeling uncomfortable about bringing it up. “What about you? Are you seeing Ella?”
He smiles. “She’s coming over.”
“Here?” I say, totally taken aback. August hasn’t invited anyone to his house in I-don’t-know-how-many years. He doesn’t even invite me. I just show up.
“We’re going to the gallery in town so I can show her Mom’s art and then, I don’t know, maybe Bob’s Diner and the beach?” he says, and my mouth opens so wide that it practically ricochets off the floor.
“You and Bentley can come if you want,” he offers, and now my mind explodes.
“Did I faint? Am I conscious?” I ask him because I’m really not sure.
He laughs and I laugh, too. I tell him I wouldn’t miss his long-anticipated town debut as August Hottie Hair for all the world, and ask if he wants to wear matching outfits on our double date. To which he does not respond. Yet I’m smiling. Bigly. I don’t know if Bentley will wind up coming to California, or if August and Ella will make it long distance, but none of that really matters right now because it’s summer, and like our business name implies, summer is most definitely for love.
He returns to his photo album, and I peek inside one of the boxes August pulled out. Under the flap is a stack of watercolor paintings. The top is a portrait of Des on the dock, with wild hair and kind eyes. Then another of Des lying in the grass with her arm over her eyes. And one of her sitting at her desk, looking out the window. On and on. Dozens of paintings, all capturing the familiarity of her so well that it makes my chest constrict. Is this what he was doing in the silence after she passed? Pouring his memories onto paper? No wonder he gave up art.
I press my lips together, trying to will myself not to get misty and make him regret inviting me.
When I dare to look at August, he pulls something off the bedside table—Des’s journal, which he told me in no uncertain terms that we’d never read. My heart skips a beat and I’m afraid to move, like in doing so I might shatter the moment.