The Days of Summer

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“Go to hell, Jud.” Cale’s body slammed him. “Who’s soft, now, doughboy?” They were all over the court, legs and arms, punching and socking, until Cale slapped him in the head with the flat of his hand, stole the ball, then stood there, four feet from Jud, the ball bouncing from palm to palm.

Jud waited for an opening to the metronomic hammer of the ball on the asphalt and their hard breaths, then moved like lightning, stole the ball, laughing though his ribs hurt like hell. He held out the ball. “Come and get it, asshole.”

Cale shot forward. Jud stuck out his foot and his brother skidded across the asphalt. They beat the hell out of each other in the name of basketball. By the time the sun set behind the hills, Cale’s knees were bleeding, and Jud thought he was going to die, legs like rubber, his head killing him, but he wasn’t going to lose. He stared into the crumpled look of concentration on Cale’s angry red face, waiting for the patience Cale didn’t have, and never had. His little brother’s movements were jerky, blind, his motions looking desperate.

In the end, they lay on their backs on the warm ground, panting, hurting, bleeding, staring up at the night sky, which was clear and sharp, with no light of day left behind the hills. Music broke in the distance—drums and electric guitars. A band was playing somewhere downtown. When Jud finally spoke, he said only two words: “You lost.”

Cale raised up and pitched the ball at him.

Jud deflected it with his arm and lay there as the ball rolled away, his arm across his eyes, so tired he didn’t know if he could stand. He sat up with a grunt and rested his arms on his bent knees. “You wouldn’t have lost if you played with some patience. You give yourself away.”

“I know how to play basketball.”

“I’m just telling you how to win.”

Cale wouldn’t look at him.

“I’ll light the barbecue and cook those steaks.” Jud figured that was a peace offering. It was just a basketball game.

“I’m not hungry.” Cale limped to the door and paused in the doorway, looking back, his expression bitter and intense. “I’m not staying home tonight.” He slammed the door shut.

Jud stood up slowly, wobbled slightly. Standing just about killed him. He limped across the driveway to the hose and let the water run over his head for long seconds. The water pressure cut suddenly from the bathroom shower. Inside, he could hear Cale in the shower down the hall and thought about apologizing but stumbled toward the kitchen. He wouldn’t apologize for giving his brother a little advice, or for winning. His swollen face had a date with an ice pack. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Hell, he said to himself, I’ll eat both steaks.

CHAPTER 10 (#u72d2fca6-1860-5aae-a9ac-956cb623ea69)

Laurel wanted to believe that somewhere in the big wide world was a boy who would love her. Of course, he could easily be in France while she was stuck on the western fringes of another whole continent. Alone, she walked along the crowded island waterfront, music from the live band on the pier drifting away from her, the scent of abalone burgers and caramel corn sweetening the night air. She bought some saltwater taffy and sat down on a bench, under the glow from brightly colored paper lanterns strung overhead. All around her was laughter, chatter, music—life, even if it belonged to other people.

At home, her mother was sitting in her chair reading novels about characters with lives bigger than theirs, or watching TV where nothing but the news was real. Instead of hiding in Seattle, her mother hid here.

Laurel felt as if she had been picked up and planted somewhere far from home. Miserable, she stuffed a piece of taffy in her mouth and watched people in pairs and groups on the sand. When she glanced up at the beach, she spotted an old man walking slowly away from everyone like some kind of lost soul and she wondered what went through the minds and hearts of other lonely people.

Another loner stood away from the crowd, facing the water, hands in the back pockets of his jeans, hip cocked, broad shoulders, and narrow waist—a classic masculine triangle. His height and sandy hair were all too familiar. He’d looked the same yesterday when he was standing at the boat rail before she told him she was seventeen.

This was her chance to set everything right. She would ask how he was feeling—as if nothing he could say would faze her—and say, “I haven’t seen someone drop that fast since Cassius Clay beat Sonny Liston.” Here was her opportunity to be witty, sophisticated, and worldly to someone who thought she wasn’t. He wore an aqua blue polo shirt and she followed it through the crowd, but his steps were longer than hers and soon she had to run to catch up. She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Hey, there.”

He turned and looked down at her.

Oh, God … It’s not him. For an awkward, horrified instant she stood there. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I thought you were someone else.”

“Lucky guy,” he said.

“No. Not really.” She started to turn away.

“Wait, don’t go.” He held his hands out, palms up. “I can be anyone you want me to be. Or if it’s my lucky night maybe you’ll take me instead of someone else. I’m quite the catch by the way—my name’s Cale Banning.”

“Cale?” she repeated dumbly, his flirting so unexpected. She sounded like an idiot, which was probably the real reason she had no dates.

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Like the vegetable, only with a C.”

She laughed. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Why? Are you Cale, too?”

“No.”

“Cabbage?”

“No.”

“Eggplant?”

She shook her head.

“Broccoli.”

“I’m Laurel …”

“… like the tree,” they both said together.

“Laurel Peyton,” she added.

“Well, Laurel-Like-the-Tree Peyton.” He took her hand. “Is this my lucky night?”

She melted right there. In a long, awkward silence, he studied her with sharp focus and made her wonder what he saw when he looked at her. Did she look empty and lost and clinging to his words?

“Since you didn’t say no, come on.” He pulled her with him.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Over there.” He nodded somewhere but she couldn’t see because of the crowd.

“Wait. Please.”

He stopped. “Don’t ruin my night and say no now.”

“I can’t see over this crowd. Where is ‘there’?”

“You don’t trust me.” He was teasing her.

“I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you.”

“Smart girl.” He grinned and suddenly trust was no longer an issue. “Close your eyes, Laurel-Like-the-Tree Peyton, and just take ten more steps with me. We’re on the beach with a few hundred other people, so you’re safe. Just ten steps. Give me your hands.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She held out her hands and closed her eyes. His fingers were callused, and with her hands in his she felt light inside, a balloon someone had to anchor to keep from floating away.

He pulled her gently along. “You’re cheating, girl. Keep your eyes closed.”

“I’m not cheating.”

“Just making sure.” He took her hand again. “Okay, here we go. One, two, three …” He pulled her faster. “Four, six, eight, ten.”

“Wait!” She dug in her heels, laughing. “Now who’s cheating?”

“I’m counting, not cheating. Close your eyes.”

She crossed her arms. “You call two, four, six, eight counting? Where did you say you went to school?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, that explains it. You didn’t go to school.” With every comeback, she laughed a little more, their banter the spun gold of a seminal moment, words she thought she would still remember in fifty years.

“I’m a senior at Loyola.”

“Is that how they teach you to count after almost four years at a university? You should ask for your tuition back.”

“No, that’s how basketball players count. We count in goals—twos and threes.”

“Basketball. You’re so tall. I should have guessed.”

He laughed. “If you are tall, then you must be a basketball player? That’s discriminatory.”

“Oh. I see now. Loyola? You’re headed for law school.”

“No.”

“Well, we both know you sure aren’t a math major.”

“Let me count for you again. Two kidneys. Two lungs. Two hundred and six bones. I’m premed. We’re here. Now you can open your eyes.”

His face was the first thing she saw. She felt something odd looking at him, the actual weight of air on her exposed skin, hypersensitive, hypersensual.

He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her, but kept his hands there. “This is where I was taking you.”

She had to lean back to look up at him. “Me and my two hundred and six bones?”

“You and your two hundred and six bones.”

Just inches apart, they stood near the edge of the pier, where couples danced to live music. She was acutely aware of his hands on her shoulders; it felt as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to stand together that way. One minute she had been alone, and the next a stranger was quickly changing into something more. Odd, how in a mere heartbeat life could change. She closed her eyes and gently swayed to the music, then remembered this same wonderful feeling from the boat yesterday.

“I’m seventeen,” she blurted out.

He didn’t say anything.

“I thought you should know. I’ll be eighteen soon.” She turned toward him then, and his hands fell away. In the absence of his touch, she felt exposed.

His expression was unreadable. “But you’re seventeen now.”

She nodded, waiting for him to say “Nice knowing you kid.”