Page 11

The entire island has littered the shoreline for the Piper Island Fishing Pier fireworks show. The sand is nearly inhabitable at high tide, so people are squeezed together in the short stretch of sand. Distant laughter travels over the dunes.

Haven and I spent the day biking the island, then we dressed up in red, white, and blue and biked to the Bishops’ July Fourth cookout. It was a small affair. Hank grilled hot dogs for us, our families, and a few of his and Liezel’s friends. Blair was invited, but she decided to catch whatever backyard fireworks shows were visible from our front porch instead. She made me promise not to stay with her and promised me she’d watch at least one show.

When night fell, Liezel passed out sparklers and let us light up the world orange. Tiny fireworks crackled from our hands in anticipation for the real ones. Hot sparks burned pin pricks on our hands. I wrote “Quinn” in cursive and wrapped it in a heart in the air. I ran to the edge of Everett’s driveway, leaving an orange streak behind me.

The memories of the day wash over me as I shiver in the breeze, standing with my elbows against the railing on the back deck. Mason and Holden dared to rub elbows with everyone on the sand, but Haven, Jorge, Everett, and I are on Everett’s back deck, watching the horizon like lighthouse keepers.

The clock ticks closer to nine-thirty. Do the constellations know what’s about to happen? Do they twinkle with bated breath for the dandelion puffs to erupt before them?

We listen to the ocean and the laughter from the sand until a whistle washes over the crowd. A glowing line smears the sky and bursts into a firework—bright, loud, and steady. A string of crackly ones stall, then the rest take shape. My eyes blur, half blinking every time a new set goes off. Booms and crackles and colors fill the sky and reflect the same picture on the band of ocean stretched before us. Neighboring beach shows erupt as small blips on the distant shoreline.

I can’t help but smile. Guilt doesn’t erupt beneath it.

Fireworks stain the world; I spy each flickering color. The dunes glow green. The pampas grass glows orange. My arms glow red. Everett’s smile glows blue. He’s already looking at me when I look at him, our stares lingering enough to turn every color.

“How many shows are happening in the world right now?” I ask.

He leans in so I can hear him over the blaring static. “Infinite.”

His breath feels like a firework across my neck. Beautiful and romantic, but not at all trying to be.

More quickly than a firework shoots to the sky and turns to smoke, the finale begins. The fireworks sing over each other, too many to make out one color from the next. Before long, everything stills. The conductor has waved his final baton. Smoke hangs heavy over the ocean like early morning fog.

Applause from the beach fills the void. The Bishops’ back deck and the neighboring ones roar in very drunken applause.

We head below the house, where the Bishops usually park their cars. String lights hang from the rafters and illuminate the patio furniture.

We play a few rounds of cornhole in the driveway with the adults until it gets late enough for everyone but us to leave. Everett’s parents head up to bed after Everett pinky promises them we won’t stay up too late.

When we hear the front door close above us, Everett goes into the shed next to their outdoor shower and emerges with beer. “You guys wanted a kickass July Fourth?”

So much for pinky promises.

I haven’t been drunk since one night two summers ago. I kept good on my word not to drink again, thought I learned from my mistakes, but the glow of the string lights and haze of the late night prevailed. I’m barely drunk, at least not like I know I can be. I count the beer can tabs in my pocket as a reminder. Three.

I snap another off the next can, shove it into my pocket with the rest.

We’re on our third attempted game of the evening. We started off with Clue, but Holden swore he solved the murder two rounds in and ruined the game. Next was Rummikub, which Haven won since she was the only one who got her tiles out after the first drawing. We were at a loss for what to do next until Holden got the idea to play Truth or Dare.

Mason goes first, daring Holden to ask the neighbors for something from their cooler. He marches across the street to the neighbors’ driveway where they’re having their own party. We can’t hear their exchange, but he returns victoriously with a soda can.

Jorge asks Everett to tell the truth about the most illegal thing he’s done. Besides sneaking into Pirate’s Bounty—and the beer in his hand right now—it was sneaking outside candy into the movie theatre, which earns a few exaggerated gasps from the rest of the group, but a secret nod of shared guilt from me.

Prompted by Holden, Haven tells of her scariest experience, the ghost that haunts her abuela’s house in Mexico.

“Holden insists it isn’t real, but abuela says it only haunts chicas,” Haven mutters. “It probably just hates you.”

“I think if it’s not haunting Holden, it must like him.” Mason swigs from his can. “Right?”

“Doesn’t everyone just love Holden? Even the dead,” Jorge says.

“Hey, don’t be jealous that this is the only thing that likes you.” Holden nudges Haven with his elbow.

Everett dares me to do the Macarena. I jump up from the patio furniture, giggling that this is his dare. Haven helps me and we fumble through the steps. I sit back down and finish my fourth beer, my brain doing its own Macarena. I’m a loose cannon, high tide, pampas grass swaying in the wind. I’m only a few pegs of drunkenness beneath that night two years ago when I made out with a guy whose name I barely remembered. I could get there. I don’t know the conversion rate between beer and tequila, but the first sparks of fire burn within me.

This is a dangerous place to be. This is an incredible place to be. This is exactly the place to be.

I don’t know how many drinks Haven’s had, but I dare her to chug the rest of the can she’s holding. She leans her head back so hard that beer dribbles onto the airbrushed Haven shirt Jorge bought her so she’d finally have a souvenir with her name. She finishes with an exasperated exhale.

Haven dares Jorge to kiss her. So she’s exactly as drunk as I am right now. Jorge looks at her like she’s the only person under the house and kisses her in the same manner. When she comes up for air, she wipes fallen beer from her chest.

Holden fake gags, or maybe it’s real. I laugh at the absurdity of it all. Is it even that absurd?

Everett feels warm next to me, or maybe it’s me who’s warm. My face is a hot sidewalk mirage. Likely red. Definitely pink. No matter who’s to blame, it’s unbearable being skin-to-skin with him, sweating where our thighs touch. My heart beats, bathing in the warm beer.

Jorge seeks revenge and dares Mason to kiss Holden. Mason doesn’t make quite the show that Jorge did, but he grabs Holden by the cheeks and gives him a quick peck.

Haven cheers, then leans across the coffee table, brushing her hair behind her ear. She whispers as if nobody else can hear her, “Quinn, I dare you to kiss Everett.”

Even the partygoers across the street must have heard her. Certainly the hibiscus bushes by the outdoor shower did. My heart clenches up and pulses in my temples. I should have seen this coming.

I glance at Everett, who might as well be a statue. Like always, I can’t read his poker face, but it’s worse now that my brain’s gone to mush. It feels like I swallowed concrete, but isn’t this what I wanted? In an ideal world, surrounded by the people who make me feel steady in an ever-churning world, with varying levels of beer mixing with my blood, this would be the greatest opportunity to kiss him again.

Unfortunately, thick vines hold me hostage. Those vines do not sway like pampas grass in the wind.

Everett can’t kiss me without it meaning something.

Everett can’t kiss me and then go back to nothing.

Everett can’t take it.

I tell myself these things like I’m not just talking about myself.

I force a smile at Everett. Haven doesn’t seem to think she’s done anything abnormal. Holden, Mason, and Jorge are perched in silence like ospreys waiting for a fish to jump from the water.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

When I stand up, my feet fail me, and I nearly fall back on the sofa. But I quickly recover and slink up the stairs. I’m walking on clouds, up an escalator, propelling without thoughts to the front door. Talk about an escape. Inside, the dull kitchen sink light leads the way to the hall bathroom. I catch myself on the corner of the island, thankful it’s not sharp.

I do use the bathroom; I wasn’t lying. Too much motion has made the world spin on its axis. I steady myself on the edge of the sink, stare at myself in the mirror. My face is on fire. My mascara and eyeshadow show signs of their wear. My teardrop earrings fall in the wrong direction. My hair is swept into this mess with me. I laugh abruptly at my reflection. What is happening? Kiss Everett?

And what if I did?

Should I have kissed Everett?

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

I reach for the soap. The dispenser clatters into the sink. Shit. I cup my hand over my mouth. Silence. Are Everett’s parents stirring? Silence. Another laugh leaves me. Thank God their room is upstairs. Everett’s room is downstairs. What is happening?

Everett’s room is downstairs.

I float over to his room. It’s like a magnet or something, not me. Plus, the door is cracked. It’s not like I broke in or anything. I’ve passed his room a few times over the years, but this feels forbidden, dangerous. I flick the light on with a chuckle that might only exist in my head. His green comforter is disheveled. Everything else is spotless. A clean room is important, but beds don’t need to be made. Sounds like someone else I know.

On the wall above his desk, he’s tacked his collection of postcards. Most must be from his nomadic grandparents. Greetings from London! Hello from Manila! Banff National Park wishes you were here!

The Chihuahua, Mexico one is from Haven and Holden. They sent me a similar one.

The postcard of downtown Raleigh is from me. I sent it when I was fourteen from a class field trip to a museum. I turn it over to read my message: Today I saw a cloud that looked like a katydid. I could almost hear it buzzing from way up there. I think I heard it say, I miss you, Everett! See you under the same sky in June! -Q

I wasn’t surprised to see that Everett saved all his postcards, but what nearly knocks me over is what’s on the windowsill. Next to a turtle with a hat from the pier shop, next to the bouncy ball I already knew he’d kept from the Boardwalk arcade, sits his shark pressed penny from the aquarium four summers ago.

The memory feels blue. Moon jellies. Regret. Butterflies. Warm penny wishes. Even warmer cheeks.

Everett raps on the door. “You okay?”

I turn around and can’t help but laugh. He acts like he’s intruding on me, but I’m the one caught red-handed in his room. I’m the weird one. I run my red hands through my hair. It doesn’t do what I thought it would. The tension still zaps between us. “Sorry, I don’t know how I ended up here.”

He laughs, his hands in his pockets. “It’s cool.”

I graze the penny with my finger. “You still have it.”

“Of course I do.” His eyebrows furrow. He enters his own room like he’s not welcome. Leans against his dresser. Arms crossed—the only other place he likes to keep his hands. “You don’t?”

“I do. Just didn’t think you would too. Mine’s in my jewelry box back home. Remember the sea turtle?”

“Yeah.”

I’m babbling too much. A babbling brook. I laugh. I’ve never heard myself talk this much. Can’t decide if I like the sound. He’s too quiet. I know I don’t like that sound. His silence.

The spinning comes back. It never left.

A few paces away, there’s too much space between us.

Something within me shifts. My heart and my lungs beat in quick confusion. Words no longer come easily. The beer stops writing on my tongue. There’s only Everett. Curly, charcoal hair. Tan skin. The muscles visible where his arms wrap within themselves. Broad shoulders. His cheek that’s always been home to the most beautiful beauty mark I’ve ever seen.

We’re not fourteen anymore. That couldn’t be clearer.

Perhaps it’s a deep dive into madness. Perhaps it’s just the truth that’s always existed. Perhaps I haven’t gone anywhere not yet travelled.

I can’t take it anymore.

I kill the space between us. My hand ends up on his chest. I smooth out a crinkle in his tee shirt. There aren’t any crinkles on his face, but I smooth those out too with my thumb.

I want to kiss Everett. I always did. We’re already in his room. All we’d have to do is shut the door.

A truth vinyl spins in my head. “I don’t know what got into me down there. I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have run away. I’m here now.”

He swallows so hard I see it in his Adam’s apple. I think I hear it, too. A tsunami of noise. Finally, he takes his eyes off the penny they’ve been glued to. Looks at me, his eyebrows still knitted together. Clears his throat. There’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes, the unspoken words on his lips. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he’s looking right now. He wants to kiss me, too. I know it.

I wrap one hand around his neck, still warm like a summer night. My heart is about to burst from my chest.

He grabs my wrist, pulls my hand from his neck. Swallows. Something like pain on his face, but shouldn’t there be joy? “Quinn, you’re drunk.”

Doesn’t he want me?

“You’re not?” I ask like I’ve been struck by the sky. I can’t remember if he’s been drinking, but he doesn’t smell like beer. Not like me.

His pupils are dark, apologetic, cavernous. He rubs his thumb on my wrist. Warm and cold all at once. “Not like this.”

He lets me go.

I’m freezing cold.

I float alone in a cavernous ocean. It only knows how to take. Take. Take. Take until I’m nothing.

He smiles at me sullenly. “Come on, let’s go back downstairs.”

The rain falls dramatically on Everett’s driveway later that night.

I lie dramatically in Everett’s hammock. Everyone else left when the rain started, but I stayed to listen to the world receive the rainfall. The rain bathes the world of its sins, leaving it glittery and new.

Some beer has drained from my head, but the world still feels a bit blurry. I still the swaying hammock, freeze my eyes on the street to steady my stomach. I’m still not sober enough to go home yet, but I’m not drunk enough to kiss Everett; it’s in the past now, but does it still swirl in Everett’s head?

The stairs groan like stones skipping on each rung—Everett is on his way down.

He hands me a water bottle and sits on a chair across from me. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” I yawn and temper my fatigue with ice cold water. “Thank you for the water.”

He shrugs. “No problem.”

What is he thinking right now?

The unknown of it all feels like standing waist-deep in the ocean, unsure what’s lurking just outside my line of sight. A defensive stingray, a perfect lightning whelk, something more nefarious, or nothing. It’s usually nothing at all.

These thoughts don’t leave my mouth, but they sit on the soft breath leaving my nose, the ache strewn across my face watching wet hair shade his face from the dull string lights. My eyes play tricks on me. I’ve been watching the rain for so long that looking at him brings lingering purple and orange motes to my vision.

I make a spot next to me on the hammock, brush my hand across the worn-down knots.

Come sit next to me, my hand says.

He stands up, makes some dramatic noise of it, and shuffles to the space next to me.

The hammock sways awkwardly until we find our rhythm. I steady us with my foot on a wooden beam. I’m dizzy again, but it’s from more than beer and swaying—his body pressed against mine. His wet hair drying in tame ringlets. The smell of Old Spice. His biceps once pearled in water droplets, now dried off with a towel. His room that got to watch. What would his arms look like if we ran to the end of the driveway and let the rain make a mess of us?

His skin is warm from the steam, even warmer in the rainy midnight air. He smells like petrichor on a full moon night, something equally as light as it is dark.

“I could fall asleep out here,” I say. My head lands on Everett’s shoulder. I’m too tired to move it. I don’t want to move it. My head is full of concrete. This time is ours, a sneaky chasm of our days usually packed with other people, a cave of secret moments only the rain and insects have ever seen. The rain claps for us against palm tree leaves, car windshields, scallop-encrusted driveways.

“It’s like sleeping on a cloud,” Everett says.

“I used to watch the clouds out my car window and wish I could sleep on them.”

“Me too. I didn’t realize sleeping on clouds would mean falling from the sky.”

“Were you drunk earlier?” The words escape my mouth without thought, without hesitation.

“Does it matter?” His voice cracks.

“Yes.”

“Then I was.”

“Tell me the truth.”

He clears his throat in the silence. “I wasn’t.”

I nod. He knows how badly I want to kiss him. All my cards are on the table, both of us staring at them, neither of us picking them up. He was sober when he laid his own cards on the table. “Not like this.” That can’t mean anything but “I want to kiss you when we will both remember it.”

We’d both remember this. It’s hard to forget rain this heavy.

“Are you still drunk?”

“Not like I was.”

“What are you thinking right now?” he asks. Unspoken words dance between the spoken ones. Tell me how you feel about me.

“Nothing.” My unspoken words stay that way.

I want to kiss you, but I’m too scared.

I want to fall asleep out here with you by my side.

I want you.

“Tell me the truth.”

I open my eyes to look at him, until it’s too hard to look at his puzzled expression, so I make eye contact with the dark, wet street again. “Rain.”

“No, what are you really thinking?”

“That sleep would be nice.” I lean my head back, smiling so my teeth glow the color of string lights.

“Oh my god, you’re killing me.”

“You mean you’re not thinking about sleep, Dr. Bishop? With the rain falling like it is?”

“Of course I am.” He pokes the spot above my knee. With my eyes closed, I can pretend it’s because he wanted to reach out and touch me. Not because there was a speck of ash left over from the sparklers. Not because there’s a freckle on my thigh that looks like a button begging to be poked. “Quinn, I dare you to tell me a secret.”

I want to kiss you, but I’m too scared.

I want to fall asleep out here with you by my side.

I want you.

“They found some new species of jellyfish where the sun doesn’t shine,” I whisper so it sounds like a secret.

He laughs. Like really, truly laughs. The sound buzzes through my skull like a jellyfish sting.

“No really. It’s all see-through and glowy.”

“Translucent and bioluminescent.”

I glance at him with a smirk. “So you’ve heard.”

He rolls his eyes, then drops the subject.

In his silence, the rain picks up. I close my eyes again. It’s impossible not to. My eyelids are heavy. I can’t make sense of the words that leave my mouth, drunk on lack of sleep. Drunk on what makes you drunk.

“You think we can make it out here all night?” I ask the red hibiscus bush basking in the darkness. I tell my secret without telling it. We. I touch the same spot on his thigh like if I don’t acknowledge him, he’ll float away. I might float away too. Is it possible to end up somewhere more wonderful than this?

“I tried it once. It’s eerie out here past midnight. Too hot and still.”

My sleepy head floats on his shoulder. Fatigue tapes my mouth shut. Take me to dream land where everybody floats. Where nothing is too hot. Where nothing is still. Where I don’t have to be drunk to shake this fear from my bones.

“Quinn. You can’t go home like this. Let’s go to bed.” He taps my cheek, making new constellations from my freckles. I’m back in the land below the clouds. Below Everett’s house. Everett’s house. Everett. Bed. “Inside. You can stay in the guest room. My parents won’t mind.”

“I want to stay out here forever,” I mumble from the gap in my lips.

“The bugs will eat us alive.” He stands up, leaving me to spin on my own. For once, the bugs aren’t on our side.

I pry myself back to reality, follow Everett up the stairs. Our footfalls aren’t as steady as skipping stones. The magic dies inside where the rain and heat don’t live.

He guides me to the guest room, snaps on the lamp next to the bed, and peels back the covers for me.

“I’m sorry, Everett,” I whisper as I crawl into bed. A million secrets go unsaid, but Everett knows what I’m sorry about.

I want to kiss you, but I’m scared.

Reality is too hot and too still.

I’m sorry.

Everett takes my earrings off and leaves them on the bedside table. He pulls the comforter to my chin and turns off the lamp. “Goodnight, Quinn.”