Summer Somethings

Round trees fat with spring fly by the car window. One, two, three—I count and ignore the gnawing anxiety in my gut.

A notification ding pinches the air and I look down at my phone.

Elizabeth <3: 13 missed calls. I reread for the one-hundredth time and groan aloud.

“You’re having fun back there?” Dad lifts a brow in the rear view mirror.

My mumble is half-assed—definitely not one of my more full-assed mumbles—and he notices but refocuses on the road.

He tries again, “Are you excited to see your old friends?”

“Any friends I had either forgot me, had the good enough sense to leave Cape May, or are now way too cool for me.”

I think back to the Instagram post I tirelessly searched for in my pre-vacation ritual: tall, tanned, old friends together with their arms over each other’s shoulders, while I remain on the other side of the screen; untagged, forgotten, and buried in decades-old suitcases and gym bags.

“Pah-lease,” Dad guffaws, “you’re the coolest kid I know!”

I raise a pierced eyebrow at him, reflected through the mirror.

“You’re super punk, and clever, and are a very talented photographer—”

Aimes, can we please talk?? lights up on my phone and I drown out the parental flattery.

By now, Elizabeth is about a hundred or so miles behind me, so I should be focusing on the anxiety at whatever awaits my arrival rather than what I’m leaving behind. After a few rocky weeks—I’ll be honest, months—Elizabeth dumped me, accused me of being “too okay”, and wanted to fervently discuss our thoughts and feelings. I don’t consider myself the kind of person to go in-depth about my relationships with the person I’m breaking up with. Well actually, the person who broke up with me.

“—and you can drive stick,” Dad finishes with a flourish.

I return a small smile, and he’s distracted by something on the radio.

Leafy-green trees and highway signs are soon replaced with cliff-side guardrails, winding roads, and the most magnificent-feeling, least-polluted wind on the planet.

Sitting up, I let my phone fall to the floor. I crawl over the bags on the seat next to me to reach the window facing the ocean. As it rolls down, the soft crash of waves and refreshingly salty air immediately soothe the jagged feeling coiling in my gut. Seatbeltless and with a smile crinkling my eyes, I sigh at the big blue ocean and its endless but invigoratingly haunting horizon.

“It feels better now that we’re here, huh?” Dad chimes.

“Yeah,” I say.

He continues somberly, “Wish your mom were here to see it,”

“Yeah,” I say.

My back pocket vibrates with another call from Elizabeth that I plan on missing as I help Dad unload the bags from the hatchback.

“Jeez, Dad, what on Earth did you pack?”

“Enough,” he shrugs.

I roll my eyes, “Clearly.”

Our old-school family wagon had choked and shuddered up the concrete driveway to huff to a stop in front of a squat beach house painted a dreadful blue-gray. It was once a vibrant cobalt blue, but years of being battered by coastal winds and an evident lack of upkeep reduced it to a shadow of its original color.

Putting down the bags, Dad whistles up at the house with his hands planted at his hips. “Gosh, this place hasn’t changed a bit,”

I inwardly cringe. Sure, if before it had looked like a pile of beach-rotted planks stacked on top of each other. Just a decade earlier, I must’ve looked at this house just like Dad was—with rose-colored glasses, no expectations, and a healthier imagination. I remember running around the foundation, feeling the grass poke out of the hot sand; or chasing after someone on the wraparound patio, thinking about the splinters in my bare feet but never really caring.

My back pocket dings twice.

“Elizabeth?” Dad questions knowingly, turning back to me.

“Elizabeth,” I confirm. He swallows and looks away, avoiding whatever he was going to say.

Here, I think to myself, Elizabeth, meet my dad. One of the reasons I’m so emotionally unavailable.

With a questionable squeak, the storm door slams open, and Mrs. Patel scampers down the steps, slippers haphazardly shoved on, barreling into Dad. “Bellamy!” she gasps. “It’s been too long!”

“Too long,” Dad mimics with a bright smile.

Before he even has the chance to return the hug, Mrs. Patel practically shoves him away and slides over to me, pulling me into an encompassing embrace. “Look how big you’ve gotten!” She practically screams.

I grimace and sigh in relief a little when she holds me at arm’s length. “Hi, Mrs. Patel,” I respond shakily.

A wave of memories folds out like forgotten laundry at the sight of her face. I remember her with her dark hands outstretched in constant encouragement, holding home-cooked meals and always full of laughs.

Her face has deepened with laughs since the last time I saw her. Her huge brown eyes crinkle more tightly at their corners and her hands are notably thinner.

“How have you been, dear?” she asks, cupping my face in her hands.

“Good, Mrs. Patel. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you,”

“Too long!” she exasperates.

She shakes her head and the thick, dark waves of her shoulder-length hair sway back in forth. Mrs. Patel leads Dad and me inside as we carry our bags in. Dad promises we’ll go out for the rest in a bit.

As Dad and I undo the laces of our sneakers to pull them off, I steal glances around the foyer—scared that everything will feel different and that I’m in a stranger’s home. However, unlike the outside, the inside is exactly as I remember.

All of the windows are open, bringing in a fresh breeze that somehow still doesn’t get rid of the faint smell of lemons. Carpets, vibrant in pattern and color, blanket the otherwise hardwood floor in every room. I throw myself onto one of the couches as Mrs. Patel herds the suitcases into a pile against the wall to show Dad the changes around the outside. The couch, though dull and a little scratchy, swallows and hugs my body, telling me to never leave.

Following white fan blades with my eyes, I focus on the white noise of the warming waves just a short jog down the beach. If I listen hard enough, I think, I can hear each bubble of the sea foam burst on the sand.

“…of course!” I hear Mrs. Patel’s voice resounding louder as their steps pat through the back door. “Navi will be back soon,”

“Great!” Dad claps his hands together. “Amelia will be excited to see her again!”

The dread and anxiety coil in my stomach more tightly than before. The growing pit threatens to crawl up my throat—to scream and whine and hurl all the excuses currently running through my mind out in the open. I thought I had time—no, I thought I was prepared.

“Here, let’s get these bags upstairs,” Mrs. Patel suggests. Mindlessly, I follow, letting the suitcase slam on the side of every step.

On the drive over, I prepared myself for each and every one of her responses: whether she cried, screamed in my face, or completely ignored me. I ran through every situation, every probability, and every outcome. None of them were extremely appealing, but the best options were born out of necessity, and I could deal with it.

Mrs. Patel lets me settle my stuff in the vacant room closest to the stairs. I meticulously fold and place tank tops, shorts, shawls, and socks into empty drawers until each is organized and full. I distract myself by running through the activities I can do to fill up my time: books, college essays, visiting vintage tourist stores, and taking photos of the small-town ambiance. I don’t even need to think about the way Navi would look at me out of the corner of her eyes—either in contempt or something else entirely.

A burst of commotion sets my head alight with alarms.

A race of thoughts fills up all the corners of my mind, a circular track where beasts pound their hooves into the dirt. A migraine begins to pound at my temples with a steady rhythm.

I decide to wait upstairs and make myself busy adjusting the settings on my roughed-up digital camera.

God, I’m gonna puke.

“Aimes,”

Startled, I pivot to the door and see my dad in the doorway. I sigh out a puff of relief.

“Ready to go down?”

I nod—knowing that even if he knew I was lying, he wouldn’t say anything—place the camera on the floor, and notice my obnoxiously fuzzy socks with llamas wearing party hats on them.

Every step on the old wooden floor is excruciating. A burst of delight from downstairs almost makes me stop cold in my tracks. I imagine all the ways Navi’s changed—and the ways she hasn’t—and prepare myself for how her laugh will completely diminish once I walk into the room.

Fuck, I regret wearing these stupid socks.

“Wren! Mr. West!”

I look up and my heart trips.

No, that was me.

Actually tripping. With my feet.

I should not have worn these socks.