A Summer Remade (4 page)

My phone vibrates against my ear. A text. From my mother.

Mom:
Are you on the island? I thought your friends couldn’t make it. We need to talk.

There’s more of course, but now is not the time for another mom lecture. I’ve listened to plenty of those lately. I tap the screen and darken her words.

“Mrs. Sanderson?”

“Yes?” I answer the man who speaks as slowly as paint dries. “It does appear your account is current, but there seems to be an issue with the main line.”

No kidding. “Yes, so how do I go about getting that checked out?”

“I’d have to make an appointment for someone to come out and take a look.”

Was that not what we were just doing?

In the same amount of time I’ve been on this call, Drew made two runs to the Culver’s house for box fans, disinfectant, paper towels, and candles.

He stands in front of me now, head cocked to one side.

I roll my eyes and point to the phone. This call is a joke. My whole life is, really.

“Looks like we can have someone out there…” he pauses, “Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Might as well be next Easter. “But today is Saturday.”

“Yes, it is.” The man drawls. “Weekends are reserved for emergency-status only.”

I contemplate chucking my phone out the window just as Drew grabs it from my hand.

“Drew,” I squeak.

He turns his back to me and drops his voice an octave. “Hello? Yes. I’m Mr. Sanderson, and we’d really appreciate someone here sooner than Tuesday. We’ve been on the island for over twenty-four hours now without electricity, and I’ve checked the breaker box and perimeter outside thoroughly. That constitutes an emergency in my book, especially since our account hasn’t lapsed.” Drew pauses, listens. “Yes, that’s right. Okay, we’ll wait for your call then. Thank you.” He ends the call.

A huff of air passes through my lips when he faces me again, and he shrugs at my unspoken question. “Worked in a call center freshman year. Terrible job, but I learned a few tricks.”

“I guess so.” He places my phone in my palm. “When are they coming?”

“Hopefully tomorrow, if not, first thing Monday morning.”

“Thanks.” It’s sooner at least, yet it still means camping indoors for longer than I’d hoped. Which is roughly a minute past never.

“You know…” Drew scratches the back of his head. “It doesn’t make sense for me to have that big old house all to myself, indulging in modern conveniences, while you’re over here in the Stink Pit.”

I turn in a full circle, arms out. “What do you mean? This place is like a mini-paradise.”

At that exact moment, the mop I left propped on the hallway wall keels over, splashing dirty, sudsy water onto the living room carpet.

Wet carpet, yet another awesome smell to add to the mix of spoiled food and cat poop.

“It’s a vacationer’s dream house, really,” Drew deadpans. “What was I thinking to offer you an alternative?”

I giggle, the kind synonymous with notes passed on a playground, “yes” boxes checked.

Seconds pass before I realize he’s waiting on me. For an answer.

I tap the toe of my shoe against the living room rug. I should decline with a gracious,
“I’ll be fine, really.”

Drew watches me, a steadiness to his gaze, a cool sort of confidence in his stance. “No need to over-think it. It’s pretty simple. I have a house. You have…well, this.” He gestures toward the spilled mop bucket. “Seems like a no-brainer, Joslyn.” His smile is annoyingly free, a seemingly-permanent fixture on his well-balanced face. And then it hits me: Drew’s like one of those positivity posters in the waiting room of a therapist’s office.
Keep your head up. Tomorrow’s a new day. Be a glass half full to the half empties around you.

Surely, between the two of us, I’m the glass half empty around here.

I tilt my head. “You know, that name you keep using is
twice
as many syllables as the one I prefer to be called.” Obnoxiously, I clap the difference to prove my point. “
Jos-lyn. Joss.
See? So much easier.”

“I’ve never been one to go for easy.”

For the second time today, my cheeks ignite. I glance at the puddle on the carpet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll stay with you—but only until the electricity comes back on.”

He nods and points to his group of supplies next to the kitchen table, as if my declaration was the expected solution. Only he was the one who expected it, not me. At least, not so easily.

“And once the electricity comes on, we can use the box fans to help air the place out. For now though, I’ll get the windows open so we can at least get a good cross breeze going in here.”

I don’t miss his use of
we
. As if he’s planning on sticking around a while. Which, I’m not in any way opposed to.

“Well,” I sigh heavily. “The nasty floor beckons.”

Drew holds up his fist, waits.

Tentatively I form one of my own and then tap it to his.

“That had to be the weakest fist-bump in the world.”

Without warning, he grabs my hand, molds it back into a fist, and does a re-bump.

“Better. Now, let’s get to work, roomie.”

*

Mop in hand,
I slide its wet ropey fingers over the last smear of green goo tacked on the kitchen floor. Pausing mid-swipe, I twist at the waist and sneak another peek at Drew.

He spent a good thirty minutes prying open the painted-shut dining room windows with a screw driver, and now he’s removing the dusty sheets from the sofas in the living room. With his back to me, he raises his left shoulder, and rotates it forward. Twice.

I can’t help but watch.

Drew has a nice back. No, a spectacular back, one that’s chiseled into a mountain range of muscles and tendons and—

He turns and points to the far corner of the living room. “What’s in that old chest?”

“Err…what?”

“The chest. What’s in it?”

Pieces of my soon-to-be past.

“I’m not sure.” The lie slides over my lips easily—out before I can think of a better reply. Or an honest reply.

“That’s some gorgeous woodworking.”

Drew walks toward it and my heart beats wildly against my ribcage, a cold knot forming in the pit of my belly.
Please don’t open it.

He rubs his palm over the top of my dad’s first anniversary present to my mom. A carpenter since before I was born, my dad’s always shown his love through his art. Frames, shelves, even a set of bunk beds for when my friends stayed over on the weekends.

I swallow a mass of unshed tears and blink my way back to the present.

“I’m hungry.” The blurt is quick and loud and completely unladylike, but I had to say
something
before Drew fingered the lock or, worse, lifted the lid.

Drew stands and brushes the dust from his hands onto the thighs of his jeans. “Want me to grab some take out from Luck’s?”

“I think we could both use a break from this place, and the least I can do is buy you lunch for all your help today.”

Drew’s bottom lip has a life of its own. As does his dimple—the one that indents the middle of his right cheek when he talk-smiles. “You can try.”

I swipe my purse off the table, only as soon as it’s in my hand, I know I can’t go anywhere with him, not until I clear my conscious and offer the apology I should have given him years ago. It’s time.

He’s waiting for me on the front porch when I call after him. “Drew?”

“Yeah?”

Suddenly the bold prompting in my head dims to that of a timid whisper. “I uh, I wanted to say sorry. For that last summer on the island together. We were horrible to you.
I
was horrible to you—”

He steps toward me, grips my shoulders in a way that makes my words fall away on a lost breath. “That was a long time ago. Let’s just be grateful neither one of us is thirteen anymore.”

Certainly he’s not—not with that Olympian physique he’s got going on.

He winks and jogs down the porch steps. “I’ve got to make a quick call before we head out. I’ll meet you at the car.”

I spare one last glance at the old chest in the far corner of the living room.

The reason I came.

And then I tug the door closed and turn my key in the deadbolt.

If only my heart were just as easy to lock-up.

‡

T
his entire lunch
conversion has been entirely unbalanced. One-sided.

Drew is casually munching on his fish and chips at Pacific Winds Diner, while I answer question after question. Nothing deep, or ultra-personal has been asked, but still, Drew hasn’t given me a second to breathe, much less turn this question and answer time on him.

As he reaches for another fry, I snatch his basket away.

“Hey now—” He throws his hands up, and I wish I could guess his wingspan—if only to report it to Darby. She’s a sucker for good arms.

“It’s
your
turn. The ratio is way off here. I’ve answered everything from my dorm dimensions to my favorite trilogy. You can earn one fry back for every question you answer.”

Though I know Drew could swipe the basket from my pathetically short reach, he leans back in his chair, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and concedes.

“One question, one fry?” he repeats.

I nod and try to keep a round of awkward giggles from leaking out. I
never
get to win this easily. My friends would have tackled me to the ground before going along with one of my “special social games,” as Sydney calls them.

I can practically see Avery’s epic eye roll now.

“Yep. Okay.” By the look on Drew’s face he’ll play along—at least for a few fries. Five if I’m lucky.

I better choose my questions wisely.

“So why do you look like that?” Okay, that didn’t exactly come out as planned.

His neck crawls with a shade of crimson, but his lips, of course, are turned up in a grin. “Like
what
?”

He’s playing with me now. Everyone within a quarter mile radius of Drew knows “like what?”

There’s
in shape.
And then there’s Drew Culver. If I worked out full-time, made a career of strength training, lived and breathed the inside of a gym, I couldn’t do to my body even
half
of what he’s managed to do with his.

“I row.”

“You what?”

He demonstrates the motion by using his fork to part the air. “You know,
row
.”

At this, I lose it. I snort-laugh as Drew, this tall, masculine anomaly, role-plays his own unique rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” for me.

Finally, he sets his fork down, eyes gleaming as he says, “I’ve been on a rowing scholarship for three years at UW.”

I toss him a fry; he catches it in his mouth.

I like this game a lot.

“I’ve never met a rower before.”

“Well then, I hope I exceed your expectations.”

You already have, Drew. You already have.

Questions two, three, and four are spent uncovering the secrets of life as a rower.

“But aren’t you freezing out there? I mean, it’s Washington. Not Florida.”

“The goal is to
not
get wet.”

Cheeky. He earned two fries for that answer.

“And you’ve been all over the U.S.?”

“Yep. Been on a lot of lakes.”

“Are you close with your crew?”

Drew’s smile dips slightly, his gaze reaching into mine. “The closest. They’re my brothers.”

This
I understand. Not in a team spirit kind of way. In an I-understand-the-irreplaceable-value of true friends kind of way. Because, like Drew, my friends are also my closest family.

“So you don’t have any—what do you call them? Races? Meets?—that you’re supposed to be at this summer?”

Drew opens his mouth and his phone dances a jig across our table. He reaches for it as if to mute the vibration, but his hand pauses as he reads the contact name. I read it, too.

Coach Carson.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” Drew scoots his chair back and walks out onto the patio.

Every female eye in the diner follows him.

Drumming my fingers on the tabletop, I slide my own neglected phone from my back pocket and scroll through a half-dozen texts.