That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (read more books .txt) 📕

touches her hand and says, “Hey. A bunch of us are getting together tomorrow night. The last bonfire of the year before we all go off to college. Can you come?”

She nods. She has been waiting for this, waiting for him, since the day her sister gave her the yellow bikini; since the first day of that summer, since, maybe, the day she was born.

What to wear, what to wear? Diana’s antsy and distracted all day, desperate for the hours to pass. After the beach, she takes an extra-long time in the outdoor shower, shaving her legs and under her arms and at the crease of her thighs, then rubbing oil into the bare skin. Alone in her room, she towel-dries her hair and works mousse through it, from the roots to the ends, then lets it air-dry, touching the curls anxiously, hoping they’ll look right, that she’ll look right.

At dinner, which is Dr. Levy’s famous lobster Cobb salad, she casually says, “Some of the kids I’ve met are having a bonfire on the beach tonight. Is it okay if I go?”

Dr. Levy and her husband exchange a look across the table. “What would your parents say?” Mr. Weinberg finally asks. “Do you think they’d be okay with it?”

Diana knows the answer is that her parents would probably not be okay. Like her sisters, she won’t be allowed to date until she’s sixteen, and she knows what they’d have to say about a party with older boys and drinking. She puts on a thoughtful expression and says, “I think they’d tell me to be careful, and not to drink anything, and to be home by midnight.”

“That sounds sensible.” Dr. Levy gives her a look. “You have to promise, though. I see your mother every day and she’d kill me if anything happens to you on my watch.”

Diana nods, her head bobbing up and down eagerly. In her imagination, she’s picturing Poe, the line of his back, the way his face lights up when he sees her. She’s remembering how it felt to have his arms around her, his whole body pressed against hers, her skin on his skin.

In her bathroom, she swishes mouthwash over her tongue and teeth, brushes her teeth, flosses and rinses again, and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are bright; her cheeks are flushed. The narrow straps of her white sundress set off the gleaming golden-brown crescents of her shoulders.

Good enough, she thinks, and eases open the sliding door and steps out into the night. She takes the steps two at a time, and once she’s on the beach she races, fleet-footed, over the sand, toward the glow of the fire, the smell of smoke, the sound of music and raised voices.

Poe is waiting by the bonfire for her, in khaki shorts and a Ballston Beach tee. She feels suddenly awkward, like her legs have gotten too long, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, but then he puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him, and she feels herself relax. He smells like fabric softener and whiskey, and she can see a tiny dab of shaving cream on his earlobe that he’s neglected to wipe off.

“Come on,” he says. She follows him to the fire, sits down beside him, and lets him pull himself against her so that her head is leaning on his shoulder. He takes one of her curls between his fingers, pulling it straight, letting it boing back into place before he tucks it behind her ear, and rubs his thumb against her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut. She thinks she might faint, or swoon with the pleasure of it.

“You know what I thought, the first time I saw you, on the beach?”

She shakes her head.

“I thought you looked like summer. Like, if I was going to paint a picture and call it Summer, it would look like you.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “That probably sounded stupid.”

“No!” She opens her eyes and looks at him. “It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. It’s perfect.” You’re perfect.

Smiling, he takes a red plastic Solo cup from somewhere and wraps her hand around it. “Bottoms up.” The moon is full and shining, and the stars are brilliant pinpoints in the sky, and she can hear the wind, the churn of the waves, the heave and toss of the dark water, the endlessness of it. As she raises the cup to her lips, she thinks, I will never be happier than I am, right now, in this moment. She thinks, This is the best night of my life.

Part

One

The Two Dianas

1 Daisy

2019

Daisy Shoemaker couldn’t sleep.

She knew, of course, that she was not alone, awake in the middle of the night. She’d read Facebook posts, magazine articles, entire books written about women her age consumed by anxiety, gnawed by regret, tormented by their hormones, fretful about their marriages, their bodies, their aging parents and their troublesome teenagers and, thus, up all night. In bed, on a Sunday night in March, with her husband’s snores audible even through her earplugs, Daisy pictured her tribe, her sleepless sisters, each body stretched on the rack of her own imagination, each face lit by the gently glowing rectangle in her hands.

Picture each worry like a gift. Put them in order, from the mildest to the most intense. Imagine yourself picking up each one and wrapping it with care. Picture yourself placing the gift under a tree, and then walking away.

Daisy had read that technique on some website, or in some magazine. She’s tried it along with all the others. She had imagined her worries like leaves, floating down a stream; she pictured them like clouds, drifting past in the sky; like cars, zipping by on the highway. She had practiced progressive muscle relaxation; she played, in her noise-canceling headphones, murmurous podcasts and Spotify mixes of