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

“Fine!”

“No, really,” he said, and put his hand between her shoulder blades. “You can tell me. How are you doing, really?”

Diana stood up and walked to the edge of the deck and looked out over the water, letting the wind blow back her hair. A million-dollar view, Michael had once told her the year before. Even if you don’t have a million-dollar house to go with it.

She heard the creak of the deck’s boards and felt his warm presence, as he came to stand beside her. Without looking at him, she spoke into the wind coming off the bay. “I love it here,” she said. “I wish I could stay, year-round.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asked.

She turned away, shaking her head, and didn’t answer. He put his hands on her shoulders. It was, she realized, as good of an opening as she’d ever have. She breathed in a long, careful breath, and said, “I need to tell you a story.” With her eyes closed she could see it, all of it: the fifteen-year-old girl who thought she’d been in love, racing, barefoot, over the sand in her white sundress, running down the beach, to the bonfire, and the booze, and the boys.

“I was a mother’s helper. A thousand summers ago. I worked for Dr. Levy. I met some boys, on the beach. At the end of the summer, right before Labor Day, they invited me to a party. A bonfire, on the beach.”

As she approaches the fire, Diana slows her pace to a stroll and tries to catch her breath. She doesn’t want to appear too eager or desperate, but it is hard not to run, to skip, to dance toward him; hard to hold herself back. Her mind is brimming with all kinds of wonderful thoughts: maybe tonight, Poe would kiss her. Maybe he’d ask her to be his girlfriend and visit him at college, and he’d come see her in Boston and meet her parents and her sisters. Maybe—her fondest wish, the best of them all—he would say that he loved her.

He’s standing at the fire with his back to her, in khaki shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. When she taps his shoulder, he turns, smiling. He looks her over, from the slender straps of her dress all the way to her bare feet, and, impulsively, she twirls around for him, her skirt flaring like a blossom. “Hey, beautiful,” he says. “Wait right there.” A minute later, he’s back, pressing a cup into her hand.

When she takes her first sip, the alcohol burns her throat and makes her eyes water. She gasps, spluttering, and almost spits it out. Her face glows hot as an ember when she hears a few of the guys laughing, and she thinks he’s going to laugh at her, too, but all he says is, “Let me get you some punch.” She watches him as he walks away, then studies the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Her friends have all gone home by now. Alicia’s back in New York City and Maeve is back in Dublin and Marie-Francoise is in Breton. Kelly was the second-to-last of them to go. At Gull Pond that morning, she’d kissed Diana on each cheek, given her a postcard with her address on it, and said, “Keep in touch!”

There are girls at this party, older-looking girls. Diana sees one in cutoff shorts, holding a guitar, and another in an Emlen sweatshirt that must belong to one of the boys. Because, mostly, it’s Emlen guys here, in T-shirts or sweatshirts that advertise their school, in jeans or cargo shorts or the pinkish-salmon shorts she’s learned are called Nantucket Reds. When the wind changes directions, she can hear pieces of conversation: They went to Cape Cod and Early decision at Princeton, and, once, the word “townie,” followed by a burst of unpleasant-sounding laughter. Her head swivels—was that meant for her?—but before she can figure out who was talking, or who they were talking about, Poe is back with another cup.

“Try this.”

The drink is sweet, almost cloying, and it tastes like apricots and peaches, but it warms her pleasantly instead of burning on the way down. She sips, then gulps, because she’s thirsty after her run and a day in the sunshine, and, suddenly, the cup is empty and Poe is off to get her a refill, leaving her sitting on one of the driftwood logs that’s been pulled up around the campfire, with the world gone slightly spinny and soft at its edges.

“Hey, take it easy.” She looks to see that there’s a girl in the cutoffs, sitting beside her. The girl has a deep tan and about six bracelets on her arm, woven friendship bracelets and bangles that chime when she gestures. “That stuff sneaks up on you if you’re not careful. Trust me, I know from personal experience.” The girl’s hair is long and brown, tangled by the wind, and she’s got a narrow, clever face. There’s a silver ring on her thumb.

“Thanks,” says Diana, realizing that her bladder is suddenly, uncomfortably full. “Is there, um…”

“A bathroom?” The cutoffs girl makes a face. “Ha. I wish. The guys just go piss in the dunes. That’d be my advice.”

Diana waits until Poe comes back. She sits by him and drinks with him and asks him questions, listening as he tells her about the previous night’s adventures, which seem to have involved him and six of the guys he’s staying with getting kicked out of a bar (or maybe it’s a club?) called the Bomb Shelter. When she can’t wait any longer, she says, “Excuse me,” and stands up.

Tipsy. She’s never appreciated the word before, but, now on her feet, she feels she might immediately fall over. The world is tilted, wobbling on its axis. She’d have fallen right over, if it weren’t for his hand on her elbow.

“You okay?”

She isn’t sure, but she nods, smiling brightly.

“I’ll be right back.” By then she’s spotted a narrow path that threads