Every Summer After
: Chapter 11

Sam and I are lying on the raft, eyes shut to the sun. I’m drifting in a haze—of his hands on my hips and his fingers on my calf and You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known—when a shout comes from the shore.

“This is a sight for sore eyes.” I sit up, shielding my face. Charlie is standing on the hill. I can see his dimples from the water, and I can’t help but grin back. I wave. “You kids hungry?” he calls down. “I was thinking of turning on the barbecue.” I look at Sam, who’s now sitting up beside me.

“I don’t need to stay,” I offer. Sam scans my face briefly.

“Don’t be weird,” he says. “Food sounds great,” he yells back to Charlie. “We’ll be up in a sec.”

Charlie is on the front deck lighting the barbecue when we join him. I’m wearing a towel wrapped around my shoulders and Sam is rubbing his hair dry. I sneak a peek at the muscles that run up the side of his torso before Charlie turns to face us. When he does, his eyes light up like fireflies. His hair is cropped so close to his head it’s only a little longer than a buzz cut. His square jaw looks like it’s made from steel. It’s in direct contrast to the sweetness of his dimples and his pretty plush lips. He’s barefoot and wearing a pair of olive-colored shorts and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. He’s not as tall as Sam, and he’s built like a firefighter, not a banker. He’s still movie-star good-looking.

Those Summer Boys did an exceptional job of growing up. Delilah Mason’s squeal rings in my ears, and her absence gnaws at my gut.

Charlie glances at Sam before embracing me tightly, apparently not worried about my wet bathing suit. “Persephone Fraser,” he says when he pulls away, shaking his head. “It’s about fucking time.”

Charlie makes sausages he grabbed from the Tavern with grilled peppers, sauerkraut, and mustard, and a Greek-style salad that looks like it could be photographed for a food magazine. There’s something different about Charlie. He’s paying closer attention to Sam than he ever did when we were kids. Every so often, he sneaks a long look at Sam as if he’s checking on him, and he’s been ping-ponging between us like we’re some kind of riddle he’s trying to unravel. His eyes still dance like spring leaves in the sunlight, and he wears his smile easily, but he’s lost the lightness he had when we were younger. He seems sad and maybe a bit on edge, which I guess makes sense given the circumstances.

“So, Charlie,” I say with a grin as we eat, “I’ve met Taylor already. Tell me about the woman you’re seeing this month.” It sounded funny enough in my head, but Charlie is giving Sam a tense glare. I see Sam shake his head ever so slightly, and Charlie’s jaw flexes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charlie mumbles.

They eye each other silently, then Charlie turns to me. “No girlfriend right now, Pers. You interested?” He winks, but his voice is flat. My face flushes hot.

“Sure. Just let me drink about fifty more of these,” I say, picking up my empty beer bottle. Charlie’s face splits into a smile, a real one.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that? It’s kind of freaking me out.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I hold up my beer. “Who wants another?”

“Sure,” Sam says, but he’s still shooting daggers at Charlie.

I gather up the dirty plates, rinse them off, and stack them in the washer. The house is pretty much the same as when I was a teenager—the walls have been painted and there are a few new pieces of furniture, but that’s about it. It still feels like Sue. It still smells like Sue. I grab three more beers, and just as I’m about to head back out, I hear Charlie’s raised voice.

“You never learn, Sam! It’s the same shit all over again.”

Sam murmurs something harshly, and when Charlie speaks again, he’s quieter. I can’t make out what he says, but he’s obviously upset. I leave the beers on the counter and slip away to the bathroom. Whatever’s going on, I know I’m not supposed to hear it. I splash water on my face, count to thirty, then head back to the kitchen. Charlie is grabbing his wallet off the top of the fridge.

“You’re leaving already?” I ask. “Did I say something wrong?” Charlie walks around the counter to me.

“No, you’re perfect, Pers.” His pale green eyes move across my face, and I feel a little light-headed. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I made plans to catch up with some old friends. I don’t get back here as much as I’d like.”

“Sam said you live in Toronto. You never looked me up.”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t think that would be a good idea.” He looks over his shoulder at the sliding door that leads to the deck. “I know he seems like he’s got it all together, but don’t let that big brain of his fool you—he’s a moron a lot of the time.”

“Spoken like a true brother,” I say, not sure what he’s getting at. “Listen, before you head out, I just wanted to say thank you for calling me.”

“Like I said, I thought you should be here. It feels right.” He steps toward the doorway, then turns around. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll save you a seat.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “You don’t have to do that.” I shouldn’t sit with the Florek family. I’m not family. Maybe I was once but not now.

“Don’t be silly. Besides, I could use a friend. Sam will have Taylor.”

I blink at how sharply that sentence hits me, then nod.

“Sure. Of course.”

After Charlie closes the front door behind him, I head out to the deck with a couple of beers. It’s early evening now and the sun is starting its slow descent into the western sky. Sam is standing, his forearms on the railing, staring out over the water.

“You okay?” I ask, moving beside him and handing him a beer.

“Yeah. Believe it or not,” he says, looking at me from the corner of his eye, “Charlie and I get along way better than we used to. But he still knows how to push my buttons.”

We finish our beers in silence. The sun is hitting the hills on the far side of the lake with a magical golden light. I let out a sigh—this was always my favorite time of day at the cottage. A boat full of cheering teens roars past, pulling a young woman on water skis. A few seconds later, waves from the lake crash against the shore.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Sam says, still staring ahead.

“You mentioned that,” I reply. “It makes sense—you’re going through a lot right now.”

“I’m used to functioning with hardly any sleep because of work, but I could always crash when I had the chance. Now I just lie there, wide awake, even though I’m exhausted. Do you ever have that?” I think about all the nights I used to lie in my bed, thinking about Sam for hours on end. Wondering where he was. Wondering who he was with. Counting the years and days since I’d seen him last.

“Yeah, I’ve had that,” I say, glancing at him. The setting sun is kissing the high points of his cheekbones and the tips of his eyelashes.

“I’d blame it on my old bed, but I’ve been using it for the past year.”

“Wait a sec. The same bed you used to have? It must be half your size!”

He laughs softly. “It’s not that bad. I thought about moving into Mom’s room a few months ago, when it was clear she wasn’t coming back from the hospital, but the thought just depressed me.”

“And what about Charlie’s room?” Charlie had a double bed growing up.

“Are you kidding? I’m fully aware of how many girls he had in that room. I definitely wouldn’t have got any sleep.”

“Well, presumably the sheets have been washed at least once in the last decade,” I say, laughing and watching the skier take another lap around the lake. I can feel Sam looking at me.

“Whatcha thinking about?” I say, not moving my gaze from the water.

“I have an idea,” Sam says. “Come with me.” His voice is soft, a low nuzzle.

I follow him through the sliding door, into the kitchen, and then he opens the door to the basement, flicking on the light in the stairwell. He holds his arm out for me to descend first. I walk down the creaky stairs and stop suddenly when I get to the bottom landing.

Other than a new flat-screen, it’s exactly the same. Same red plaid couch, same brown leather armchair, same coffee table, all in the exact same spot. The patchwork afghan hangs over the back of the couch, and the floor is still covered with scratchy sisal carpeting. The same family photos hang on the wall. Sue and Chris on their wedding day. Baby Charlie. Baby Sam with toddler Charlie. The boys sitting in a gigantic snowbank, their cheeks and noses pink from the cold. Awkward school pictures.

Sam stands behind me on the landing, and his closeness makes the back of my neck prick.

“Is this a time machine?”

“Something like that.” He moves around me and crouches beside a large cardboard box in the corner of the room. “I’m not sure if you’ll think this is awesome or if you’ll think I’m nuts.”

“Can’t it be both?” I ask and kneel down beside him.

“It’s definitely both,” he agrees. He lifts the corner of the lid and then pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “I think I bought these for you.” He untucks the four flaps over the top of the box and holds them open so I can see inside. I look back up at Sam.

“Are these all . . .”

“Yep,” he says before I finish my question.

“There must be dozens.”

“Ninety-three, to be precise.” I begin pulling out the DVDs. There’s Carrie and The Shining and Aliens. The Japanese and American versions of The Ring. The Evil Dead. Misery. Poltergeist. Scream. Creature from the Black Lagoon. The Silence of the Lambs. A Nightmare on Elm Street. Leprechaun. Alien. Land of the Dead. It. The Changeling.

“And you’ve never watched them?”

“Told you you’d think I was crazy.” That’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that maybe Sam missed me as much as I missed him.

“I think I rubbed off on you, Sam Florek.”

“You have no idea,” he replies.

“I think I do.” I hold up the first and second Halloween movies and smile. He chuckles and rubs his forehead.

“It’s your turn to pick,” he announces.

“You want to watch one?” Somehow I didn’t see that coming.

“Yeah, I thought we could.” Sam narrows his eyes.

“Like right now?” This almost feels more intimate than what happened in the boat earlier.

“That’s the idea,” he says, then adds, “I wouldn’t mind the distraction.”

“Do you even have something to watch these things on?” He points at the PlayStation. I screw my mouth up. Looks like we’re watching a movie.

“Do you have popcorn?”

Sam smiles. “Of course.”

“Okay. You go make some, and I’ll choose a movie.” I give the order with confidence, but really I just need a minute alone, away from Sam. Because I feel like I’ve been scraped over a cheese grater.

Once Sam heads upstairs, I take my phone out of my back pocket. There’s a missed call from Chantal and several texts wanting to know how my run-in with Sam went. I cringe and shove the phone back in my pocket and then riffle through the DVD box.

I can do this, I think. I can be friends with Sam. I don’t know how to do that anymore, but I am determined not to leave here on Monday and never see him again. Even if it means dealing with him being in a relationship with someone else. Even if it means planning his fucking wedding.

I’m standing in front of the TV holding the movie behind my back when Sam returns to the basement, a large bowl of popcorn in one hand and two more beers in the other.

“Want to guess which one I picked?” Sam puts the bowl and drinks on the coffee table and faces me with his hands on his hips. His eyes scan my face and then a grin touches his mouth.

“Nuh-uh,” I say before he speaks.

“The Evil Dead.”

“Are you kidding me?” I wave the DVD in the air. “How did you do that?”

Sam stalks around the coffee table to me, and I hold the movie above my head, like I’m playing keep-away. He reaches around me to take the movie from my hand, brushing his chest against mine in the process. He pulls the DVD, and my arm along with it, down to our sides, his fingers overlapping mine. We are a few inches apart. Everything goes blurry except for the details of Sam’s face. I can see the darker specks of blue that encircle his irises and the purplish rings under his eyes. I glance down at his mouth and stop on the crease that parts his bottom lip. Friends. Friends. Friends.

“Old habits, right?” Sam asks, and it sounds like velvet.

“Huh?” I blink up at him.

“The movie—you want to watch it for old times’ sake.”

“Right,” I say and let go of the DVD.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” he asks. “That you don’t want to know about Taylor and me? I can respect that, if it’s not something you want to talk about. Charlie has other opinions, but . . .” He drifts off. “Percy?” I have my eyes closed, bracing myself for impact. I can hear him announcing that they’re getting engaged so clearly in my mind, it seems like a foregone conclusion.

“You can tell me,” I say, looking up at him. “We can talk about it . . . about her.” His shoulders seem to relax a little, and he motions for me to go sit on the couch. He pops the DVD in, lowers the light, and sits down on the couch, placing the popcorn between us. We’re in our old positions, curled up at either end of the couch.

“So we’ve been seeing each other for a little over two years,” he says.

“Two and a half years,” I correct for some goddamn unknown reason, and even in the dim light I can see the corner of his mouth flit upward a little.

“Right. But the thing is we haven’t been together that whole time. We were actually broken up for, like, six months of it. And I felt like it was done. I knew that it was done, but Taylor has this way of talking you into something. It’s probably why she’s a great lawyer. Anyway, we got back together about a month ago, but it wasn’t working. It hasn’t been working.” He pauses, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to think what happened earlier in the boat . . .” He stops himself and starts again. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re not together.”

“Does she know that?” I ask. “She introduced herself as your girlfriend last night,” I remind him.

“Yeah, she was then,” he says. “But she’s not now. We broke up. I ended things. After we dropped you off.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage to get out of the noise that’s whirling around my head.

Is this because of me? It can’t be because of me.

As much as I would like to insinuate myself into Sam’s life like the past twelve years haven’t happened, like I didn’t completely betray him, I know I don’t deserve that. I stare into the bowl of popcorn. He’s waiting for me to say more, but I can’t grasp any of the words floating around in my head and smoosh them into a sentence.

“She’s going to be there tomorrow,” he says. The funeral, he means. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I just wanted to be honest with you.”

I hold my face still so he can’t tell that he’s delivered a direct blow, slamming into my weakest spot with precision. He keeps talking. “I also wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t being totally inappropriate earlier.” I venture a peek up at him. “Maybe just a little out of line.” His mouth moves into a one-sided smirk, but his eyes are wide, waiting for reassurance. And at the very least I owe him that, so I reach for a joke.

“I get it. You’re obsessed with me.” Except it doesn’t sound funny when it leaves my mouth, doesn’t drip with the sarcasm I’d intended.

He blinks at me. If the TV wasn’t casting a blue light over his face, I feel certain I’d see a flush moving across it.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he picks up the remote.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Throughout the movie, I keep sneaking glimpses of Sam instead of watching. About an hour in, he starts yawning. A lot. I move the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table and pull out the throw pillow from behind me.

“Hey.” I nudge Sam’s foot with mine. “Why don’t you stretch out and shut your eyes for a bit?” He looks over at me with heavy lids. “Take this.” I pass him the pillow.

“All right,” he says. “Just for a bit.” He tucks his arm under the pillow and lies on his side, his legs extending well onto my side of the couch and his feet bumping up against mine.

“This okay?” he whispers.

“Of course,” I say and pull the afghan over our legs and up to his waist. I snuggle down into the couch.

“Good night, Sam,” I whisper.

“Just a few minutes,” he murmurs.

And then he falls asleep.

SAM AND I are a tangle of limbs when I wake up. We’re still on either end of the couch, but my leg is across his leg, and his hand is wrapped around one of my ankles. My neck aches, but I don’t want to move. I want to stay here all day, with Sam sleeping soundly, a hint of a smile across his lips. But the funeral starts at eleven this morning, and light is streaming in from the small basement windows. It’s time to wake up.

I unfurl myself from Sam and gently shake his shoulders. He groans at the disruption, and I whisper his name. He blinks up at me in confusion and then a crooked grin slowly spreads across his mouth.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey.” I grin back. “You slept.”

“I slept,” he says, rubbing his face.

“I didn’t want to wake you, but I figured I should so you weren’t rushing around before the funeral.”

Sam’s grin fades, and he sits up and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I can go to the Tavern to set up or . . . I don’t know . . .” Sam straightens, and then rests his head on the back of the couch. I sit facing him, my legs crossed beneath me.

“It’s all taken care of. Julien will be at the Tavern this morning finishing up. He told us to stay away till after the service.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “But thank you. I should probably just get you back to the motel.”

Sam brews a pot of coffee and pours us each a traveler’s mug. I try to make small talk, but he gives one-word answers, so after we climb into the truck, I decide I should just keep my mouth shut. We don’t speak during the short drive to the motel, but I can see the tension in Sam’s jaw. It’s almost eight when we pull into the parking lot, and aside from a few cars, it’s deserted. I unbuckle my seat belt but don’t move. I know something is wrong.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Believe it or not,” he says, looking out the front window, “I was kind of hoping today would somehow never come.” I reach out and put my hand over his, rubbing my thumb back and forth. Slowly, he turns his hand over, and I watch as he curls his fingers through mine.

We sit there, saying nothing, and when I look up at Sam, he’s staring out the windshield, tears streaming down his face. I move over on the seat and lean against him, placing our clasped hands onto my lap and wrapping my free hand around them both. His body is shaking with silent sobs. I place a kiss on his shoulder and squeeze his hand tighter.

My instinct is to tell him it’s going to be okay, to soothe him, but I let the grief wash over him instead. Waiting it out with him. Once his body is still and his breaths are steady, I pull my head back and brush away some of his lingering tears.

“Sorry.” He mouths the word, barely a thread of a whisper. I hold on to his eyes with my own.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I keep thinking about how I’m almost the same age as Dad was when he died. I always hoped I had Mom’s genes, that I wasn’t cursed with his bad heart and his short life. But Mom wasn’t even fifty when she got sick.” His voice breaks and he swallows. “I can’t believe how selfish I am for thinking about this when her funeral is today. But I don’t want that. I feel like I haven’t even started to live yet. I don’t want to die young.”

“You won’t.” I cut him off, but he keeps going.

“I might. You don’t . . .”

I put my hand over his mouth. “You won’t.” I say it again, hard. “Not allowed.” I shake my head, feeling my eyes go watery.

He blinks once, looks down at where my hand is pressed against his mouth, and then back to my eyes. He stares at me for several long seconds, and then his eyes darken, black pupils engulfing the blue. I can’t move. Or I won’t move. I’m not sure which it is. Both my hands, the one clutching Sam’s and the one over his lips, feel like they’ve been dipped in gasoline and lit on fire. His chest rises and falls in fast breaths. I’m not sure I’m breathing at all.

Sam grips my wrist, and I think he’s going to pull my hand away from his mouth, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes. And then he plants a kiss in the center of my palm. Once. And then again.

He opens his eyes and keeps them on mine as he kisses my palm once more and then slowly runs the tip of his tongue up the middle of my hand, sending a molten wave through my body and between my legs. The sound of my gasp fills the silence of the truck, and suddenly Sam is lifting me on top of his lap so my thighs straddle his, and I clutch his shoulders for balance. His hands skim up and down the backs of my legs, his fingers brushing under the hem of my shorts. He’s looking at me with an open kind of awe.

I don’t notice that I’m biting my lip until he uses his thumb to release it from my teeth. He places his hand on my cheek and I turn into it, kissing his palm. His other hand moves further up the back of my shorts, sliding under the edge of my panties. I whimper into his hand.

“I missed you,” he rasps. A wounded kind of sob spills out from me, and then his mouth is on mine, taking the sound into him, swirling his tongue around mine. He tastes like coffee and comfort and warm maple syrup. He moves to my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses up to my jaw. I tilt my head back to give him full access, arching toward him, but the kisses stop. And his mouth is on my nipple, sucking the peaked flesh through my tank top, gently biting down before sucking again. The noise that escapes me is unlike any I’ve heard myself make before, and he looks up at me with a cocky half grin on his face.

Something in me snaps, and I pull up his T-shirt, tracing my hands over the hard curves of his stomach and chest. He shifts toward the center of the seat and then spreads my knees wider so that I’m sitting flush against him. I roll my hips against the hardness beneath me, and he hisses and then grips onto my sides, holding me still. My eyes flash up to his.

“I won’t last,” he whispers.

“I don’t want you to,” I say back. He’s breathing heavily. His cheeks are damp from tears, and I kiss each one. His hands come to both sides of my face and he brings my forehead to his, his nose moving along the side of mine. I can feel each of his exhalations on my mouth. He traces his thumb across my lip again and then softly presses his mouth against mine. I push my hands underneath his shirt and up his back, trying to pull him closer, but he holds my head and plants gentle kisses against my mouth, watching my reaction to each one. A frustrated hum sounds in the back of my throat because it’s not nearly enough. He laughs gently, sending goose bumps down my arms. I try to sit up taller on my knees so I can take more control of the kiss, but Sam’s hands come back to my hips and keep me pushed against him. His hands are under the back of my shorts, his fingers digging into my ass, and then he thrusts up against me, and I moan. An “oh god” escapes me, and my thighs shake when he brings his lips lightly against my ear and whispers, “Maybe I don’t want you to last, either.”

His mouth covers mine, and his teeth pull at my bottom lip and then he laps his tongue over the same spot. When his tongue moves inside my mouth, I feel the vibration of his groan and roll my hips over him again. One of his hands leaves my ass and cups my breast, then pulls the tank top down, hooking it underneath. His fingers pinch my nipple, and I feel it between my legs.

“Fuck, Percy,” he gasps. “You feel so amazing. You have no idea how often I’ve thought about this.” His words wrap around my heart, sending melted butter down my limbs.

“I do,” I whisper. His mouth moves to my neck and he lightly presses his tongue along my collarbone up to my ear, and I rub against him, trying to replace the top of my delight.

“I do,” I say again. “I think about you, too.” The confession slips from my mouth, and Sam growls and moves me against him, one hand under my shorts, freeing my breast from my bra with the other. When he takes my nipple hungrily into his mouth and looks up into my eyes, the orgasm begins to rise quickly. I’m murmuring incoherently, an inarticulate jumble of “Sam” and “keep going” and “almost.” He moves me faster and harder over him and sucks me deeper into the wet heat of his mouth, and when his teeth press into my flesh, a zipper pulls up my spine, and I shudder violently. His mouth is back on mine, swallowing my moans, his tongue eagerly moving against mine, until my body goes liquid, and I lean against him, little quakes still rippling through me.

“I want you. I’ve always wanted you,” he murmurs as I pant. I lean back, my bare breast cool from the dampness of his mouth.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says. I move my hand up his thigh, over the thin material of his sweatpants, until I replace the hard ridge of his erection.

I kiss the crease on his bottom lip, then cover it with my mouth, sucking and biting while I move my hand under his waistband and around the warm length of him, moving my hand back and forth. When I run my tongue flat up his neck to his ear, pulling the lobe with my teeth, and whisper, “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever known,” he grabs my hand and pulls it out of his pants, then squeezes my hips and brings me down against him, and his pelvis bucks underneath me. A loud, strangled cry leaves his mouth. His orgasm rips through him in three waves, and I leave kisses on his neck until it ebbs and then I curl against his chest and listen to the sound of his heavy breathing. His arms fold around me, and we stay like that for several quiet minutes.

But when I sit back to look up at him, his brows are furrowed.

“I loved you,” he whispers.

“I know,” I say.

Hurt eyes move across my face. “You broke my heart.”

“I know that, too.”