Summer Days and Summer Nights: Twelve Love Stories

  “It’s not that.” It wasn’t a lie. I both did and didn’t want to see him—wanted to, because this was one of the last times I would get to, and didn’t want to, because … well, because of what I had done to him. Because it hurt too much and I’d never been any good at feeling pain.

  “I’m not so sure.” He tilted his head. “I want to tell you a story, that’s all. And you’ll bear with me, because you know this is all the time I get.”

  “Matt…” But there was no point in arguing with him. He was right—this was probably all the time he would get.

  “Come on. This isn’t where the story starts.” He reached for my hand, and the scene changed.

  * * *

  I knew Matt’s car by the smell: old crackers and a stale “new car scent” air freshener, which was dangling from the rearview mirror. My feet crunched receipts and spilled potato chips in the foot well. Unlike new cars, powered by electricity, this one was an old hybrid, so it made a sound somewhere between a whistle and a hum.

  The dashboard lit his face blue from beneath, making the whites of his eyes glow. He had driven the others home—all the people from the party who lived in this general area—and saved me for last, because I was closest. He and I had never really spoken before that night, when we had stumbled across each other in a game of strip poker. I had lost a sweater and two socks. He had been on the verge of losing his boxers when he declared that he was about to miss his curfew. How convenient.

  Even inside the memory, I blushed, thinking of his bare skin at the poker table. He’d had the kind of body someone got right after a growth spurt, long and lanky and a little hunched, like he was uncomfortable with how tall he’d gotten.

  I picked up one of the receipts from the foot well and pressed it flat against my knee.

  “You know Chase Wolcott?” I said. The receipt was for their new album.

  “Do I know them,” he said, glancing at me. “I bought it the day it came out.”

  “Yeah, well, I preordered it three months in advance.”

  “But did you buy it on CD?”

  “No,” I admitted. “That’s retro hip of you. Should I bow before the One True Fan?”

  He laughed. He had a nice laugh, half an octave higher than his deep, speaking voice. There was an ease to it that made me comfortable, though I wasn’t usually comfortable sitting in cars alone with people I barely knew.

  “I will take homage in curtsies only,” he said.

  He pressed a few buttons on the dashboard and the album came on. The first track, “Traditional Panic,” was faster than the rest, a strange blend of handbells and electric guitar. The singer was a woman, a true contralto who sometimes sounded like a man. I had dressed up as her for the last two Halloweens, and no one had ever guessed my costume right.

  “What do you think of it? The album, I mean.”

  “Not my favorite. It’s so much more upbeat than their other stuff, it’s a little … I don’t know, like they went too mainstream with it, or something.”

  “I read this article about the lead guitarist, the one who writes the songs—apparently he’s been struggling with depression all his life, and when he wrote this album he was coming out of a low period. Now he’s like … really into his wife, and expecting a kid. So now when I listen to it, all I can hear is that he feels better, you know?”

  “I’ve always had trouble connecting to the happy stuff.” I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. I was wearing all my rings—one made of rubber bands, one an old mood ring, one made of resin with an ant preserved inside it, and one with spikes across the top. “It just doesn’t make me feel as much.”

  He quirked his eyebrows. “Sadness and anger aren’t the only feelings that count as feelings.”

  “That’s not what you said,” I said, pulling us out of the memory and back into the visitation. “You just went quiet for a while until you got to my driveway, and then you asked me if I wanted to go to a show with you.”

  “I just thought you might want to know what I was thinking at that particular moment.” He shrugged, his hands still on the wheel.

  “I still don’t agree with you about that album.”

  “Well, how long has it been since you even listened to it?”

  I didn’t answer at first. I had stopped listening to music altogether a couple months ago, when it started to pierce me right in the chest like a needle. Talk radio, though, I kept going all day, letting the soothing voices yammer in my ears even when I wasn’t listening to what they were saying.

  “A while,” I said.

  “Listen to it now, then.”

  I did, staring out the window at our neighborhood. I lived on the good side and he lived on the bad side, going by the usual definitions. But Matthew’s house—small as it was—was always warm, packed full of kitschy objects from his parents’ pasts. They had all the clay pots he had made in a childhood pottery class lined up on one of the windowsills, even though they were glazed in garish colors and deeply—deeply—lopsided. On the wall above them were his Mom’s needlepoints, stitched with rhymes about home and blessings and family.

  My house—coming up on our right—was stately, spotlights illuminating its white sides, pillars out front like someone was trying to create a miniature Monticello. I remembered, somewhere buried inside the memory, that feeling of dread I had felt as we pulled in the driveway. I hadn’t wanted to go in. I didn’t want to go in now.

  For a while I sat and listened to the second track—“Inertia”—which was one of the only love songs on the album, about inertia carrying the guitarist toward his wife. The first time I’d heard it, I’d thought about how unromantic a sentiment that was—like he had only found her and married her because some outside force hurled him at her and he couldn’t stop it. But now I heard in it this sense of propulsion toward a particular goal, like everything in life had buoyed him there. Like even his mistakes, even his darkness, had been taking him toward her.

  I blinked tears from my eyes, despite myself.

  “What are you trying to do, Matt?” I said.

  He lifted a shoulder. “I just want to relive the good times with my best friend.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Then take us to your favorite time.”

  “You first.”

  “Fine,” I said again. “This is your party, after all.”

  “And I’ll cry if I want to,” he crooned, as the car and its cracker smell disappeared.

  * * *

  I had known his name, the way you sometimes knew people’s names when they went to school with you, even if you hadn’t spoken to them. We had had a class or two together, but never sat next to each other, never had a conversation.

  In the space between our memories, I thought of my first sight of him, in the hallway at school, bag slung over one shoulder, hair tickling the corner of his eye. He had black hair, floppy then and curling around the ears. His eyes were hazel, stark against his brown skin—they came from his mother, who was German, not his father, who was Mexican—and he had pimples in the middle of each cheek. Now they were acne scars, only visible in bright light, little reminders of when we were greasy and fourteen.

  Now, watching him materialize, I wondered how it was that I hadn’t been able to see from the very first moment the potential for friendship living inside him, like a little candle flame. He had just been another person to me, for so long. And then he had been the only person—the only one who understood me, and then, later, the last one who could stand me. Now no one could. Not even me.

  * * *

  I felt the grains of sand between my toes first—still hot from the day’s sun, though it had set hours before—and then I smelled the rich smoke of the bonfire, heard its crackle. Beneath me was rough bark, a log on its side, and next to me, Matt, bongos in his lap.

  They weren’t his bongos—as far as I knew, Matt didn’t own any kind of drum—but he had stolen them from our friend Jack, and now he drumrolled every so often like he was setting someone up for a
joke. He had gotten yelled at three times already. Matt had a way of annoying people and amusing them at the same time.

  Waves crashed against the rocks to my right, big stones that people sometimes spray painted with love messages when the tide was low. Some were so worn that only fragments of letters remained. My freshman year of high school I had done an art project on them, documenting each stone and displaying them from newest-looking to oldest. Showing how love faded with time. Or something. I cringed to think of it now, how new I had been, and how impressed with myself.

  Across the fire, Jack was strumming a guitar, and Lacey—my oldest friend—was singing a dirge version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” laughing through most of the words. I was holding a stick I had found in the brush at the edge of the sand. I had stripped it of bark and stuck a marshmallow on it; now that marshmallow was a fireball.

  “So your plan is to waste a perfectly good marshmallow,” Matt said to me.

  “Well, do you know what a marshmallow becomes when you cook it too long?” I said. “No. Because you can never resist them, so you’ve never let it get that far.”

  “Some questions about the world don’t need to be answered, you know. I’m perfectly content with just eating the toasted marshmallows for the rest of my days.”

  “This is why you had to drop art.”

  “Because I’m not curious about charred marshmallows?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Because you can be perfectly content instead of … perpetually unsettled.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you calling me simpleminded? Like a golden retriever or something?”

  “No!” I shook my head. “I mean, for one thing, if you were a dog, you would obviously be a labradoodle—”

  “A labradoodle?”

  “—and for another, if we were all the same, it would be a boring world.”

  “I still think you were being a little condescending.” He paused, and smiled at me. “I can give it a pass, though, because you’re obviously still in your idealistic adolescent art student phase—”

  “Hypocrisy!” I cried, pointing at him. “The definition of ‘condescending’ may as well be telling someone they’re going through a phase.”

  Matt’s response was to seize the stick from my hand, blow out the flames of the disintegrating marshmallow, and pull it free, tossing it from hand to hand until it cooled. Then he shoved it—charred, but still gooey on the inside—into his mouth.

  “Experiment over,” he said, with a full mouth. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  He didn’t answer, just grabbed me by the elbow and steered me away from the bonfire. When we had found the path just before the rocks, he took off running, and I had no choice but to follow him. I chased him up the path, laughing, the warm summer air blowing over my cheeks and through my hair.

  Then I remembered.

  He was leading us to the dune cliff—a low sand cliff jutting out over the water. It was against beach rules to jump off it, but people did it anyway, mostly people our age who hadn’t yet developed that part of the brain that thought about consequences. A gift as well as a curse.

  I watched as Matt sprinted off the cliff, flailing in the air for a breathless moment before he hit the water.

  I stopped a few feet from the edge. Then I heard him laughing.

  “Come on!” he shouted.

  I was more comfortable just watching antics like these, turning them into a myth in my mind, a legend. I watched life so that I could find the story inside it—it helped me make sense of things. But sometimes I got tired of my own brain, perpetually unsettled as it was.

  This time I didn’t just watch. I backed up a few steps, shook out my trembling hands, and burst into a run. I ran straight off the edge of the cliff, shoes and jeans and all.

  A heart-stopping moment, weightless and free.

  Wind on my ankles, stomach sinking, and then I sliced into the water like a knife. The current wrapped around me. I kicked like a bullfrog, pushing myself to the surface.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Matt said, as I surfaced.

  As our eyes met across the water, I remembered where I really was. Lying in a hospital room. Unaware of how much time had actually passed.

  “I like this memory, too,” he said to me, smiling, this time in the visitation instead of the memory. “Except for the part when I realized my dad’s old wallet was in my pocket when I jumped. It was completely ruined.”

  “Oh, shit,” I breathed. “You never said.”

  He shrugged. “It was just a wallet.”

  That was a lie, of course. No object that had belonged to Matt’s father was “just” something, now that he was gone.

  He said, “So this is your favorite memory?”

  “It’s … I…” I paused, kicking to keep myself afloat. The water was cool but not cold. “I never would have done something like this without you.”

  “You know what?” He tilted back, so he was floating. “I wouldn’t have done it without you, either.”

  “It’s your turn,” I said. “Favorite memory. Go.”

  “Okay. But don’t forget, you asked for this.”

  * * *

  I had always thought he was cute—there was no way around it, really, short of covering my eyes every time he was around. Especially after he cut the floppy mess of hair short and you could see his face, strong jaw and all. He had a dimple in his left cheek but not his right one. His smile was crooked. He had long eyelashes.

  I might have developed a crush on him, if he hadn’t been dating someone when we first became friends. And it seemed like Matt was always dating someone. In fact, I counseled him through exactly three girlfriends in our friendship: the first was Lauren Gallagher, a tiny but demanding gymnast who drove him up the wall; the second, Lacey Underhill, my friend from first grade, who didn’t have anything in common with him except an infectious laugh; and the third, our mutual acquaintance Tori Slaughter (an unfortunate last name), who got drunk and made out with another guy at a Halloween party shortly after their fifth date. Literally—just two hours after their fifth date, she had another guy’s tongue in her mouth. That was the hardest one, because she seemed really sad afterward, so he hadn’t been able to stay mad at her, even while he was ending things. Matt never could hang on to anger, even when he had a right to; it slipped away like water in a fist. Unless it had to do with me. He had been angry at me for longer than he was ever angry with a girlfriend.

  For my part, I had had a brief interlude with Paul (nickname: Paul the Appalling, courtesy of Matt) involving a few hot make-out sessions on the beach one summer, before I discovered a dried-up-booger collection in the glove box of his car, which effectively killed the mood. Otherwise, I preferred to stay solitary.

  Judging by what Lacey had told me while they were dating, girls had trouble getting Matt to stop joking around for more than five seconds at a time, which got annoying when they were trying to get to know him. I had never had that problem.

  * * *

  I heard rain splattering and the jingle of a wind chime—the one hanging next to Matt’s front door. My hair was plastered to the side of my face. Before I rang the bell, I raked it back with my fingers and tied it in a knot. It had been long then, but now its weight was unfamiliar. I was used to it tickling my jaw.

  He answered the door, so the screen was between us. He was wearing his gym shorts—his name was written on the front of them, right above his knee—and a ragged T-shirt that was a little too small. He had dark circles under his eyes—darker than usual, that is, because Matt always had a sleepy look to his face, like he had just woken up from a nap.

  He glanced over his shoulder to the living room, where his mother was sitting on the couch, watching television. He drew the door shut behind him, stepping out onto the porch.

  “What is it?” he said, and at the sound of his voice—so hollowed out by grief—I felt a catch in my own throat. In the memory as well as in t
he visitation. It never got easier to see him this way.

  “Can you get away for an hour?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Claire, I’m just … not up for hanging out right now.”

  “Oh, we’re not going to hang out. Just humor me, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll tell Mom.”

  A minute later he was in his old flip-flops (taped back together at the bottom), walking through the rain with me to my car. His gravel driveway was long. In the heat of summer the brush had grown high, crowding the edge, so I had parked on the road.

  Matt’s house was old and small and musty. He had had a bedroom once, before his grandmother had to move in, but now he slept on the couch in the living room. Despite how packed in his family always was, though, his house was always open to guests, expanding to accommodate whoever wanted to occupy it. His father had referred to me as “daughter” so many times, I had lost track.

  His father had died three days before. Yesterday had been the funeral. Matt had helped carry the coffin, wearing an overlarge suit with moth-eaten cuffs that had belonged to his grandfather. I had gone with Lacey and Jack and all our other friends, in black pants instead of a dress—I hated dresses—and we had eaten the finger food and told him we were sorry. I had been sweaty the whole time because my pants were made of wool and Matt’s house didn’t have air-conditioning, and I was pretty sure he could feel it through my shirt when he hugged me.

  He had thanked us all for coming, distractedly. His mother had wandered around the whole time with tears in her eyes, like she had forgotten where she was and what she was supposed to do there.

  Matt and I got in the car, soaking my seats with rainwater. In the cup holder were two cups: one with a cherry slushie (mine) and the other with a strawberry milk shake (for him). I didn’t mention them, and he didn’t ask before he started drinking.

  I felt struck, looking back on the memory, by how easy it was to sit in the silence, listening to the pounding rain and the whoosh-whoosh of the windshield wipers, without talking about where we were heading or what was going on with either of us. That kind of silence between two people was even rarer than easy conversation. I didn’t have it with anyone else.