If We Never End

CHAPTER ONE

In my dreams, I’ve lived out a thousand different summers.

Sometimes June was the salted air and reckless taste of adventure that lingered like a kiss.

Sometimes July was a Cuban family vacation in Miami, with steaming pots of ropa vieja and whispered chisme.

August was always a two-week sleepover with a friend where I could try on another life.

In reality, though, my dreams stayed behind in sleep.

I’ve only lived one summer, year after year.

I went as far as my aunt Vivian’s house while my parents and friends scattered to places I’d only ever imagined.

This year was no different. Except, instead of Viv’s home, the first day of summer after my high school graduation took me out of my hometown of Glendale for a thirteen-hour drive north to Sacred, Oregon, dropping me into the passenger seat of my tía Vivian’s red Camaro.

“Oye, Sylvie.” Viv jostled my leg.

I snapped away from the Sabrina Carpenter song that had me closing my eyes, nodding along to the drama and heartbreak. “Hmm?”

“We’re only a few miles out from Sacred. I was thinking we’d stop at the market in town before heading to the cabin.”

“Sure,” I deadpanned. “We’ll tie our grocery bags to the roof.

” For the multi-leg drive, my two suitcases were wedged into the cramped back seat, blocking the rear window and acting like poor stand-ins for my parents.

They’d already departed for the same ten-week-long job in Europe they’d had for the last thirteen summers, not even waiting to see me off before taking off themselves.

“No need,” Vivian said. “We’ll make it work.”

She’d said this phrase often throughout my childhood.

We’ll make it work. It was the kind of thing you said when circumstances were less than stellar.

The opposite of ideal. While my parents settled into their yearly post on a luxury mega-yacht, Vivian was the one who made my playdates and summer school runs and cheer practices work.

I sipped ice water as a response, willing away the remnants of the dull headache I’d tried to treat earlier—another un-ideal: the long-term side effect of a cheerleading concussion.

Avoiding further conversation, I studied the topography of this new state. Misted green and craggy rock and the distant rise of mountaintops passed by my window, the scene repeating itself into a watercolor blur until a FaceTime notification chimed from my phone.

The screen read Ana Quintero. Fellow Glenridge Academy grad and best friend number one, who was currently at her family’s vacation home on Cape Cod like she was every summer.

I tapped answer, and there she was. Brown ponytail, the distant lip of Sandy Neck Beach behind her.

Pink tank top and her gold Our Lady of Guadalupe pendant.

I shrank into a square in the top-right corner of my phone, my honey-brown hair tired and limp, green eyes diluted by the glare of the screen.

“I know, I know,” Ana said, going first. “It’s been days. I suck.”

“We suck,” said a voice I knew like a favorite song. Grier Woodson, my other best friend since fifth grade.

“Yeah, we do,” Ana said, and the pair giggled as Grier smooshed her blond, wavy bob and rosy face next to Ana so they’d both fit in the FaceTime window.

“Nah, it’s cool,” I said, adding a smile.

“I get it.” And I did. Six months ago, Ana and Grier had admitted they wanted to be more than friends.

It was the least surprising confession I’d ever been privy to, and my happiness for them was endless.

But that meant they did more things on their own without a five-foot-three Cubana third-wheeling their every move.

And it also meant Grier’s first summer on the Cape.

“Girl, this place is epic,” Grier chimed. “We’ve been living in the water. I’m gonna learn sailing. Tennis too.”

Ana butted in with “Then we’re going to . . . ,” igniting a list of camping trips and beach excursions and people to see, things to do. I nodded along, my eyes drifting toward the rearview mirror.

“Sylvie . . . hey.”

I blinked hard. “Sorry. It all sounds amazing.”

Vivian stuck her face into my phone screen. “Hola, bellas. Have fun this summer. I’ll take good care of your girl.”

“You always do,” Grier said, smiling, but I couldn’t help but linger over the “always” part. I told my friends not to bother asking Ana’s parents if I could visit along with Grier. I already knew my parents’ answer.

A few weeks ago, a different scenario had played out in my head.

Maybe we should skip this year and not even go? Spend our last summer before we both leave for college with you in LA?

But Ana and Grier never said anything like this.

And I never told my friends that I’d wished they had.

I’d imagined the sound of those words, thought of what a full summer together would look like, then disassembled those dreams piece by piece until I stopped caring about any of it. Until it became okay and fine.

“I’ll fill you in on everything the bustling metropolis of Sacred, Oregon, has to offer,” I said.

“Ha—perfect,” Ana said. “But if it ever takes us too long to get back to you, promise we’re not ignoring you.”

“Never,” Grier added.

I waved my free hand. “Of course. It happens.” When you’re living a big, big life. Chasing adventure and a summer of a thousand thrills. I thought this but didn’t say it, or much of anything else, before we ended the call.

The car filled with a silence that held all my resentments and regrets, the things I never said but Viv seemed to hear anyway.

“I’m glad you’re going on this adventure with me, carino. You might even like this place. And wait until you see the cabin,” she said. “Qué chula.”

Yeah, real cute. “You could’ve sent pictures while I stayed home.”

Her brow line dropped. “Sylvie—”

“I’m eighteen. An adult?”

“As of, what, three weeks? And you know your parents. My sister.”

My mother. And did I ever.

“Cuban eighteen is not regular eighteen,” Viv said.

And there it was. The simple and complicated reason I lived under the dregs of some ancient ideals. The reason I was eons away from Los Angeles and my friends across the country.

If you’re under our roof, you’ll do what we say.

The family mantra echoed, and my hand clenched into a ball.

I exhaled, splaying then wiggling my fingers, remembering how much easier it was if I didn’t let myself care.

A lifetime of asking my parents for too many things (let me spend summers with friends, stay) made me an expert on how to deal with disappointment.

Not caring was the best technique for keeping myself afloat, especially while I worked on my newly formulated postgrad plan.

And so I told Vivian, “It’s fine. I’ll find plenty to do around here.

” She didn’t know about Sylvie’s Perfect Triangle—no one did, not even Grier and Ana.

They were too swept up in their own perfect summer.

And didn’t I deserve one secret, one thing for myself?

The ink was barely dry on this plan, but I was committed.

1.) Get a killer summer job and save up as much money as possible.

2.) Work nights after fall-semester classes at the local community college.

3.) Move out before my nineteenth birthday.

Three points connected me to a home where I could make my own choices under my own roof.

Late afternoon bled into dusk as Vivian drove her fiery red Camaro into Sacred, Oregon.

A massive sign greeted us with the image of three trees carved in relief behind the town’s name.

The word “town” felt like a bad inside joke, though.

All of three blocks long, this “town” was the kind that offered one of barely anything.

A bank, a market. A single coffee shop, two restaurant-slash-bars. Thrilling.

A scowl imprinted on my face as we hopped out of the car and stretched. My tía rooted around in the back, yanking my massive suitcase out of the way like it was made of dandelions. My jaw softened; this trip was all wrong, but she was still a wonder of the universe.

Nearly fifty years mastering the craft of wood-and glasswork had made Vivian Rojas a major name in the art world and had whittled her body into a statue of lean, Cuban-born muscle.

When she laughed, her head swung backward, dark hair dusting the length of her spine, signature heishi bead strands inching across her collarbones.

While my parents worked abroad, I usually spent the summer at Viv’s custom house, a bungalow in Topanga Canyon with a detached workshop for her art.

I had a bedroom there. A toothbrush and a full set of skin care.

But this year, I had to follow her along to Oregon for a job-in-residence so lucrative, she couldn’t turn it down.

Vivian hitched a tote bag over her shoulder and gestured to Shipley Foods across the street. “I’ll get stuff for the cabin. You go explore.”

Alone, I looked both ways along Cedar Street.

The combination used bookstore–and–antique shop called Spines and Pines was the most interesting place on this block by far.

I edged through the door. Faded green carpet and pink velvet chairs pushed the flea market vibe.

Ornate shelving held rare books and pre-loved paper-backs.

I spun a wheat-colored globe and wished I could jump into wherever it landed.

Rummaging around, I found a brown notebook—blank.

The buttery-soft cover smelled like an old leather jacket.

I had a huge notebook collection back in LA, many packed tight with lists and random musings.

I needed another one like a second migraine, but this one looked and felt important, so I held on to it.

Next, I shook a plastic snow globe with a girl wearing a black cap and gown inside.

The irony of snow falling over the typical May or June dates marking graduation season made this trinket a must-buy.