18. Summer
Summer
By the time we make it home, my skin is prickled with goose bumps and I’m shivering against the frigid air. The temperature has plummeted since we left the bonfire, but I don’t care. I spent the walk home laughing with Chase. I would have stayed out all night just to have that time with him.
The automatic floodlight illuminates the path leading to my front door. Chase follows me up the steps to my porch, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I say, turning to face him.
He looks at me with those sea glass eyes, and my stomach stirs. “Of course.”
He lifts a hand, scratching the back of his head. “Well, I had fun tonight. I guess I’ll see you—”
“Do you want to come inside?” I blurt.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Is your dad …”
I shake my head. “He’s away camping with my uncle this weekend. I have the house to myself.”
“He camps?”
“Rarely.”
He just nods.
I smirk, eyes bouncing to the door. “Sooo … do you want to come in?”
He glances back toward his house.
Stupid, Summer. Why would he want to come inside? “You don’t have to. We can just catch up—”
“Sure,” he says. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah?”
His eyes glitter in the dark. “Yeah.”
I try to conceal my smile. “Okay.”
Turning, I drop to my haunches and pluck the spare key from underneath a pot plant. I shove it in the lock, twisting and jiggling until the latch gives way, hyperaware of Chase standing right behind me.
I swing the door open and gesture for Chase to enter, stepping inside after him. I click the door shut behind us and motion him toward the staircase.
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
He leans on the banister. “Yeah, thanks.”
I fetch us water, then lead him upstairs to my room, forgetting the state I left it in.
“Sorry about the mess.” I step around my scattered shoes and scoop an armful of clothes off the floor, tossing them onto the chair that hasn’t seen my butt in months.
“It’s fine. You’ve seen my bedroom,” he says.
Yeah, and it’s immaculate.
I’ve never had a boy in my room before. My father would lose it if he ever found one in here.
Especially Chase. I don’t know why he’s never liked him.
Maybe it’s because Chase is smart and good-looking, unlike him.
He’s always been against me having a boyfriend—not that I’ve ever gotten close to having one before.
I’ve never understood why, but the gross things he says about the way women dress tell me everything I need to know.
Don’t ask questions. Don’t let him think you’re interested in boys.
Don’t give him any more excuses to hurt you.
I stopped asking questions a long time ago. It’s safer to let him believe I’m following his rules. I just need to keep my head down and go through the motions. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here soon enough.
I slip off my sneakers. “Music?”
Chase doesn’t respond. He drifts over to my mom’s old piano pushed against the far wall.
The only spot I bother to keep clean.
His palm skims over the varnished walnut. He lifts the lid carefully, hovering his fingers over the keys. Softly, he presses one.
“It’s old,” I say.
He looks at me. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was my mom’s.”
He nods. “Did she always play?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Since she was ten. She was really talented.” There’s a thin veil of dust across the top, along with stains from where mugs were once set down.
The wood has faded with age, and the lacquer is chipped along almost all the edges.
It’s not fancy by any extent, but it’s a piece of her I’ll never part with.
“It needs a polish. Hell, it probably needs a full restoration, but they’re expensive and I …” My sentence dies in my throat. I can’t afford it.
“I like it,” he says. “It suits you.”
“Why?” I say, propping a hand on my hip. “’Cause it’s cheap?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Talk about yourself like that.” He holds my gaze. “You’re not cheap, Hayes. And neither is this.”
I feel the simmer of a flush rising to my cheeks.
“I meant it suits you because it’s beautiful and it’s been through a lot and it’s still here.
” He runs a finger along the keys. I stay quiet.
His fingers then trace the sheet music covered in my scribbles.
A jumble of crossed-out and rewritten words and arrows pointing everywhere.
A language only I understand. “What’s this? ” he asks.
“Oh, nothing. Just something I started working on.”
His eyes catch mine before he returns to scanning the mess.
Good luck. It’s like trying to decipher some ancient code.
“When?”
“Today.”
He tilts his head, following the curve of an arrow drawn from the bottom to the top. “Show me.”
My brows snap together. “What?”
“Show me.” He holds out the page, giving it a wave. “Play it.”
My arms drop to my sides. “Chase, it’s not even finished yet. It’s rough and the bridge is a total mess. I don’t even have all the lyrics down yet.”
“I want to hear it.” He stares at me. I stare back.
Ugh. Relenting, I exhale through my nose and snatch the sheet from his hand. “Fine. But don’t laugh at me.”
“When have I ever laughed at you?”
Fair point.
I arrange the sheet with the rest of the papers stacked on the rack. I smooth down the back of my shorts, settling onto the bench. I cut a quick glance to Chase. He leans casually against the wall beside the piano, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, floating my fingers over the keys, singing the melody to myself in my head.
I crack one eye open, peeping at Chase. A chuckle slips from him, and I press my lips into a thin line, turning my attention back to the piano. I hesitate.
Why am I nervous? This is Chase.
Chase hasn’t heard me play like this before.
“Would it be easier if I closed my eyes?” he offers.
My lips purse to the side, considering. “Yes, please.”
Once I’m certain he’ll keep them closed, I finally press down on the first key and let twelve months of silence pour out of me.
Notes flutter through the space, encasing us both in my rawest, most vulnerable parts.
I sing about Mom. About losing her and learning how to survive in the world she left behind. I sing of prayer and whispering and yearning. About the things we said and things we never got the chance to say. Hoping and wishing she’ll send me a sign. A second chance. Pleading she’ll guide me.
I sing about missing and wanting people so bad your bones ache.
I sing about Felicity fighting the same battle, and how I lie awake at night terrified because one day Chase will know this pain too.
A mother left too soon and another light that will eventually fade away.
I sing about my father, voice tugging at my frayed edges, word by word, blow by blow.
About the bruises and secrets I’ve learned to hide.
About wanting out of this town and this version of myself who’s too afraid to do anything at all.
Then, finally, I sing about him. About the boy next door who looked at me like I mattered.
The boy who didn’t see through me in the hallways like everyone else did.
About falling for someone so slowly and quietly.
About not knowing if there’s a right moment to tell him and burying it in a part so deep, I’m worried it might never be within reach.
My fingers dance and I sway to the melody spilling into the room.
My voice cracks, and it isn’t until a drop lands on my bare thigh that I realize I’m crying.
I hear a light shuffle, the rustling of clothes and the low thud of footsteps as he approaches.
I don’t open my eyes yet. I can’t. Not until I’ve finished.
I know if I see his face, I’ll stop, and every morsel of me needs him to hear this.
This is the first time I’ve been completely honest with myself or anyone else.
I feel the air shift between us as he sits beside me, the skin of his leg pressed against mine. He’s warm and his leg hair is coarse, but I like the way it feels.
Every inch of me is aware of where he is and it all feels heavy. Charged. Wound tight like a spring. But I don’t waver.
His left hand finds my right on the keys and my breath hitches, catching my voice for a second. He doesn’t press or lead my movements. His touch is featherlight as I play. My pulse races yet it’s the calmest and most sure I’ve ever felt.
A confession.
The last chord rings out like thunder, cracking loud, rolling out until it dissipates.
At a snail’s pace, I peel my eyes open, staring down to where my hands still rest against the tusk and hardwood. Chase hasn’t moved, and I don’t pull away.
My heart beats erratically against my ribs, like it’s been captured and locked in a cage. I open my eyes.
“Who was that about?” His voice is rough.
“Our moms,” I whisper.
“Who else.”
It’s not a question. It’s a demand. “Us.”
His exhale is choppy. Swallowing past the knot in my throat, I lift my head. Our eyes meet and he breathes my name.
Now is the time I should probably turn away, but I don’t. He looks at me like I’m a riddle he can’t solve. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what this is.
“Say something,” I murmur.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Chase,” I implore, my voice barely audible.
Shit, you’ve freaked him out.
I blink back the tears stinging my eyes. The urge to run propels me to my feet, but I barely make it two steps before the bench scrapes across the floor and he catches my wrist. He spins me around, my palms clutching his biceps for balance.
“Chase. What are you—”
A squeak slips out of me when his mouth crashes over mine.
Chase Whitmore kisses me and the world tips and spins and seesaws.
I push to my tiptoes and wind my arms around his neck, tugging him closer. He cradles my face, tilting my head for better access.
I might not have any experience, but I know this isn’t gentle or timid or tentative.
I think … I think it’s everything.
His tongue slides across my bottom lip, warm and wet, and he groans when I open for him on a whimper.
He rips his mouth away, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” he asks.