“Just go.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
“I’m not going to die in a puddle of my own vomit, Sid.” Apparently when Asher’s drunk, he calls me Sid. It’s highly unnerving. “What if I promise not to lie on my back?” He rolls over so the last few words are muffled in the grass, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Come on, Asher.” I poke him once more with my toe and walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“Shh,” I whisper-scream behind me. “I’ll be right back.” I hike up the concrete stairs. “Don’t die,” I yell back at him in an angry whisper. He’s rolled onto his back again, but I don’t think anything’s going to happen in the two minutes it’s going to take me to get to the house and back.
I return with a giant orange pitcher of water—the one my mom used to make my cherry Kool-Aid in—and a box of toasted sesame crackers.
Asher looks at the pitcher as I set it down next to him, and takes the box out of my hands, looking at it like he’s not sure what to make of it.
“The kitchen is right next to my parents’ room. I had to be stealthy. Drink the water.”
“And the world’s grossest crackers were thestealthiestthing you could find?”
“For your information, I love these.” I grab the box away from him and open it, sticking my hand inside.
He takes the pitcher with one hand. “I’m definitely going to puke if I drink all of this.”
“Let’s take that risk, okay?” I don’t expect him to drinkallof the water, I just didn’t want to make multiple trips and risk waking my parents.
He lifts the pitcher up to his mouth, holding it by the handle, and takes giant gulps, his neck bobbing with each swallow. Maybe heisgoing to make himself throw up, just to spite me. To drive me to leave, maybe. I grab the handle and pull it away from his face, and a little rush of water spills down his face and onto his bare chest.
“Sorry,” I say, my eyes snapping back to his face.
His eyes go wide in feigned shock at the word.
“Whatever,” I mumble, lowering myself onto the grass beside him and stretching onto my back.
“Settling in?”
“Seems like you’re never leaving. I might as well.”
We lay in silence, looking up at the sky, and my eyes get heavier by the minute.
I’m not sure how long I’m asleep, but when I jolt awake, Asher’s face is right next to me, slightly angled into the grass. He’s so still I have a momentary panic that he’s dead. I roll onto my side to face him. “Asher.” I whisper it harshly, because I won’t let myself really commit to the idea that something could be wrong. He doesn’t move. “Asher.” I can hear the panic in my voice. I griphis shoulder, and he startles with a soft jerk. I pull back like I’ve just been electrocuted. But Asher wakes slowly, his eyes fluttering, mouth parting. His eyes open, and close, open and close, as if he’s reorienting himself, unsure of where he is.
He shifts a little, onto his side, and I think maybe he’s finally going to get up, but instead he reaches one hand toward my face. And I realize—for the first time since I thought he was dying here on the grass—how close we are. There are only inches between our faces, and I can feel every one of them sliding away as his hand meets my cheek. He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear, letting his palm brush my cheek, before stroking two soft fingers lazily down to my chin, like he’s in no hurry. Like we lie on the grass touching each other all the time. Voice whisper soft, Asher says, “How much do you hate me right now?” His eyes close. He’s going to pass out again, and it’s hard to decipher whether I’m hopeful or worried.
I don’t know if I’ve been holding my breath, but my chest feels like it’s going to explode in the two seconds it takes his eyes to open again. And when they do, he leans forward, and with no hesitation, presses his lips to mine. I’m not sure if it’s seconds or minutes that the heat of his lips caresses the chill of mine, but when he pulls away, it’s with what sounds like a little sigh. Then he rests his palm on top of mine between us, closes his eyes, and like nothing absolutely ridiculous just happened here, he falls back asleep.
I don’t.
THE FIRST SUMMER
Sidney
Being here with the Marins is so much different than last year, when it was just the three of us. I spent a lot of time by myself—mostly because otherwise it meant spending a lot of time withmy parents. And they’re not bad, but I’m going to be fourteen next month; space is my middle name. I had Kara once in a while, when she’d come over to swim, or lounge on the dock in the chairs we’d drag down the hill from the deck. But mostly it was just me, hanging out during the day, swimming and lying in the sun, and just being. Things were chill. Quiet. Like me and my parents.
This year, the whole atmosphere at Five Pines is different. There are tiki torches running along one side of the sidewalk that leads to the water. A string of twinkly lights haphazardly strung in a tree near the Marins’ deck. Music plays from a speaker propped up on the wooden railing, pouring music out over the yard. The adults spend most of the day bouncing from drinks on their deck, to card games on ours, to lying on the lounge chairs. And it’s not that I feel unwelcome, it’s just… too much. Too many parents, too much giggling. Too many recounted college stories I just don’t need to hear.
We’re almost a week into vacation, and Asher and I aren’t strangers anymore, but we’re not friends yet. I think that’s my fault. Because Asher is probably the cutest guy I’ve ever met. He’s funny, and nice, and the kind of guy that wouldn’t give me two minutes at my school. He’s even a swimmer. On paper, Asher Marin is pretty much my dream guy. Which means that when he comes within five feet of me alone, I forget what words are.
A few days into vacation I bought a paint set at the dollar store in town, and I’ve started painting rocks. At least if we talk, I have something to do with my hands now. Something to fill the nervous quiet spots. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’d rather be prepared.
