“What’sthatsupposed to mean?”
“Sidney… just keep walking.” I let her get a few steps ahead of me. It’s not like we’re getting lost in this twenty-foot stretch of trees. “And stop thinking about it.”
DAY 13
Sidney
Kara sits down on our blanket while I strip off my tank top and shorts. “You couldn’t make Asher do this with you? I thought he was your new swimming buddy.”
We’re at the beach, where the river cuts through the sand and empties into Lake Michigan. Some professional swimmers have those tiny training pools with a fake current that keeps them from going anywhere. I have this. And Kara, because my mom said, “If you’re going to try to strip me of my record, at least don’t drown while doing it.” Not that I’m going to drown, but when currents are involved it’s better safe than sorry.
I don’t want to talk about why I couldn’t ask Asher to come with me. Instead, I tell Kara he was busy, with as much indifference as I can muster, and I jog into the water. Into my happy place. I kick my legs harder, lengthen my strokes, thinking about the movements. If I can overcome the current and push myself forward, maybe I can overcome other things.
When I’m swimming, it’s easy to let my brain go on autopilot. I think about what Asher said.Just pretend I’m someone else.I think back to the first summer, and try to let that Asher into my brain again. The Asher who showed me stars and left me birthday surprises, and built fires with me. I try to convince myselfthat all the summers since never happened. As the current beats against me, I think about everything we did that summer—all of the boat rides and trail hikes and beach trips. The nights by the bonfire. The newness of having just met each other.
Asher told me to stop thinking about it, but maybe what I really need to do is stopremembering.I need to go back to the first day of that first summer together, and start over. Or maybe it’s the last week of that first summer that I need to redo.
And I will. The water is getting colder, and I stroke and kick, and kick and stroke, feeling the burn in my muscles. I’ll give Asher one chance.One.And if he turns the tables on me—whenhe turns the tables on me—I’ll strike even harder. But for now, I’ll show Asher just how wrong he is about me.I can be so much nicer than he could ever hope to be.
Asher
I’m not sure why being pissed at Sidney finally motivates me to start my letter to Mr. Ockler, but it does. Maybe because I need something to take my mind off of how horribly this whole truce is going. Why is it so difficult for Sidney to just treat me like a normal person? My phone is lying on the bed in front of me, and I stare at the blank note screen. From the bathroom door, I can hear Sidney getting ready. The faucet going on and off, and things clinking against the counter. I’d love to know what takes her so long in there. Maybe she just really likes spending time in the bathroom.
I tap the yellow screen and think of all of the things my dad told me to tell Mr. Ockler. How excited I am about this opportunity (that my dad got for me), and why I’d be great as a financial planner (because people like me). You would think being a financial planner had more to do with being great with numbers, but the hardest part of it is actually sales. Building up a client base, going door-to-door meeting people and letting them knowyour services are available, getting people to give you control of their money. Dad loves to talk about how he spent the first eighteen months of his career walking door-to-door—scorching heat, pelting rain, the coldest snow in all of Michigan—building up a client base before his company would let him open a new office. How the first five years, he worked nonstop. The funny thing is that he thinks he doesn’t anymore, because he can work remotely, but he’s always on his phone or his laptop. He doesn’t let a notification go unnoticed. Same job, different office, if you ask me.
Dear Mr. Ockler,
I’m really excited to work with you. I’d be a great financial advisor because, while I have zero interest in money or numbers or the stock market, people always like me. They probably wouldn’t mind me standing on their porch and trying to sell them something. My dad says if I don’t write this letter he’s going to stop feeding me.
I laugh at my own joke, and the noise coming from the bathroom stops. I must sound like a lunatic. The thought of it makes me laugh again. Let Sidney be freaked out and think she’s sharing a bathroom with some sort of weirdo. If she’s going to treat me like one, I might as well lean into it.
Dear Mr. Ockler,
I’m beyond thrilled to work with you. I’d be a great financial advisor because I’ve had a ton of experience planning and plotting. Not with money, mostly with condiments, and sugary beverages, and things that smell funny. But still. I’ve seen movies and I know every good business has a rival. You’ll be glad you have me on the team when it’s time to fill a lobby water cooler with fish, or draw something inappropriate on an office window with shaving cream.
I imagine old Mr. Ockler dressed in black, spraying shaving cream on office windows, and laugh so hard my head finally slumps against the bed, muffling it. And I swear I hear a soft chuckle come from the bathroom. But maybe it was just my imagination.
DAY 14
Asher
There’s exactly twenty-six hours of radio silence between Sidney and me after we make our harrowing escape from Nadine’s yard. Not a word as she got into my car at The Little Store. A silent drive back to the house. Yesterday, she was gone all morning, and then painted her rocks through the afternoon. Before dinner she disappeared with what looked to be a tote bag of those same rocks, telling her mom she’d be out with Kara and not to set a spot for her at dinner. I spent my meal looking at an empty chair, and by the time I heard her bedroom door close that evening, I was debating if I should apologize. I’m not even sure why or what for, but this quiet and calm Sidney freaks me out just as much as the Sidney who swapped my cologne out for bug spray.
I was prepared for our swim this morning to be a no-go, but when I hear Sidney shower at exactly six, I figure I’ll be optimistic and at least show up, totally expecting to find a hostile Sidney on my hands. But what I actually find is a message on the bathroom mirror. It’s written in bloodred lipstick and if it weren’t for the actual words, it would look like something straight out of a horror movie, the way the red slashes almost seem to drip down the glass.
Meet me at 6:30
in the kitchen
—S
Curious doesn’t begin to describe me. I might be walking right into something horrible, but I skip everything but pulling on my suit and shorts anyway. I’m tugging a shirt over my head as I walk into the kitchen. Sidney is zipping around like an old-school pinball game, opening cabinets and closing drawers, stepping in front of the oven, and dumping something into the sink. It smells like butter and sweetness. There are two plates sitting on the breakfast bar in our normal spots. A cup of coffee and a bowl of fruit sit between the plates, and on mine, there are five tiny little pancakes.
“Um.” I’m not sure what to say. I stare at the plate like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen food. Like I’m an alien visiting from another planet. Which is pretty close to how I feel, because it’s definitely the first time Sidney has made me food. Unless it was laced with something. She must see the look on my face, because she smiles. A big, gleaming smile, like I haven’t seen on her in years. Not directed at me, at least.
She points the spatula at me and waves it around. “It’s fine. Truce-certified and all that. Eat yours while I finish mine.”
I sit down tentatively and grab the containers of butter and syrup next to me. I cut the first pancake into four mini bites, trying to stall until Sidney sits down and starts eating. Is it possible that she’s actually making menon-disgusting food? Maybe I’m as jaded and traumatized as she is, but I decide to risk it and stick the first bite in my mouth. She’s flipping pancakes as I let out a little moan. They’re not just pancakes, they’rechocolate-chippancakes, and they practically dissolve on my tongue.
