I fold my chair and add it to the stack in the corner. “See you guys on Monday.”
“Bye, man,” and, “See you, Cap,” echo behind me as I walk toward the nearest exit, mixed with Wade saying, “You know Cap doesn’t …”
I’m out of earshot for the rest. For the best probably. Gus means well, but he has no idea what it’s like to be a Bennett. For people to have no idea what to say to you. For your whole life to twist into a tragedy and for you to wind up as collateral damage.
It feels warmer outside than it did in the cavernous warehouse, wheresome of the plastic-wrapped boats are stored for the winter. I pull a piece of gum out, shoving the silver wrapper back in my pocket and popping the spearmint in my mouth. I didn’t drink much since I’d have to drive home, and the mentions of my mom and baseball basically chased away any buzz, but I’ve got to stop by Dusty’s office to grab my latest paycheck. He’s more laid-back in the fall than during the busy summer, but he wouldn’t look the other way if he knew we were stealing alcohol.
I find Dusty bent over his desk, flipping through a maritime magazine. I think, not for the first time, that I’m probably staring at my own future. Dusty has worked at Atlantic Yacht Club longer than the rest of us combined. I remember him from the years my dad would launch our small dory off the ramp for father-son fishing trips. That was a good ten years ago, and Dusty had already been working here for decades.
I don’t just miss baseball—it was my best shot at college.
I knock lightly on the open door, and Dusty’s head jerks up.
“Bennett.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “You’re here late.”
“Had a few things to finish up,” I say, hoping he can’t smell the sweet smoke clinging to my clothes.
“I can’t pay overtime this late in the year.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I know. It’s fine.”
Dusty studies me for a few more seconds, and I think he’ll say something else. Something well intentioned but ultimately empty, like the motivational phrases in the guidance counselor’s office.It’s never too late,and,You can make a difference,and,Believe in yourself—all that blah bullshit.
Ultimately, he picks two envelopes up and holds them out to me. “Here.”
I glance at the first—my paycheck—then flip to the second. “What’s—” The question dies on my tongue as the written words register.
“Direct your personal mail to your house, Bennett.”
I manage a nod, then turn for the door. I make it back outside without tripping once. A feat since I keep glancing at the return address, a snarl of curiosity and concern writhing around in my chest. I can’t think of a single reason why Wren Kensington would have mailed me anything. I haven’t seen or heard from her since early July, when I dropped her off in this exact parking lot. We didn’t exchange phone numbers, and we didn’t make a plan to see each other again—pretty pointless since she’d said her family was leaving. Yeah, she’s popped in my head a few times—mostly when other girls hit on me—but I figured that was some random fascination that would fade any day.
The only personalized mail I’ve ever received are college recruitment letters, and those stopped arriving a while ago.
I reach my truck, leaning against the tailgate and ripping the sealed flap open as quickly as possible while being careful not to tear the envelope’s contents.
Her handwriting looks fancy. Intricate curls and exaggerated loops. I read the neat lines in her voice, a sound I didn’t even realize I’d memorized.
Sawyer,
Hi. You’ll probably never read this. I’m addressing it to the marina, but I’m not sure if you work there after summer ends. Maybe you’re reading this next year, and it’s even stranger I sent you this because it’s been forever since we saw each other.
My new English teacher thinks she came up with the concept of pen pals over the summer. And that writing letters is a “lost art” since texting was invented. I argued it was an improvement since it was way more efficient, but Ms. Plemmons (my English teacher) said we had to complete the assignment anyway. We could get randomly paired withanother senior or write to someone we know. Not that I know you, but you fulfill the senior who doesn’t go to Dalton requirement, so …
How was the rest of your summer? Did you go bluffing again? Crash any good parties? What’s it like, living there year-round? You probably prefer it without all the tourists, but doesn’t it feel empty too? Manhattan is always crowded and loud, so I guess I just can’t picture living somewhere that’s quiet.
If you do get this, you don’t have to write back.
Another reason texting is superior: I could have just deleted that. But I don’t feel like starting this letter all over again, even though you can still tell what I wrote. I just realized, after I had, that you wouldn’t write me back unless you wanted to. I got used to people sucking up to me again, I guess. And I get why (I’m a ton of fun to hang out with). I just get sick of it too.
Anyway, since we’re “almost adults,” Mrs. Plemmons said she won’t be checking if we receive letters or reading the ones we send to make sure we are actually writing and mailing them. So, if you don’t write back, I won’t flunk English.
There’s a lot of space left, and I’m not sure what else to write, so here’s a sailboat drawing I did in art earlier. You know, since you like boats.
—Wren
10
Mom walks into the kitchen while I’m rifling through the fridge. “Don’t ruin your dinner, Wren, please.”
