All those times he told me he was going out with the boys, when we were still living in Hastings near campus, he’d been hooking up with Heather the cheerleader. Apparently, they met when the Pats were still wooing Isaac during his junior year. He claims it didn’t mean anything, that there were zero emotions involved. It was just a “sexual thing.” As if that makes it better. Nothing about this isbetter.
And I still haven’t fucking cried.
For the second time in six weeks, I’m getting off another plane and taking another parental call, this time from my mom. I’ve been staying with them since I moved out, and although I love my parents dearly, I’m looking forward to not having someone ask me if I’m okay every five seconds.
To his credit, after the cheating was exposed, my father didn’t organize a vigilante squad to help him murder Isaac. Though I heard that in their group chat, Dad and his friends were trying to decide if there was a way to claim insanity. It’s sweet he cares this much, but I can’t wait to taste some freedom.
“How’re you doing, sweetie?” Mom asks as I exit the airport and search the pickup lane for my ride.
“Good. Just trying to find my driver.”
I finally spot the silver sedan and wave at the driver, who slides out to help me with my bag. As he loads it into the trunk, I breathe in the night air, letting it wash over me like a soothing balm.
It’s nice to be back in Lake Tahoe. My family co-owns a house here with the Grahams. It used to be a rental, but when the property came up for sale last year, we couldn’t pass it up. The lake house is going to be my home for the next three months, and I’ve never been more excited for an escape. The usual faces will start showing up the third week of July—we have a big family blowout here every year—but for the most part, it will just be me and my thoughts.
But not my tears.
Because I still haven’t cried.
Which is normal. Totally normal. The online therapist said so.
“Is the alarm code still the same?” I slide into the back seat, balancing the phone on my shoulder as I buckle my seat belt.
“Yep, I texted it to you,” Mom says. “Oh, and we asked the houseman to go in and prep everything for you, make sure the house is nice and clean.”
“Do you think this will be the year we finally meet him?”
“Oh my God, honey.Imagine?”
I swallow a laugh. As my father likes to say, Houseman Henry is an urban legend around these parts. For the past five years, he’s been our property manager/housekeeper/deliveryman/handyman, and yet not a single one of us has met him in person. He always manages to get his tasks done when nobody is around. Uncle Dean swears he saw him once—at dawn, wearing plaid, dropping off spare gas cans in the boathouse—but nobody believes him.
“He can’t deliver groceries until tomorrow,” she continues, “but—”
“I don’t want Henry buying my groceries,” I protest. “I already told you I’m planning to get a job this summer.”
“And I already told you we don’t expect that of you. You’ve had a summer job every year since you were fourteen, honey. You’re allowed to take one summer off. In fact, your father and I would prefer it.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You would?”
“Yes. This is your last summer before you graduate. I want you to spend it getting to know yourself, not distracting yourself with a job you don’t need. I know you have some money saved up, and your dad and I are happy to spoil you this summer with groceries.” Her tone grows gentle. “You told me you were worried about the future, and I don’t want you worrying, my girl. I’d rather you take this time to figure out what you want to do.”
Emotion squeezes my chest. Part of me wishes I never confessed those fears; there’s nothing I hate more than pointing out my own inadequacies. But I should’ve known my mom wouldn’t judge me for the talk we had last week when I admitted it scares me that I’m going into my senior year this fall but am no closer to figuring out what I’m going to do afterward.
Truth is I’ve never felt a deep-seated passion for anything. My best friend and sorority sister, Juliette, has known since middle school that she’s interested in nursing. Gigi knew from frickin’birththat she wanted to play hockey.
Me, I’ve switched majors three times, finally landing on broadcasting last year. But what am I going to do with a broadcasting degree? I have no interest in being on television. Radio barely exists anymore. I could get into podcasting, but about what? Who makes a living podcasting anyway? Unless your podcast breaks out and starts raking in the ad money, it’ll likely just fade away into obscurity.
Passion aside, there isn’t much I’m evengoodat. All my friends are disgustingly good at something. I’m surrounded by prodigies, in fact. Talented athletes like Gigi, supermodels like our friend Alex, high-powered lawyers like Alex’s sister Jamie.
There is nothing worse than being ordinary among the extraordinary.
It’s embarrassing even.
“I want this to be the summer of Blake,” Mom says firmly. “I think it’ll be really good for you.”
I bite my lip. “Okay,” I relent. “But I’m going to research a gazillion postgraduation jobs while I’m here. Deal?”
“Deal. Are you almost at the house?”
