“No. Yes. I… well, when you put it that way I sound like an asshole.” I sigh, and he laughs and reaches out and taps my shoulder. It’s just a glance of his palm against my rotator cuff but it’s enough to thicken the already muggy Maine air between us.
“You’re not an asshole,” Abbott replies. “I was the asshole for being flippant. I just… well, it felt easier than saying I don’t want help from Logan.”
“Okay. My bad.” I twist the cotton candy bag between my fingers. “I try really hard at being there for people, but like if there’s a choice to be made, I always pick the wrong one. And I guess I did again. Anyway, congrats on the Cup. And the new team. And welcome home.”
“Thank you, Deck.” His rugged features tense and his jaw flexes for a second. “You sticking around too?”
“I don’t know. I’m still getting stares, whispers, and some blatant homophobia so I might just head back home,” I reply, and judging by his stare, I suddenly feel like I didn’t answer the question correctly.
“I mean Ocean Pines. In general. Not just tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m home. For good.”
He stares at me, unblinking, dark cobalt eyes laser focused on my face. His wide mouth is in a straight, unreadable line. Not tight, but not that half-smile I love so much. Just when I’m beginning to think something is wrong, he clears his throat. “I’m glad. I like the idea of being here when you’re here too.”
I feel those words like they’re a fifty-pound dumb bell he just dropped on my chest. He touches my shoulder again as Aspen calls out his name and I see her wave at her brother. Her little cherub of a daughter is kicking her legs playfully from the stroller Aspen is pushing. “Enjoy the cotton candy. I’ll be watching the fireworks from the rocks later if you want to join.”
And then he walks over to Aspen before I can say a word or even move a muscle.
The rocks. The fireworks. The start of it all.
But it was all for nothing. So, after wandering the booths, swallowing down the cotton candy in heaping clumps – every mouthful growing more and more bitter with the lingering residue of a past I can’t get back — I make my way home instead of toward the rocks. The fireworks illuminate the sky in my rearview. That’s where they have to stay, along with Abbott Barlowe.
2
16-YEAR-OLD DECLAN
I am goingto give up. Abbott has two more minutes… okay maybe five. Five more minutes and then I ‘m going to leave. I will go to the fireworks without him. This is such bullshit. He’s the one who called me and asked to hang out. He does this way too much lately. Asks to hang but then somehow a girl gets involved.
I sigh and glance over at my family’s booth. My parents weren’t against child labor. My siblings and I all had to work in the restaurant, but they also want us to have a life. So when there are events like this - the Founder’s Day celebration for the town - they give us the night off and use other staff so we can go have fun. However, standing guard so that Abbott can suck face with Stacy behind the Fried Dough stand is not my idea of a good time.
I heave in a deep, frustrated breath. The warm night air smells like oil and sugar. My eyes flicker over to the cotton candy stand. Mrs. Jones is notorious for not bringing enough supplies. She’s always the first booth to be sold out at these events because she never brings enough flavored sugar mixture. If Abbott takes much longer, I’ll be denied cotton candy and a decent spot on the beach for the fireworks.
For some reason this revelation makes me curse Stacy, not Abbott. I’ve never been able to get angry at Abbott. But maybe I should start? I sigh and push myself off the metal framed booth. Fuck it. He can find me later. That’s what cell phones are for. Not that I have one. We have two cellphones between four kids and tonight Terra has one and the twins have the other. I lean against the booth again.
But before my shoulders can even sag in defeat, Stacy appears. Her long brown hair, which had been in a ponytail when she disappeared behind the booth, is now loose. And messy. Her brown eyes are glassy and her lipstick, which had been a dark pink and very glossy, was non-existent now. Her lips are red but not from that.
She blushes when she smiles at me. “Hi, Deck. Bye ,Deck.”
She trots off and gets swallowed up by the crowd. A hand hits my shoulder and squeezes and I look over to see Abbott grinning. “Come on. Let’s go grab some cotton candy. It’ll get the scowl off your face.”
“I’m not scowling.” I probably am, but for some reason, admitting it would make me feel like I was guilty of something.
He keeps his hand on my shoulder for the first few steps and squeezes it gently before he lets go. Abbott is a touchy-feely guy. Always has been. I think it’s because they maul each other on the ice when they score during hockey games, and Abbott’s been playing hockey since he was two. I had no idea they had teams for toddlers, but they do. When I was two my parents were too busy, and poor, to put me in sports. They were expanding the restaurant my grandparents started, we were living above it, and didn’t have the cash to buy me skates or much of anything. Not that I wanted to play. I don’t know what I wanted to do at two, but it probably wasn’t hockey. I don’t envy Abbott. He gets up most mornings at five to hit the rink or the gym. He has tournaments and games every weekend from October to March. I’m happy running track at school and working at the restaurant with my annoying, but tolerable family. Abbott’s family is not tolerable, which he once told me was why he liked being at the rink so much. And why he also joined the track team part-time and participated in track meets after school when he didn’t have hockey.
As we approach the cotton candy stand, I notice a group of four kids a few grades younger than us walking away with empty hands and frowns. I grit my teeth. Abbott bumps his shoulder with mine and it makes me want to growl at him. “She’s out already.”
Abbott laughs. Laughs! Like me not getting cotton candy is hilarious. When I turn to glare at him he’s grinning. “Your cotton candy addiction is terrifying but fascinating.”
“It’s not an addiction. I can live without it. I don’t eat it day and night or anything,” I reply, feeling overly defensive. “It’s just a treat I enjoy. Like you with your lobster and crab meat rolls with garlic mayo.”
Abbott groans and rubs his non-existent belly. “Yeah… those are so damn good.”
I stop in front of Mrs. Jones. “You’re out?”
“I am,” she replies but before my face can fall, she pulls a giant pink swirled cone wrapped in a see-through bag with her logo on it, from under her counter. “But Abbott pre-paid for one earlier.”
My head spins to him and he winks at me. “I got your back.”
