For The Summer Read online

  After three more turns, we pull into the driveway of a cream-colored two-story house. The storage Pod is already taking up one side of its double width. Mom cuts the engine.

  “We’re home,” she says, beaming from ear to ear.

  “This is really cute,” I say, looking out the window at the covered front porch leading to a welcoming blue door. The perfectly manicured lawn is lined with shrubs and an assortment of pastel flowers. We climb out of the car and I toss my bag over my shoulder, opening the back of the Jeep to retrieve my suitcase. Then I climb the steps to the porch where Mom is already unlocking the door.

  Stepping inside, I notice that this is nothing like our last house. The formal sitting area furniture, gaudy brass urns, and creepy artwork are nowhere to be found. Instead, the living room is outfitted with a beige linen sectional, matching white wood side tables, and an entertainment hutch. The attached dining room has a chunky round table with four upholstered chairs and an adorable coffee bar nestled in the corner. The kitchen is a mix of white cabinets and gray veined marble which is a stark contrast to the dark wood and black granite in our other house. An island separates it from the dining room giving the entire first floor an open and airy feeling. There are two doors off of the kitchen; one leads to a mudroom that opens to the garage and the backyard. The other door leads to a den with an attached bathroom.

  “Wow, Mom. This is different,” I say, taking another walk through the main level.

  “Good or bad?” she asks.

  “Good. Definitely good. How long did it take to do all of this from New York?” I ask.

  “The house is new construction. I found the builder the week after your father dropped his bombshell. I worked with an interior designer on everything else. Thank god for video calls and camera phones.”

  My eyes go wide and my mouth drops open. I can’t believe she started doing all of this two years ago and was still ok staying in Green Hills until I graduated. If I had been in her shoes I would have been dying to get away, to come down here to this bright new canvas and out of the darkness that cloaked the last chapter of life in New York.

  “How long has it been ready?” I ask, unable to ignore my nagging curiosity.

  “About six months.” She shrugs, walking back to the foyer where the stairs lead to the second story. “Ready to see the upstairs?”

  I follow her up the stained wood stairs, to a large landing with two armchairs and a bookshelf tucked to one side with three doors off of it. There are post-it-notes on each door. To the left, a pink post-it reads Amelia. The center, a yellow post-it reads guest, and the door to the right bears a blue post-it that reads Lydia. I hesitate. My room in Green Hills was my sanctuary. The place I went when I needed time to myself, when I wanted to paint or write or read. The room I had dozens of sleepovers in. The safe space where I shed my tears every time Oliver and I had a fight and I was sure it was over. I didn’t realize it until it was time to pack up and move on, but that room was like a time capsule of the first eighteen years of my life. Trinkets and photos from dance recitals and figure skating shows, faded movie ticket stubs, and photobooth polaroids. As I stuffed the remains of my formative years into shoeboxes I realized how different things would be. There’s no reason to unpack elementary school cheerleading trophies, lining them up on a new shelf, or wedge old photos and amusement park passes into my mirror again. Those things are a part of my past, and that scares the shit out of me.

  If I’m leaving my past behind me, moving to a new place, and starting fresh, what do I have left? Oliver was supposed to be the one constant. He was the one part of my New York life that was making this transition with me. At least, I thought that was the plan. We applied to UCLA together. Oliver had a football scholarship, it was his first choice school and he was my first choice. We were going to fly out to Los Angeles a few weeks before the start of classes to hunt for apartments together. We talked about adopting a dog. If Oliver is out of the picture, I don’t even know what the picture is anymore. I never gave any thought to what school I wanted to go to, or where I wanted to end up. I wanted him and everything else just fell into place, until it all fell apart.

  I can see my mom staring at me in my periphery. Her green eyes are mixed with suspicion and concern. Her head is canted, brows raised. I press my eyes closed and release a deep breath, pushing all thoughts of Oliver aside. This is supposed to be a bright new day, full of excitement and happiness. He doesn’t get to ruin that, and neither do his memories. There will be plenty of time for him to rip my heart out later.

  “Ok. I’m ready,” I say, slowly crossing the landing. I grab the doorknob, nervously rubbing the back of my neck with my free hands. Then I turn and push.

  My hand flies to my chest and my breath catches in my throat. It’s absolutely perfect. I might not have known how to move onto the next phase of my life- hell, I still don’t. But whoever put this room together has given me a solid jumping-off point. Everything is a mix of crisp white, ocean blues and silver. The plush area rug situated in the corner beside a large window is all three and pulls everything together. The king-size bed catches my eye, it’s brushed silver frame is accented with a variety of blue and white throw pillows and a turquoise comforter. I run my hand over the soft cool cotton duvet. On the other side of the room, there are two doors, a desk, and a reading chair.

  One door leads to a walk-in closet. Surprisingly, the clothes I packed at the beginning of the week are already on hangers inside and there’s still plenty of room to add a modest North Carolina wardrobe. The second door opens to an ensuite bathroom that blows the one I had in New York out of the water. It’s not huge, but the walk-in shower and soaking tub combo occupying the far wall are calling to me. I walk back into the bedroom and look over everything once more before lunging at my mom and squeezing her in the tightest hug I think I’ve ever given her.

  “It’s perfect, Mom.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh and wraps her arms around my back, turning to kiss the side of my head.

  “I didn’t want you to miss anything or feel cheated,” she whispers.

  I shake my head, pulling back.

  “You’ve done so much to make this transition as easy as possible for me. I’m going to miss stuff sometimes. Not because I feel cheated or want to go back, but because New York is where my foundation is, but we’ll build a new foundation here, a better one.” I smile. Not a fake one, the kind that stretches up to my eyes and makes me realize how little I’ve smiled this year.

  Mom’s room is the same layout as mine, decorated in tones of sage and cream with brass accents. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and now I know that the dark, gaudy decor of our family home was not my mother’s choice. I can see her relaxed peaceful presence in every room of this house, the bright colors, and never-ending supply of natural light. I wonder what else I’m going to learn about her now that she’s free of Jim’s overbearing presence and the appearances she was keeping up back home. It’s strange how you can spend so much time with someone and never see the tiny details keep tucked away. I’m glad she’s finally shedding light on her true self, the things that make her tick and bring her joy.

  “Ok, let’s go,” Mom says, descending the stairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We need to pick up a few things.”

  We head back down the main street we came into town on, stopping at a small grocery store. Mom grabs a few practical essentials, meats, cheeses, eggs, bread. Kitchen staples. I toss popcorn, sandwich cookies, and a variety pack of chips into the cart. Someone has to think about what we’ll want at ten o’clock while watching The Notebook. We check out and zip everything into eco-friendly cooler bags. Who knew the south was so progressive?

  “Now where?” I ask. Mom starts the car and pulls back out onto the main road.

  “You’ll see.”

  I narrow my eyes and stare at her, it’s unlike her to be cryptic. Now I’m really curious. I look out my window trying to figure out where we’re h
eading, but obviously I haven’t the slightest clue because I don’t know anything about this area. A few minutes later we pull into the parking lot of a car dealership, Mom leaves the engine running and climbs out. My eyes are wide as I watch her walk toward the glass double doors and I roll down my window.

  “Where are you going?” I call after her.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she shouts back across the lot.

  What the hell?

  Exactly five minutes later she emerges, approaching the passenger side door with a smile on her face, and motioning for me to get out of the car. I step out into the sunlight, wishing I had brought sunglasses and worn something lighter than long black leggings and a black t-shirt as the summer sun beats down on the blacktop, and me. She stops right next to me, shoots me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face, and makes a giddy sound. I scratch my head and look around at the nearly empty lot, there are no other people and only about a dozen cars parked around the place which tells me they either make a lot of sales or very few sales. Mom’s hand shoots up, covering my eyes and startling me.

  “Mom, what the hell are you doing?” I ask, attempting to shoo her hand away.

  “On the count of three,” she says. “One, two, three!”

  She pulls her hand away and I gasp. A shiny black Jeep Compass comes into view, slowly approaching with an absurdly large red bow stuck on top. My jaw drops, eyes nearly popping out of my head before a smile takes over. I can feel my entire face light up for the second time today.

  “Mom!”

  “I know,” she says. Her words are oozing excitement and she jumps a little bit beside me.

  “You bought me a car?” I ask, needing to confirm that there isn’t some huge misunderstanding happening.

  “Yes!” she squeals. “You’re eighteen and we’ve shared my Jeep for long enough. You’re going to need your own set of wheels if you’re going to make the most of this summer.”

  “I guess I hadn’t really thought about needing to get around after we were down here,” I admit, feeling foolish for not realizing that earlier.

  “Well, I thought of it. I also thought about UCLA. I know you haven’t decided what you want to do after…what happened, so I talked to the dealership, and instead of buying, we’re leasing. If you decide to go I bring it back in six months, if you decide to stay awhile longer we can talk about buying it when the lease expires,” she explains, still beaming from ear to ear.

  And there it is again. Another reminder that I only have until the end of the summer to decide what I want and where I want to be. The decision should be easy, I only applied to UCLA so Oliver and I could be together without the pressure and stress of doing the whole long-distance relationship thing. Sure, UCLA is a good school, but without Oliver why would I want to pick up and move across the country? I guess the simple answer is also the problem. I only applied to one school, I put all of my eggs in Oliver’s basket so I don’t really have a backup plan. Am I really going to be the type of girl who lets my future get derailed because my boyfriend turned out to be a cheater?

  The worst part is how he’s edging his way into my mind and ruining things that I should be happy about. It’s killing me that I’m still giving him that kind of power. He’s six hundred miles away and I know we’re over no matter where I end up at the end of the summer. What I really need is to let go of the expectations I was holding onto for the fall and the four years after that, the guy I thought he was doesn’t exist because that guy wouldn’t have slept with my best friend. The guy he turned out to be doesn’t deserve the energy I’m still wasting on him. I take a deep breath and push Oliver to the back of my mind, again, determined to enjoy what’s right in front of me.

  “You are literally the best mom, ever.” I smile over my shoulder, as I walk toward the car. The salesman climbs out, leaving the engine running, and the door open when he heads back toward the building.

  “If memory serves, from thirteen to sixteen you were singing a very different tune,” she laughs, leaning against her almost matching SUV.

  “Well, I was wrong.” I run my hand over the black leather seat and steering wheel, leaning in to check out the console and the radio.

  “We have to go to your grandparents for dinner. They’re so excited about the move they aren’t even feigning sympathy over the divorce. Do you want to follow me back to the house and we’ll drive there together?” she asks, climbing back into her car and passing me my back through the window.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling and climbing into my own car. Mom waits while I adjust the mirrors and the seats, fiddle with the radio, and sync my Bluetooth when I fail to find a decent station. Then I shift the car into drive and follow her back through the little town.

  When we get home I park on the street. The storage Pod is still taking up half the driveway and the neighborhood seems quiet anyway. We both retreat to our rooms to shower and change for dinner with the grandparents. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit nervous. I’ve heard hundreds of stories about them and they send me cards for every holiday, including valentine’s day which is honestly adorable, but I haven’t seen them in over ten years and I don’t really remember much about them. I remember their house being huge and their little dog nipping at my legs until my grandfather put him in the garage. My grandmother made me a Shirley Temple in a fancy adult glass and gave me a small bowl of extra cherries to snack on after dinner, but everything else is fuzzy or forgotten.

  I rummage through my closet looking for clothes that scream grandparent approved, but come up empty, obviously. If I don’t know anything about my grandparents how could I possibly know what they do and do not approve of? I settle on a pair of dark jeans and a yellow tank top with lace trim, then I blow dry my hair and apply minimal makeup- a dusting of mineral powder and a bit of dark brown mascara. When I’m done I slide a pair of small diamond studs into my ears and slip-on brown leather flats.

  “I’m ready,” I announce, stepping out onto the landing.

  “Two minutes!” Mom calls from inside her own room.

  I flop down in one of the chairs nestled in the corner, reluctantly pulling out my phone. I know I shouldn’t look at it. What good will come of checking my phone after everything that happened last night? None. The thing is, if I keep letting the people and things that happened in New York control my actions, I’m never going to move on and be free. And after the shit show that was my going away party, I really want the fresh start we came here for. So, I’ll cringe through some sympathy texts from friends I was never that close with. I’ll ignore Oliver and Lexi, if she’s actually bold enough to try, and after a week or so everything will blow over. My ties to New York will fade away and everyone will move on. Including me.

  Oliver: I know you’re mad.

  Oliver: I made a huge mistake.

  Oliver: Kat, please talk to me.

  I roll my eyes and groan. At what point did Oliver realize sleeping with my best friend was a mistake? Was it when he got caught? Or maybe when I sent out that embarrassing group text which I have since muted because my peers reduced themselves to guessing where Lexi picked up her black lace bra. Last I checked the guesses were the Salvation Army and Old Navy, but the real kicker was the person who said “aren’t they the same place?” I got my petty, anger-fueled revenge. I don’t need to read commentary on where my ex-best friend bought her underwear or why Oliver was wearing a ballcap while they were doing the deed. But more than that, I don’t need him texting me to admit that he made a mistake or acknowledge my anger. What I need is for him to lose interest and stop texting me completely. To head off to California and live out our dream with someone else so I can forget about him and move on with my own life. That’s what I want. I know it is, because if that’s not what I want then I’m the kind of girl who forgives a cheater, and lets him waltz back into her life after breaking her heart and trust when both of those things were already damaged. I can’t be that kind of girl.

  �
�Ready.”

  I didn’t hear the door open or hear her feet against the floor, so when my mother’s voice comes from just a foot away, I jump, completely caught off guard. I did it again, let Oliver pull me out of the present and drag me down with a few texts. Telling yourself it’s time to move on and doing it are different matters entirely.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, peering down at me with a creased brow and empathetic eyes.

  “No. Nothing to talk about,” I say, standing up and adjusting my shirt. “I’m excited to re-meet my grandparents, let’s get going.”

  ***

  It takes about twenty minutes to get from our house to the grandparent’s estate. Mom drives through the open gates and down the long driveway, parking at the edge of the horseshoe driveway. I’ve always known my grandparents had money, the same way I always knew my dad made a lot of money. Both parties liked to show it. The difference, my grandparents show it by sending me large sums of money for every occasion printed on the calendar. Jim showed it by buying himself expensive watches and taking long vacations in Europe and the Caribbean. Still, I always thought my memory of this place had been distorted by my five-year-old imagination and the time that had passed since I’d last been here. But standing here now, with a full-sized fountain at the center of the driveway and sprawling, expertly manicured ground stretching as far as the eye can see. I know my childhood memory captured this place just right. The house looks like a somewhat smaller version of the Whitehouse, two large columns stand on either side of the front entry and a large ornately carved gable tops them off. The garden beds on either side of the driveway are beautifully maintained and filled with flowers and shrubberies of more varieties than I can ever recall seeing together.