Summer of Us

Chapter 14

Much later that night, there's a knock on my door. Mom stands in the doorway, dressed in the long, burgundy sweater she likes so much, accompanied with a small smile and a cup of something steaming. "Hey."

"Hey," I say, moving my legs off the wall next to my bed. It's a yoga posed I learned during my eight a.m. class last semester, one meant to relax the muscles and mind. So far, it had only made all the blood pool in my hips and force me to stare at my ceiling for a copious amount of time. I sit up and cross my legs Indian-style on as she comes in, taking a seat at the end of the bed.

"I saw your light was still on," she says, offering the mug to me. Mint tea, the only one I'll drink, that they have stashed by the box in the pantry downstairs. After the accident and before I got my prescription, it used to be one of the only natural remedies that actually seemed to help with my anxiety. "Thought you might not be able to sleep."

"Thanks," I say, sipping. Scalding. Perfect.

"You're not packed," she says, glancing around my room. It's the first time she's been in here all summer, most of our interactions shared over dinner or on the couch in the living room. "Are you not going with Monty tomorrow?"

I shrug, drinking instead of answering.

She sighs, grabbing one of my pillows and bunching it up in the crook of her elbow so she can lounge on her side. "You know, I first fell in love with your father when we were on a road trip together."

I knew the story. The two of them, mostly strangers at the time, travelling in the same friend group to some rock festival out west that didn't even exist anymore. They were young and couldn't afford a hotel, so they camped out with all the other festival goers for the weekend. Some drugs and alcohol and post-concert highs later, they came out heart eyed and love drunk. I let her tell the story anyways, because it's a great story. I love hearing her talk about dad when he was younger, with his long black hair and fresh tattoos and pierced lip and bad attitude.

"That night," she says dreamily, drawing a finger across the fluffy surface of my blankets. "After the concert, we all swapped tents. He came into mine and fucked me stupid."

"MOTHER," I almost scream, because I've never heard this part of the story before. It had always been implied, but never so vulgarly. We both burst into laughter, trying to keep quiet so we won't wake Stace, whose room is right next to mine.

"I miss him," I say after a while.

"So do I," she says, but she doesn't have to tell me. Whenever she's drinking, which is often, it's because she's thinking of him. After all this time, it still hurts her the way it does me. In some ways, the thought is comforting. In others, it's miserable—two women who can't move on from the death of a husband and father.

"Do you think you'd still be together?" I ask, holding my legs together. "If he was still here?"

She's quiet for a long time. "I try not to think in what if's, baby. It's a dangerous way to get stuck in the past. Our future selves need us, our former selves don't."

We let that marinate between us, each lost in our own train of thought.

"I've always been happy I went on that trip, though," she says, wiping under her eyes. "I didn't want to go, at first. I've never liked camping, and it was so hot that weekend. But my friends wanted me to come, and I was always thankful that they were so adamant about it. Who knows what would've happened if they hadn't? Maybe nothing would have ever happened between me and your father, and then I wouldn't have you."

I move forward, hugging a pillow and resting my head on the curve of her waist. She pats my head and her fingertips flutter across my skin.

"That boy loves you, Ava," she says after a long, quiet bout of just communicating with touch. "He always has."

"Shut up," I say, my tone implying a what do you know? attitude.

"You think I don't watch, but I do. Especially Monty. He reminds me so much of your father, in that underdog way. I always thought I raised you right, after seeing how you treated him with such kindness. He's very lucky to have you in his life."

I sigh, overcome with exhaustion. "Mom, what do I do?"

She sighs too, her hand covering my ear. "I don't know, love. The only advice I can give you is that years from now, I hope you don't regret going with him, or staying home with us."