A Summer Remade (2 page)

I have no words.

Seconds ago, I was on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack, and now I’m on the verge of wishing I could crawl under those porch steps and never come out.

The shirtless man, whose chest muscles jump and glisten in the moonlight, blinks. Twice.

“Joslyn?”

‡

W
hat the—
I take a step back. “How do you know my name? Do you work for the Culvers? Do you know where they are?” My ability to speak has magically reappeared.

His laugh has a bounce to it, a lighter-than-air quality, but it doesn’t last long enough to put me at ease. I cringe as his gaze travels from my wildly sticky brown mane, down my growth-stunted, five-foot-two frame, and parks on my green-gooed sneakers.

My dignity and self-preservation are at war with each other.

“I’m Drew.” The man-boy says as he rests his hands on defined hips.

Drew.
I don’t know a Drew. “How do you know me?”

Shaggy, sun-bleached tresses tease the tips of tanned ears. My eyes follow the imaginary line leading to the center of his face: a Roman nose, a squared chin, a pair of perfectly parted lips.

He’s smiling.

It’s this feature, this stunning, radiant smile that cuts my breath short. I blink myself sane, only his smile doesn’t fade. Not when the standard be-nice-to-a-woman-in-distress timeline has passed. Or even when a giant drop of ooze falls from the end of my ponytail and splatters near my feet.

“You don’t remember me?” He tilts his head as if that gesture alone might pinpoint his face on my Handsome Stranger Inventory. It doesn’t.

I shake my head and the sour-tip of my ponytail lands inside my open mouth. I spit it out.

It’s fair to say the likelihood of making a good first impression is no longer in the realm of possibility.

“Why don’t we go inside. You look like you could use—”

“A bathtub full of bleach and some hard alcohol to forget this day ever happened?”

He laughs again. “Something like that.”

He turns toward the porch steps, as if I’m the type of woman who would just up and follow his amazingness inside a dark empty house.

Only I’m not. No matter how badly I wish I could claim otherwise, this guy is a stranger. I force myself to spell out the word, letter by letter, inside my hormone-crazed brain.

S-T-R-A-N-G-E-R.

“I’m not going inside.”

His steps halt. He looks over the top of one very muscular shoulder and throws another one of his electric-current grins my way.

I clear the weakness from my throat. “Stranger danger and all that.”

I glance down at the bike at my feet and remember the dark cabin and the hideous smell and the rabid eyes.

He hops down from the second porch step and walks toward me again. “Joslyn, I’m Drew Culver. Pat and Shirley’s grandson.”

My head snaps up to search his face.

I stare unabashed as a dusty memory crowds the forefront of my mind. “You’re Doo-Doo Drew?” And then the visual of a round, chunky boy running from the dock with mud caked on the butt of his jeans plays out before my eyes.

His laugh is a boom that shakes something loose inside my chest.

“But you were like…a foot shorter than me and…and you were uh…” Pudgy. Chubby. Liked the ice-cream a little too much.

“I grew up.” He shrugs as if those three little words could explain a transformation like his, swipes a t-shirt from the banister, and tugs it over his head. “Guess I’m not a stranger after all.” He holds out his palms to face me. “No danger to be had here. Promise.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning like a circus clown. “Alright, well, I think I might need some help.”

His gaze drifts down the length of me once more. “I think it’s safe to say you need
a lot
of help.”

*

Drew is bent
at the waist, sucking in air like a cracked vacuum cleaner. “Wait—what were the eyes like again?” He’s actually crying. Real-life tears.

Hands on my hips, I shoot him my meanest glare. “This isn’t funny. I almost died.”

He tries to sober himself, tries to appear the ever-compassionate neighbor. He fails.

Two things I’ve learned about Drew Culver in the last ten minutes: 1. He loves a good story. 2. He’s a terrible actor.

“But it didn’t come after you? This uh, this creature of the night?”

I throw my arms out wide. “I didn’t stick around and wait for the attack!”

He leans back against the sofa I wish I were sitting on. But I’m much too aware of the nastiness that coats my body to do that to sweet Mrs. Culver’s furniture.

What I wouldn’t pay for a shower right now. And a hairbrush. Oh, good glory, a hairbrush.

“I think you should take a shower.”

I blink several times in a row, and my skin heats from a slow-rising simmer to a blistering boil.

He must re-hear his words, because for the fist time, Drew looks less than sure of himself. “I just meant…you obviously can’t go back there tonight. It’s dark and we won’t get anything accomplished until we have light. So, if you want to, you’re welcome to stay here. There’s a bed in my grandma’s sewing room at the end of the hall. Unless you have another option? Someone else you should call?”

At this, I curl my hand into a fist and punch my thigh. My phone. My stupid, stupid phone is inside the cabin with the freaky-eyed monster.

“No,” I say in a volume that would barely register above a whisper. “I don’t have another option.” Because trying to book a hotel room on the island during the height of tourist season is like trying to reach Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

“Okay, then.” Drew stands and walks toward the hallway. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Humiliation burns through my veins as Drew’s footsteps grow faint. If he hadn’t been here tonight, what would I have done? Slept in my car? The first ferry out doesn’t leave until after sunrise tomorrow.

The thought makes my vision blur and my airway constrict. Pinching my eyelids shut, I swallow my ever-rising anxiety. Even if I caught the ferry back tomorrow, where would I go then? My dorm’s undergoing a complete renovation during summer break, and home is not home right now.

“Uh…I’m sorry in advance. I don’t think my grandma owns a pair of pants that aren’t elastic waist and polyester. This is the best I could come up with.”

I open my eyes.

Drew holds out what can only be described as a 1950s housecoat. It’s pale pink and sprinkled with white fluffy kittens. And, by the length of it, will reach just above my ankles. If there was even the slightest bit of sexual attraction between the two of us, this nightgown has murdered it. And buried it six-feet.

Without another word, I walk toward him, take the muumuu, and lock myself inside a mauve-colored bathroom.

*

The shower has
long-ago turned cold, but at least my hair is clean (I only had to wash it three times.) I open the lacy curtain. It’s safe to say I can claim
human
as my species again.

The pink housecoat buttons to my chin and its ruffled bell sleeves hang past my wrists. The hem brushes against the top of my ankle bones. I remind myself to be grateful. Because at least it’s something to wear while I launder my foul-smelling clothes.

Drew stifles a laugh when I walk out of the bathroom. Surprisingly, he manages to swallow it. Somebody’s taught him well.

“Want something to eat? Drink?” he asks.

I’m
starving
, but—

“I have Pop Tarts.”

Like a faraway dream, I see the Culver’s portly young grandson headed down the bike path to share his Pop Tarts at the shoreline. With me and the other summer island kids.

Back then it was a peace offering; now it’s a testament to good character.

“Sounds perfect.”

Drew reaches into the pantry, and one by one by one, he displays seven boxes on the countertop.
Seven
. You can take the chub off the boy, but…

He leans onto the yellowed Formica, his biceps flexing. “Take your pick.”

The gown swishes around my calves. I point to the box on the far right. “Brown Sugar, please.”

Drew grins, his teeth a perfect shade of baking soda white. “My favorite, too.”

I pull out a chair at the little oak kitchenette dining table and sit. It feels odd to be served by a guy I haven’t seen since I wore braces and played hide-and-seek, but then again, nothing about this day or night feels normal. Maybe there is no normal.

Maybe someday I should give up the hunt.

I take a deep breath, the scent of honey, cinnamon, and cloves baking in the air. “So, where are Pat and Shirley?”

Drew’s eyes flick to mine over the steam of the toaster. “Gran’s visiting my aunt for a few months in Maryland. But my Gramps…” Drew shakes his head. “He’s in a home now—Alzheimer’s. I’m housesitting. For the summer.” His voice sounds flat, a deflated balloon. Drew and his grandfather used to be close. Just like the Culvers used to be a staple part of the island community.

I hate how time robs us.

I decide to move onto a safer, less invasive topic. “You in school?”

His focus remains on the ancient press-and-hold toaster. “Senior at University of Washington. Business major.”

“That’s cool.” But what I really want to say is: Why do you look like
that
if you’re a business major? Why are your arms the size of my thighs? Why is your back shredded like some sort of WWF champion? But I keep my mouth shut because the way he stands now is more like a fortress than a gate. If there’s more behind his summer island stay, he doesn’t want to discuss it. At least, not with me.

“What about you?”

“English.” I chose that major when I was ten and simply wasn’t brave enough to try anything else, steer off course. “A junior at Western Washington.” Because then I could drive home often and arrange family dinners so my parents could sit awkwardly around a silent table while I tried (and failed) to come up with new and exciting ways to get them to converse.

Drew shifts his weight, catching my attention again. “You seemed pretty upset earlier—kicking your bike and all.”

I cringe inwardly. Oh, how I’d hoped he missed that bright and shining moment. “Um, I just…”

“I get it. Today must have really sucked for you.” There’s no judgment in his tone.

I curl the plastic map of America placemat in front of me into a funnel. “It really did.”

The first set of Pop Tarts spring from the metal toaster. And in a style that’s totally unique to Drew, he pinches the corners and tosses each tart on a plate. Obviously, he’s a pro.

He sets the dish in front of me. “Here you go. Dinner is served.”

I thank him, and he slumps in the seat across from mine. “You still friends with the Gossip Girls?”

I laugh only because I don’t know what else to do with my sudden onset of nervous energy.

“Yes, I’m still friends with Sydney, Darby and Avery. They’re my best friends, actually.”

Though I’d made friends in college, none compared to the friendships I’d found in these girls long ago. They are like sisters—the only siblings I would ever have. Maybe our bond had originated early on due to our common ground as only children. But it’s become something so much deeper now.