Summer Days and Summer Nights (30 page)

I entered Matt's room. He was there, lying flat on the bed with his eyes closed. But he was only sleeping, not in a coma, I had been told. He had woken up last week, too disoriented at first for them to be sure he could still function. And then, slowly, he had returned to himself.

Apparently. I would believe it only when I saw it, and maybe not even then.

I set the box down and opened the lid. This particular project had a lot of pieces to it. I took the table where they put his food tray, and the bedside table, and I lined them up side by side. I found a plug for the speakers and the old CD player that I had bought online. It was bright purple and covered with stickers.

Sometime in the middle of this, Matt's eyes opened and shifted to mine. He was slow to turn his head—his spine was still healing from the accident—but he could do it. His fingers twitched. I swallowed a smile and a sob in favor of a neutral expression.

“Claire,” he said, and my body thrilled to the sound of my name. He knew me. “I think I had a dream about you. Or maybe a series of dreams, in a very definite order, selected by yours truly…”

“Sh-h-h. I'm in the middle of some art.”

“Oh,” he said. “Forgive me. I'm in the middle of recovering from some death.”

“Too soon,” I replied.

“Sorry. Coping mechanism.”

I sat down next to him and started to unbutton my shirt.

His eyebrows raised. “What are you doing?”

“Multitasking. I have to stick these electrodes on my chest. Remember them?” I held up the electrodes with the wires attached to them. They were the same ones I had used to show the art class my brain waves. “And I also want to stack the odds in my favor.”

“Stack the … Am I on drugs again?”

“No. If you
were
on drugs, would you be hallucinating me shirtless, though?” I grinned and touched one electrode to the right side of my chest and another one under it. Together they would read my heartbeat.

“No comment,” he said. “That's a surprisingly girly bra you're wearing.”

It was navy blue, patterned with little white and pink flowers. I had saved it all week for today, even though it was my favorite and I always wanted to wear it first after laundry day.

“Just because I don't like dresses doesn't mean I hate flowers,” I replied. “Okay, be quiet.”

I turned up the speakers, which were connected directly to the electrodes on my chest. My heartbeat played over them, its pulse even and steady. I breathed deep, through my nose and out my mouth. Then I turned on the CD player and set the track to the second one: “Inertia,” by Chase Wolcott.

Inertia

I'm carried in a straight line toward you

A force I can't resist; don't want to resist

Carried straight toward you

The drums pounded out a steady rhythm, the guitars throbbed, driving a tune propulsive and circular. My heartbeat responded accordingly, picking up the longer I listened.

“Your heart,” he said. “You like the song now?”

“I told you the meds would mess with my mind,” I said softly. “I'm just getting used to them, though, so don't get too excited. I may hate the album again someday.”

“The meds,” he repeated. “You're on them?”

“Still adjusting the dose, but yes, I'm on them, thanks in part to the encouragement of this guy I know,” I said. “So far, side effects include headaches and nausea and a feeling that life might turn out okay after all. That last one is the peskiest.”

The dimple appeared in his cheek.

“If you think
this
heartbeat change is cool, I'll show you something even more fascinating.” I turned the music off.

“Okay,” he said, eyes narrowed.

I stood and touched a hand to the bed next to his shoulder. My heartbeat played faster over the speakers. I leaned in close and pressed my lips lightly to his.

His mouth moved against mine, finally responding. His hand lifted to my cheek, brushed my hair back from my face. Found the curve of my neck.

My heart was like a speeding train. That thing inside me—that pulsing organ that said I was alive, I was all right, I was carving a better shape out of my own life—was the sound track of our first kiss, and it was much better than any music, no matter how good the band might be.

“Art,” I said, as we parted, “is both vulnerable and brave.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, right next to his hip, careful. His hazel eyes followed my every movement. There wasn't a hint of a smile on his face, in his furrowed brow.

“The Last Visitation is supposed to give you the chance to say everything you need to, before you lose someone,” I said. “But when I drove away from here, thinking you were about to leave me for good, I realized there was one thing I still hadn't said.”

I pinched his blanket between my first two fingers, suddenly shy again.

Heartbeat picking up again, faster and faster.

“So,” he said quietly. “Say it, then.”

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Okay, I will. I will say it.”

He smiled, broad, lopsided. “Claire … do you love me?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes, just for a second, a soft smile forming on his lips.

“The bra is a nice touch,” he said, “but you didn't need to stack the odds in your favor.” He smiled, if possible, even wider. “Everything has always been carrying me toward you.”

I smiled. Reached out with one hand to press Play on the CD player. Eased myself next to him on the hospital bed, careful not to hurt him.

He ran his fingers through my hair, drew my lips to his again.

Quiet, no need for words, we listened to “Inertia” on repeat.

 

Dear reader, I want to assure you that this is not a story about love or romance, regardless of what you may have read on the cover. There are quite enough of those stories already, thank you very much. No, this is a story about two people who insisted that love was only for fools.

The first of our two heroes was Lena Cole. She had piercing blue eyes, beautifully precise features, and long black hair pulled back in a practical yet not unattractive way. She moved through the grounds of the Hotel del Arte Spa and Resort with the confidence that came from experience and routine. Although just shy of eighteen, in the few summers she had worked at the resort, she had made herself an indispensable member of the staff.

She passed the dining room, laid for breakfast. “Good morning, Ms. Nalone.”

An older woman with bleach-blond hair and a deep tan sipped her mimosa. “Good morning, Lena.”

Lena Cole knew the name and habits of every guest of the past three years and could recognize them on sight. Ms. Nalone, a divorcée several times over, was a regular. Her son, Vito Nalone, age nineteen, would not be out of bed for at least another hour.

Lena continued down the hallway. As she passed the game room, she said, “Nearly time to start work, Zeke.”

A spritely boy of sixteen with spiky black hair sat on a beanbag, destroying zombies on a massive flat-screen TV. He wore the white polo shirt and tan khaki shorts that were required of all the resort staff. He shut off the game and gave Lena a sharp salute.

Lena smiled and moved on, greeting guests and nodding cordially to other staff members. When she reached the lobby, she saw the manager. Like Lena and Zeke, Brice Ghello wore the staff uniform. His hair was very short, with only a little fringe of bangs that jutted out perfectly parallel to the ground.

“Lena, good, I was just about to text you.” Brice examined his clipboard as if it contained all the truths of the universe, which, to his mind, it did. “I need you to pick up Arlo Kean at the train station.”

“Oh yes,” said Lena. “The new boy. Have you decided where to put him yet?”

Brice shook his head. “Bring him to orientation at noon. I'll decide then. Oh, but make sure you check on the Ficollos before you go.”

“I was just on my way.”

Lena rode the elevator up to the penthouse suite. Magnus Ficollo was the owner. But he was not the sort of owner who saved the penthouse for special VIPs. To his mind, the whole point of owning a resort was so he could take the penthouse whenever he and his daughter liked. And at the beginning of summer—when the spring rains had stopped but the intense heat of midsummer had not yet begun—they liked it very much.

It was Lena's primary responsibility to ensure that Mr. Ficollo and his beloved daughter, Isabella, had everything they needed. When she knocked on their door, Isabella opened it.

Isabella's eyes went wide, and she threw her arms around Lena. “It's so great to see you! How was your school year?”

Lena smiled warmly and took a moment to return the embrace before gently disentangling herself. In the years that she had worked for the Ficollos, she had learned that Isabella, like many international jet-setting heiresses to billions of dollars, already had everything she needed, except a good friend. “Productive as always, Miss Ficollo.”

“But did you have any
fun
?” Isabella's eyes were bright, and her smile was as relentlessly perky as it had been the previous summer.

“I'm sure I did, Miss Ficollo.”

Isabella squeezed her hands. “Did you see? My hedge maze is finished!”

“It turned out beautifully.”

Isabella towed Lena over to the balcony, where they could see the layout of the entire resort. There was the pool and wet bar, the tennis and basketball courts, the gardens, the golf course, and the latest edition to the grounds—the hedge maze, installed especially for Isabella. She sighed happily. “It's everything I wanted. This is going to be an
amazing
summer.”

“Just as wonderful as last year,” said Lena.

“Are you up for a tennis match this morning?”

“I'm afraid I have to pick up the new staff member from the train station,” said Lena. “Can we postpone until the afternoon?”

“Of course we can,” said Isabella. “A new staff member? How exciting! I love new people.”

Lena wrinkled her pert nose. “New people bring change.”

*   *   *

If you haven't already guessed, the second of our heroes is the aforementioned new employee, Arlo Kean. Unlike Lena, Arlo was quite accustomed to change. Three schools in as many years, each more strict than the last. His mother might have been mad at him for being expelled with such frequency, except she had a habit of changing jobs and boyfriends every year as well. But what Arlo and his mother lacked in reliability, they made up for in adaptability. That was how his mother had started dating one of the wealthiest men in New York City. This latest boyfriend had found a summer job for Arlo at a fancy country resort. Compared to his warehouse job last summer, this one sounded like three months of heaven.

As Arlo disembarked from the train, he raked his fingers through his light-brown, curly hair. It needed a trim, and it fell in his eyes often enough that it was probably on purpose. He scanned the crowd, looking for the person who was supposed to pick him up. He grinned when he saw a girl around his age holding a sign that said “Kean.” This girl had the sort of beauty that changed depending on the angle you viewed her. Looking at her one way, her features were as elegant and sharp as a blade. Looking at her another, her eyes blazed with an inner fire. As it happened, Arlo liked to play with both knives and matches.

Still smiling, he stepped up to her and pointed at the sign. “That's me.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “Well, I suppose you'll add to the aesthetics, if nothing else. Come on. You're the last staff member to arrive. We have to be back at the resort by noon.”

As he followed her to the small parking lot beside the train station, he decided that adding to the aesthetics was a compliment. “You're staff at the resort?”

“Yep.” She pushed the key chain button to unlock the black hybrid SUV.

“Then I can't imagine how the aesthetics could possibly be improved,” he said, as he climbed into the passenger seat.

She smiled faintly as she started the car. “I believe there is always room for improvement.”

“So, do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope,” she said calmly, her eyes not leaving the road.

“Want one?”

“Nope.”

“Oh,” said Arlo. “Yeah. I like to keep things casual, too.”

She turned her sharp gaze upon him. “I bet you do.”

“Hey, I didn't mean it like that.”

She returned her attention to the road. “What way did you mean it?”

“Uh…” Arlo flipped through several possible responses and rejected each in turn. “Maybe I should just shut up and look pretty.”

“I was about to suggest that,” she said.

Thus ended the first meeting of our two heroes, dear reader, without a meet cute or love-at-first-sight moment. After all, such things only happen in silly romances. Even if this
were
a love story—which it most certainly isn't—I know that discerning readers like you would never tolerate such banal contrivances.