Then I Met My Sister (14 page)

Twenty-Six

I’m in the bathroom after work, wrapping my wet hair in a towel, when I hear my cell phone ringing.

I tighten the sash on my terrycloth robe, hurry into my bedroom, and grab my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, uh … Summer?”

“Yes, this is Summer.”

“Oh. Gosh, you even sound like Shannon.”

My grip on the phone tightens.

“This is Eve. Shannon’s friend from high school.”

My mouth drops open and I stand frozen in space for a moment.

“Oh … hi.” I shut my bedroom door, then walk over to my bed and sit down. When I finally got up the nerve to call her last night, I got her answering machine. Frankly, I was relieved. What would I have said to her if she’d answered? How do you just barge into someone’s life, mutter a few pleasantries, and then begin barking out personal questions about the past? I guess I’m about to find out.

“Thanks for calling me back,” I say.

“Sure.” Her voice is soft and kind, like her mom’s.

Awkward silence.

“Um … ” I say, then realize I need to get to the point. “Eve, my sister kept a journal the summer before she died.”

“Oh …”

“I didn’t know about it until a few weeks ago. My aunt had been holding on to it, and she gave it to me on—”

“Summer, I’m so sorry I haven’t kept in touch with your family,” Eve blurts out, sounding like she’s on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay …”

“No, it’s not,” Eve says. “Shannon was my best friend. Your mother was like my second mom. I sent her cards for a few years, but I never really knew what to say, and—”

“Really, Eve, it’s okay. That’s not why I’m—”

“But I need to say it. And I need to say it to your mother. In person. I’m flying in to visit my mom in early August. Do you think we could come by? If it would upset your mother, just tell me. But I want to let her know I’ve never stopped thinking about Shannon. Or her.”

I straighten up, a little impatient. This phone call was supposed to be about what
I
need. But how stupid does that sound? As if the people in Shannon’s life are characters in a book. Props. That’s how they feel when I read her journal. I blush with shame.

“Sure, you can come by,” I tell Eve. “I know my mom would love to see you. But I’m reading some things in Shannon’s journal that I don’t think my mom knew about. Can I ask you about some of those things?”

Pause. Then, warily: “Yes.”

“I know you and Shannon had grown apart toward the end,” I say.

“And I’m so sorry about that, too,” Eve gushes.

“It’s okay,” I say firmly. “I didn’t say it to make you feel bad. I just said it because I’m not sure how much you knew about the last few months of her life.”

Another pause. “I knew,” Eve says.

“You knew she was sneaking out to see Chris?”

“Yes. I hated him, and Shannon thought it was because I was … I don’t know … jealous or something. Neither of us had dated much in high school. Every guy in school was in love with Shannon, but I guess she seemed like she was out of their league, so they were too scared to approach her. Me, I was just awkward and nerdy.”

I laugh nervously.

“Anyway, when Chris started flirting with Shannon, she really fell hard,” Eve continues. “I told her I thought he was bad news, but she didn’t want to hear it. Then she started hanging around this girl named Jamie.”

“Were you and Jamie friends, too?”

“No.” Even over the phone, I can hear the distaste in Eve’s voice.

“Were Shannon and Chris still together when she died?” I ask.

Pause.

I’m confused. Maybe Eve didn’t hear my question. “Were Shannon and Chris … ?”

“I don’t know. There were some rumors …”

I swallow. “What kind of rumors?”

“Just … just that Chris was … seeing other girls behind her back.”

I swallow. “Her journal makes it sound like he did everything short of stamping
cheater
on his forehead. But she kept defending him.”

“She was just so in love,” Eve says. “I understand that. He was really cute. She was ready for something different, and he was … different.”

I lightly tap my index finger against the phone. “She missed you,” I say. “I mean, she wrote about you a lot in her journal, even though you didn’t see much of each other that summer.”

Pause. “She wrote about me?” Eve asks, her voice catching.

“Yeah. Sounds like you two had a great friendship.”

Eve sniffs on the other end of the phone.

“She really cared about you,” I say. “She knew you were a true friend. She was just … dealing with a lot of stuff.”

“I know,” Eve says.

Another awkward pause.

“Did you know she was seeing a psychologist?” I ask.

“No,” Eve says, sounding genuinely surprised. “But I’m glad. She had a lot of things to sort out.” She clears her throat.

“Do you think you would have gotten close again if she hadn’t—”

“Oh, I know we would have. We were like sisters. And we had all these plans. We were going to room together in college. Then join the Peace Corps!”

I press my lips together tightly.

Eve clears her throat again. “Anyway, those last few months … they were an aberration. I knew Shannon would come around. Actually, we went shopping with our mothers just a few days before … just before she … before she passed away. We talked and cried and hugged.
She
was sorry,
I
was sorry, it was all water under the bridge. We couldn’t wait for our senior year to start.”

My heart skips a beat. Eve makes Shannon sound so hopeful, so optimistic. But Eve didn’t know everything; it’s toward the very end of the journal that Shannon wrote,
I want to kill myself.
If it
was
suicide, Eve is totally clueless.

That’s a good sign … right?

Eve sniffles some more. “That’s the last time I saw her, the last time I talked to her. I miss her so much.”

I bite my lower lip to steady the quiver in my chin.

I miss her, too
.

Twenty-Seven

“B …
R
…
A
…
T
.
Bratworst
.”

I yelp with joy. It was sheer genius to build on the word
worst
. This is my best Scrabble round ever.

Gibs and his parents exchange glances.

My eyes dart from one face to the next. “What?” I demand.

“Bratwurst is spelled with a
U
,” his dad says apologetically. “
W
-
U
. Not
W
-
O
.”

My jaw drops. “You are so kidding.”

They shake their heads. “But I can check the dictionary, if you want,” Gibs says.

I hold up the palm of my hand, then scoop up my now-useless
B
,
R
,
A
, and
T
tiles. “No, I get that you’re all freakishly brilliant and happen to know that off the top of your heads,” I mutter playfully.

I peer at my tiles to reconsider my options, then reluctantly add an
E
to the bottom of the
W
in
worst
, giving an exaggerated sigh.

“
We
is a perfectly good word,” Gibs’ mom says, and we laugh at her earnestness.

I inhale deeply, savoring the salty scent of the ocean breeze mixing with the aroma of the boiled shrimp we had for dinner an hour earlier.

The past four days have been incredible, swimming with Gibs in the surf, paddling a kayak, collecting shells on the shore, watching campy movies on an overstuffed sofa at two a.m., seeing fireworks on the beach on the Fourth of July, jogging with him and his parents on the sand, and now losing badly at Scrabble after dinner on the deck of the beach house. As much fun as we’ve had, I’m pretty clear at this point that I’m firmly affixed in Gibs’ “friend” box. Whatever I was expecting to happen that might nudge us into the couples category isn’t happening. But you know what? I’m okay with that. I’ll take Gibs as a friend over any other guy on the planet as a boyfriend.

It’s Gibs’ turn at Scrabble, and he scratches his head as he studies his tiles. A few seconds later, he adds
D
,
E
,
L
, and
N
to my
We
. I stare at him incredulously.

“We-deln?”
I say.

“It’s a skiing term,” he responds. “It’s pronounced
VAHD-lyn
.”

The family resumes their glance-exchanging.

“I surrender!” I moan, burying my face in my hands. “My ego won’t survive another turn.”

“Good,” Gibs says, standing up from his spot on the floor. “I’d rather walk on the beach than play Scrabble anyhow.”

His parents and I look out toward the ocean.

“Aaaahh. The sun is setting,” his mom says, pulling a lock of dark, curly hair behind her ear.

“So … anyone care to join me?”

“Sure,” his mom and I say simultaneously.

“Um … on second thought,” she adds, “maybe Dad and I will stay and finish the game.”

I rise to my feet and wipe my hands on the back of my shorts. “Sorry I won’t be here to help you with your spelling,” I say.

They laugh lightly as Gibs and I head down the cedar steps leading from the deck to the beach.

I’m accustomed to Gibs’ extra-long strides by now, so I trot a little to keep up once our feet hit the sand. His arms swing as he saunters closer to the water. His ponytail, curlier than usual in the ocean air, bounces with every step.

“Trying to keep up with you is like trying to keep up with a greyhound,” I say from a few steps behind, tightening my own ponytail as it blows in the breeze.

He turns around with a smile and extends his hand. I eye it tentatively, then grab hold. I yelp as he pulls me closer, then loosen my grip so our fingers can fall apart.

Except that they don’t. Because Gibs is still squeezing my hand.

He peers out at the horizon as we walk in the surf. The waves slosh against our ankles.

“Look,” I say, pointing at a water skier with my free hand. “A we-deln.”

He laughs. “
VAHD-lyn
. It’s pronounced
VAHD-lyn
. But that guy isn’t one. VAHD-lyn is a snow-skiing term. And it doesn’t describe the skier, it describes a style of skiing.”

I stick my tongue out at him. He’s still holding my hand.

“Who knows this kind of stuff?” I ask him, and he shrugs.

“Tell me something you don’t know,” I challenge him.

He peers skyward. “Hmmmm … can’t do it. Apparently I know everything.”

I splash him with my foot. My hand is starting to feel comfortable in his.

“I mean it,” I persist. “Tell me something you don’t know.”

He squints at me, then looks back toward the ocean. “I don’t know lots of things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as … Britney Spears’ middle name.”

“Oooh, me, me!” I say, raising my free hand. “I know it. It’s Jean.”

“Well, there you have it,” Gibs says. “I know the definition of
wedeln
and you know Britney Spears’ middle name. There’s symmetry in the world after all.”

“More,” I say, breaking into a skip. “Tell me something else you don’t know and we’ll see if I know it.”

His eyebrows knit together. “How to make beef stroganoff?”

I wince. “I could do it with Hamburger Helper. Does that count?”

“Works for me.”

Still holding hands.

Gibs stops abruptly, finally letting go of my hand. He turns to face me but doesn’t make eye contact. “Here’s something I don’t know,” he says, digging his toe into the wet sand.

Long pause.

“Yeah?” I prod.

A wave splashes over our feet.

He rubs his hands together. “I don’t know how to tell a girl I love her.”

Longer pause.

“Especially,” he continues, “when we have two more potentially very awkward days to be at the beach together.”

I search his eyes, but he won’t look at me. Oh, God. He
is
there, after all.

I laugh at his awkwardness. “No way,” I say, still not sure I’m clear on this extremely cool turn of events.

He shrugs. “Way.”

“So … I’m the girl?”

“Uh, check.”

I nod appreciatively. “Dude. That was much more romantic than I would’ve given you credit for.”

I figure glibness is the best way to override my impulse to leap in the air and throw myself into my arms.

He presses his lips together, still staring at the sand. “Why do I feel like I’m being graded?”

I giggle at him again. “Hey, no problem. You definitely rate an A.”

His dark blue eyes flicker in my direction, then dart away again.

I stroke my chin thoughtfully. “Just to make sure I’ve got this straight: You, like,
love
me.”

Gibs stuffs his hands in the pockets of his blue jean shorts, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head slowly. “I am such an idiot,” he mutters.

“In
love,” I clarify.

Gibs plops down on the sand and covers his face with his hands. I sit beside him and pull his hands away. “It’s okay. I dig you, too. I just didn’t think you were there yet.”

A breeze blows his ponytail as he looks me in the eye. “I’m right here,” he says.

Then he kisses me.

Our last two days at the beach are decidedly low-key. Neither Gibs nor I are much for public displays of affection anyway, and God knows we don’t want to give his parents any fodder for talking about what an adorable couple we are. So we stick with the program: Scrabble, late-night movies on the sofa, body-surfing in the waves … the same stuff we’ve done all week long.

But God, that kiss.

His salty lips were so soft and moist. The way he cupped his hand around my face was so intimate. The way he held my face close after we’d kissed and just kept staring at my mouth, like he’d stumbled onto the Holy Grail … God, it was intense.

Why does this seem so natural? Shouldn’t it take more than one kiss to shed a year’s worth of just-friends vibes? Shouldn’t we be throat-clearing, eye-averting, stammering messes as we deal with the awkwardness of it all?

Except that it isn’t awkward. One minute, he was my friend, and the next, he’s kissing me.

And it just feels right.

We’re packing up to go home, and Gibs’ parents have walked to the car with the first batches of luggage. Gibs and I are in the kitchen, me with my head in the cupboard as I hand him leftover groceries that he stacks in a box. From my peripheral vision, I notice him doing a double take after his parents leave to make sure they’re out the door. He spins around and grabs me around the waist.

I squeal, turn to face him, then melt into a kiss.

It’s another perfect kiss, long and slow and moist and soft. We pull apart with my arms still around the back of his neck, his still around my waist.

“So … you wanna get married?” I ask him, and we laugh.

“I’ve spent months kissing you in my head,” he says.

No way. Me, too.
“Kissing me on my face has got to be a step up.”

“Oh, yeah.” He kisses me again.

“Jeez, Gibs,” I tease. “I’m thinking you wanna be my boyfriend or something.”

He wrinkles his nose and smiles at me. “Okay.”

I bite my lip. “Can we do that? The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m thinking we can.”

I giggle at him. “I don’t know, Gibs. Corsages might be involved. Long, sucky notes in each other’s yearbooks, Facebook photos of us staring into each other’s eyes … things like that.”

He peers into space as he thinks about it, still holding me in his arms. “I’m good with that,” he finally announces.

I sputter with laughter. “You
so
are not.”

“I so am!” he protests playfully, then squints his eyes sheepishly. “Okay, maybe the Facebook photos would be a stretch. I just want to be with you. And I definitely want to kiss you some more. A lot more, actually.”

We lean in to kiss again, but we hear the front door open and hastily pull apart. But our eyes are still locked together.

Here’s the thing about Gibs’ eyes: they look like shimmery ponds at midnight that I could skinny-dip in without getting cold or wet. I’d just float in silky warmth.

“Got those groceries packed?” his mother asks cheerfully.

Right. The groceries.