Page 14 of One Last Summer
Unsure of what else to say, I gazed back down at my phone, hitting send on another email forward to Lydia.
“Clara Millen.” When I looked back up, I found Nick staring at me expectantly, like he was waiting for his coffee in the middle of Starbucks’ morning rush hour.
“Yes, Nick Reyes?”
“Are you… working?” The face Nick made back at me was so purely him—his arched brows and quirked, giant smile—that it was like looking directly into the past. Even though he was sitting directly in front of me, the sight of him made me nostalgic.
“No,” I lied, tossing my phone onto the seat next to me, on top of my notebook and the file of Alewife documents I’d dumped out of my tote bag the second I’d slid into the back seat.
“You finally get your ass up to camp after six long years—” Nick continued, chiding me again.
“Five!” I cut him off, giving him a hurt look. “It’s only been five.”
“Oh, as if that’s any better.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” I waved my hand. “Continue.”
He cleared his throat dramatically. “You finally get your cute ass—”
“Oh, why, thank you.”
“—up to camp after five long years, during which you ditched your dearest friends—”
“I didn’t have a choice! I had to—”
“Work. We know. Your first love.”
“Okay, that’s a bit much,” I said, crossing my arms defiantly. “My first love is cheese.”
Nick leveled a look at me, and we both burst out laughing. It felt amazing to slip right back into our friendship, like an old, worn bathrobe that was still warm and cozy after all these years.
But there was just the tiniest bit of hurt buried in his comment, and I added it to my mental drawer of shame, where I’d stored Sam’s reveal about the group text, and Teen Clara’s hopeful expectations for her life that I’d so far failed to meet.
“You have promised to give yourself over to this friend-union this week, work be damned,” he reminded me.
“I promise. Just let me hit send on this email and then I’m all yours.”
“Pinky swear?” Nick held out a finger, and I latched mine around it, giving our joined hands a shake.
“Pinky swear,” I said firmly, though there was a part of me that felt like a liar. I wasn’t sure how to completely check out of work, even though I was being forced to do just that.
Be kind to yourself, I thought, and glanced down at the pile of papers next to me, where I’d tucked my letter, hidden between spreadsheets and outlines. But that felt easier said than done, the demand of an idealistic, naive teenager trying to cope with the emotional tornado on her horizon.
Satisfied with our agreement, Nick turned back around in his seat. As promised, I tapped out one more email and then put my phone down. NPR filled in the lull between our chitchat, as Massachusetts turned into New Hampshire, which flew by the window in a mix of every shade of green imaginable.
“The way life should be!” Trey announced as we crossed the border.
“Honey, that’s Maine’s motto,” Nick reminded him with a pat on the shoulder. “New Hampshire is ‘Live Free or Die.’”
“Christ, of course it is,” Trey muttered. “I forgot about their absurd no motorcycle helmet law.”
New Hampshire was so often overlooked, overshadowed by the lush rolling hills and earnestly cool vibe of Vermont to its left and the breathtaking beauty and storied seaside villages of Maine on the right. It was the middle child of New England states: kind of weird, occasionally out of step, often forgotten. And yes, they did not require motorcyclists to wear helmets, because of the whole live-free-or-die ethos, which was deeply rooted in every nook and cranny of the place.
But to me it was magical; New Hampshire had an old soul. It was simple and complex, stoic and serene, and I felt utterly like myself when I was here.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, admiring the beauty through the window as Mount Monadnock appeared on the horizon. “This is definitely the way life should be, if you ask me.”
Eventually I dozed off in the back seat, my head jolting forward every time Trey slowed the car to a stop. I slept hard and deep, and finally willed my eyes open about an hour later, just as we approached the three white buildings that made up the town of Peridot’s tiny square.
