For the Summer Page 2

  “Since when has Bensen ever cared what Robbie wants?” Robbie was their dad, a roughed-up construction worker with Southern ways. You treated him with respect, or you weren’t welcome under his roof, enough said. Bensen had problems with that. Big problems.

  “He doesn’t.” Ivey shrugged, her attention back on the photographs in her hand. “Bensen walked away from everyone to start his own life. I think part of him regrets leaving Brady and me.”

  That made sense. They may have annoyed him when they were younger, but they were his family.

  Later that night brought the arrival of a few of Ivey’s relatives, as well as my parents—two people finally working on their broken marriage. Most of us made our way down to the lake for some relaxation where we didn’t have to hear about Uncle Jesser and his new wife, who I was pretty sure was a mail-order bride. Wouldn’t have surprised anyone.

  Ivey walked with me, a case of beer in one hand and three bags of chips in the other. The long, narrow path we used to walk as kids seemed smaller now. Overgrown grass made it hard to see where we were going. It was kind of different when you returned to a place you hadn’t been in years. In your mind you could recount every detail as you remembered it, but then when you finally went back and things didn’t seem the same, you wondered how much of that your memory made up, filling in and coating the gaps.

  You could say that about first love, too. Was it really a great as you remembered?

  What you remembered and why was just as important as what you forgot. It was your brain’s way of shielding you.

  “This oughta be interesting,” Ivey said as we approached her brother’s I-don’t-give-a-fuck stance.

  My stomach dropped, but I played it off with an eye roll.

  Bensen was standing by the log, bottle in hand, talking to Brady and Wyatt. Most of the guys were dressed in standard lake attire—shirtless with board shorts.

  My eyes went to his bare chest and the strong lines he’d always had. Four years had done him good. His eyes were tired, dark circles under them, hiding pain and regret I knew just as well.

  Tripping over the log announced my arrival, as did Ivey’s shriek of laughter. There was no remaining hidden now. I expected one of those entrances where I could show him what he missed—flowing hair, beautifully long legs, and flawless skin. Ha, there was none of that. My hair was styled by humidity, I had bug bites all over that flawless skin, and my legs were scratched up from my not-so-hot trip. That was how I rolled.

  It was the first time since Ivey and I graduated high school that we were all together again. And while the circumstances were the same, graduation, one of us was also getting married.

  I couldn’t say that I hadn’t hoped the years had gone differently, but I didn’t wish for anything. Never had. What would be the point?

  If you wished for one thing and it came with another, then what?

  I once wished to start my period. What a ridiculous wish that was. I thought it meant I would be a woman finally. What I didn’t realize was the cramps, bloating, excessive eating, and the inconvenience of it all. Oh, and the fact that my panties would resemble a scene out of Dexter. That was the last time I wished.

  That night was as awkward it could have been. No one was talking, and Ivey kept looking from me to Bensen and then Wyatt. It was one of those times when you didn’t want to say a word because what if it was the wrong word?

  Bensen kept his head down, baseball hat shielding my view, his hands fidgeting with a rock, and Wyatt kept looking at me like I should say something. Like this shit was up to me to resolve?

  Brady began to fill the silence, telling us all about his last trip up to Pennsylvania where he was working on a race team as a mechanic, something he’d always wanted to do. Their dad’s cousin, Bobby Cole, was a NASCAR driver so Brady had all the right connections there.

  “Do you travel with them a lot?” Wyatt asked Brady, his arm hung loosely around Ivey, as she glared at me. I was sitting alone, about two feet from Brady and ten feet from Bensen, who’d yet to even look at me.

  “Yeah,” Brady said, his eyes lighting up. “I have been to about seven races this year with them, but I work up in Mooresville at the shop they have there. I’m not on their road crew yet.”

  “So Ben, what have you been up to these days?” Wyatt asked, making matters worse. Wyatt never did know how to start a conversation.

  Bensen shook his head, clearly annoyed Wyatt shortened his name again. Austin, his buddy from high school, showed up and took a seat in the mud-colored camp chair next to him. Keeping my place on the log next to Brady, I gave Austin a small wave when he winked at me. Beside Austin was a girl who sat down in his lap; I assumed she was his girlfriend, but he never introduced her. Bensen gave Austin a nod and then looked back at Wyatt.

  Two things could light the fire in Bensen—shortening his name and shoving him. Do either and you were looking for a fight.

  “My name is Bensen,” he said, his voice sharp but distant. “Not Ben or Benny or however else you want to shorten it.”

  Brady made some smartass remark beside him, drawing a smirk from Bensen.

  That was when I took a fleeting moment to look him over, while he wasn’t looking at me or could catch me looking at him. He still had that same smile, boyish but serious. It was the same smile that used to instigate my own. And he was beautiful, as always.

  “Come on, man,” Wyatt groaned, shifting to lean into Ivey, his hand on her knee as she sat wide-eyed beside him. He took a drink of his beer, gesturing with a tip of the bottle between Bensen and me. “I’m just trying to make this a little less awkward.”

  Bensen snorted, the sound a little more agitated, as he looked up, never meeting my eyes, but rather stayed focused on Wyatt. “What less awkward? You’re marrying my little sister. Have fun.” His tone said he didn’t give a shit. And maybe he didn’t.

  “I don’t mean with Ivey and me.” Wyatt gave him a look of disbelief, his brow scrunched together. “I mean with you and Sophie.”

  “Who?”

  If it weren’t for the music flowing from the stereo at Brady’s feet, everyone would have heard the sharp intake of breath I took.

  “Her … Sophie.” Wyatt gestured to me, confusion settling over his features.

  Hell, I was confused, too.

  Watchful of his every action, my ears started to turn red from the alcohol and the anger. Faces and voices around me all held the same disorientation.

  “What’s awkward about it?” Bensen asked with his shit attitude, his eyes still on the dirt and the bottle that replaced the rock he tossed aside. “She’s my sister’s friend. That’s all.” He took a slow drink from the bottle of whiskey. “Nothing to it, man.”

  Wyatt snorted, both he and Ivey whipping their heads around to face Bensen. “Nothing to it? You two used to be friends. Did you forget that?”

  “I don’t remember that.” Bensen stood and dusted off his jeans. “See you guys tomorrow.”

  Was he fucking serious?

  “What?” I nearly choked on my own spit. Okay, I did choke, and everyone looked at me. Well, everyone except Bensen, who was already starting to walk away. Didn’t even offer a second look.

  Brady stood, shrugging, intending to follow his older brother. Bensen stopped him, tucking the bottle under his arm. “Stay here with your friends, Brady. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ivey jetted up, standing in front of Bensen. “Don’t go, and don’t be an ass.” She reached for the bottle, only to have him fling it back and push past her, knocking into her shoulder. “Come on Bensen!”

  He was the same ass he’d always been.

  Nice buddy. Walk away again.

  Watching him walk away, I was ready to pummel him. Years. Fucking years I spent wondering why, only to have him come back here and act like our childhood didn’t mean shit.

  Not wanting anyone to see me ugly cry, I went back to my car with a fifth of Fireball Whiskey.

  Shit went south after that. Neve
r take alcohol to your car, alone, the night before your best friend is getting married, and you’re the dateless maid of honor.

  After the third shot, I was so upset, and let’s face it, drunk, that I stumbled off to find him and give him a piece of mind, journal in hand. I never planned on showing him that journal, ever. But when you took into account the shots I did with Ivey earlier and then the beer, I wasn’t exactly making rational decisions.

  I saw him walking down his parents’ driveway, apparently just returning home, swaying slightly. When he saw me get out of my car he took the trail that led to the small swimming cove we used to have. I followed.

  “Bensen!” I yelled after him, completely clueless as to what I would say to him had he actually stopped.

  He didn’t reply so I followed him to the edge of the water where he was standing. “Listen, asshole.” Drunk me was feisty, always had been. “How can you say shit like that?”

  The sun had set; just past the dock you could see the boats lining up and smoke bellowing as the party started just past the clearing. Ivey, Wyatt, and a bunch of our other friends all made their way onto the houseboat. Country music drowned out the party not more than twenty feet from us, but it was him I saw. Only him.

  I thought, hoped, that my feelings would have changed. But they hadn’t, and in that moment I realized they probably never would. Drunk or not, they’d remain.

  The thing was, I wanted to see him again as much as I never wanted to. If that made sense. I didn’t know what I’d find or how he would react to me. Now that I finally knew, I had to remind myself that I had put the pen down for a reason.

  In all honesty, I wasn’t sure I ever thought I would see him again. And while we were being honest, I certainly never wanted to after hearing him say he didn’t remember me. How could he not remember me?

  But part of me, the part that was still holding on to those eyes and that smart-mouthed Southern drawl, that part was waiting for him to at least acknowledge me and tell me everything that happened wasn’t my imagination.

  I’d gone over it in my head—what I would say to him, the words, the expression, the tone—all of it. This, right now, wasn’t how I saw it happening. Neither was having the journal with me. A piece of me that I said I would never share.

  Barefoot, covered in thick Georgia mud, another beer in hand, and scars on my heart wasn’t what I planned.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked, regretting the words immediately. His answer would dictate a lot. Standing there, staring at him, as I waited for his response, my legs felt wobbly while the rest of me was numb.

  After finishing that journal, I said I’d let this go. But … I couldn’t. The liquid courage in my hand made that obvious. And I was curious. Yeah, after four years, I was really fucking curious.

  I expected him to say something, anything, but there was only silence, the awkward kind before his eyes deceived him and he briefly looked at me.

  That expression, that one right there, wordlessly told me what I needed to hear. He remembered, but wouldn’t admit it, because who wanted to admit they purposely broke someone’s heart?

  “Do you remember me?” I asked again, my voice trembling.

  He crumbled me with that look, the only look I’d gotten since he came back.

  Bensen, though a complete asshole at times, didn’t want to remember. I could see that.

  “Why would it matter if I did?” he asked, his eyes on the lake, avoiding any reaction I might’ve had. Agitated and aware, he took that old worn baseball cap from his head and ran his fingers through his mop of golden brown hair before replacing it.

  But the thing was, all those years, all those summers of writing in that damn journal had led me here, remembering and regretting the things I move past.

  Just walk away Sophie. Just walk away.

  “Well,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, my journal, my life, my tears, and dreams clenched in my sweaty palm. My eyes drifted to his. He stared at my feet, wishing they’d move, wishing all of me would move away from him, but I couldn’t. Crossing his arms over his chest, his body tensed even more.

  Feeling the sudden panic rise, my hands and heart trembled as I decided what I would do next.

  I really, really needed to relax, but I was running on adrenaline. But that was it. I couldn’t hold my temper or my emotions back any longer. I was done. I’d had enough remembering and certainly enough regretting, so I did what I never planned to do. When I opened that leather notebook and started to write, I never intended for anyone to read it. Yes, I wrote it to him, but I could honestly say it wasn’t my intention to let him read it. Ever.

  Inside that book was a love, bound by gray-blue and sealed by the banks of the South Georgia water. It was pages and pages of nights I didn’t regret, its memories of legs on the dash while singing Marshall Tucker and his arm around my shoulder, swimming after the sun went down, begging for my innocence, and fighting for my honor. Everything was in that book.

  Unfortunately, my anger got the best of me. Searching for the moment, the lie I knew he’d been keeping, I wiped the tears from my heated cheeks and squared my shoulders. “Maybe this will matter to you,” I said, tossing the book at him.

  Now why the fuck did I go and do that?

  Not that I expected anything less given his behavior tonight, but the notebook fell at his feet, his eyes never moving as I walked past him.

  “Read that and tell me you don’t remember.” I didn’t turn around, nor could I. I had just handed him my heart, as if he didn’t already have it. Only now, nothing was hidden.

  Oh my God! What did I do? Go get it back! Run, go!

  I wanted a take-back right then. It was clearly one of those moments when I asked my brain, “What the fuck?” Sadly, I got no response.

  I hesitated walking back up the driveway, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t because if I did, I probably would have said more.

  And suddenly, before I knew it, I was living my life through the dirty pages of that journal, thirteen again and living for the summer. The sun glowing, the days long and hot, sticky and heavy—everything his memory was—beating down in rays so hot you couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure if he was reading it, but I knew those memories well, and it was as if I was opening that journal again for the first time.

  Who says you have to live for right now? What if you can have the greatest love of your life, but you have to relive the past to find it again? Who says going back to the beginning won’t make you happy right now?

  Why am I writing in this journal?

  To remember. For some reason, and believe me when I say that I’ve questioned my sanity on more than one occasion, I think that if I write down everything, every detail, that maybe I can remember why you left me. I just started college, and while this should be an exciting time for me, I’m stuck in the past.

  It seems weird, but the weirdest part for me is why I’m writing it to you, as opposed to about you?

  Have you ever written a letter to someone?

  You refer to whom you are writing as you, like you’re having a conversation with him or her.

  I feel like the only way I can truly remember what it is that I missed is if I am talking to you. I guess that’s how this started for me.

  Where it started was on Lake Lanier about forty-five minutes north of Atlanta at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A place I called home every summer.

  When I think about the South and living for the summer, I think about one boy.

  Bensen William Cole. You. You’re that boy.

  The name doesn’t mean much. It’s the boy behind the name that’s something else. Some might forget the name, maybe even the face, but they’d never truly forget someone like you, which is why I’m writing in this damn book.

  You curse, loudly at times. You have your dad’s quick temper, and your mom’s sharp tongue. You’re the worst of them both, but at the very least, the best of them, too. You’re his determin
ation and her compassion, warmth, and loving touch. But unfortunately, none of that feels as strong as the darker side that you show from time to time.

  You’re a mix of everyone around you. Having your mom’s eyes and your dad’s sloppy smile. You have your uncle Geoff’s sureness and your granddaddy’s temper.

  You’re Bensen William Cole, a boy who branded me with his love, and I remember the day I met you like it was yesterday.

  Everything tied into that first summer and the last. Freckled cheeks, sunburns, and one lake. Young, wild, and brave, I fell in love with the smart-mouthed boy I now can’t forget.

  I was afraid to let go and you wouldn’t let me.

  June 2003

  It was the summer of 2003 when I met you. Arnold Schwarzenegger was elected governor of California. As it turned out, apparently he could lift more than iron.

  Apple launched iTunes, and I downloaded at least five songs a day, which resulted in quite the collection by the time school let out for the summer. OutKast was my favorite group, and it was usually on repeat for me.

  The White Stripes came out with a new album and were competing heavily with for my number one favorite.

  Gas was $1.83 a gallon. Johnny Cash died—my dad was crushed. June Carter died—my mom was crushed. And Tampa Bay won the Super bowl—my dad was crushed once again.

  For the most part, I was your average thirteen-year-old kid. I had friends, had a few little boyfriends, had yet to be kissed, but knew enough to sometimes get myself in trouble.

  Everything that happened that year had nothing on the significance that summer held for me. Not once I met you.

  School had just gotten out, and my parents told us we’d be going to the lake house my aunt owned for the summer. My parents, struggling to keep their marriage alive, decided it’d be best for our family of seven to head up North. My dad, Kevin Kaden, owned a small family business that allowed him to work wherever during the summers. With the majority of the business being up in the Alpharetta and Atlanta area, we went there, as it was a short drive for them and a chance for us to have fun for the summer. With my oldest sister, Shanna, coming home for the summer after being away all year at college, it was clearly my dad’s attempt at bringing us closer together.