Second Chance Summer

by Morgan Matson

She gave me a long look, and as I took in the rest of the three of them standing closer together, I realized that they were probably going to be making plans to hang out. Plans that I, without question, wasn’t a part of.

“So,” Nora said, grudgingly, when we’d taken a few steps away. Gelsey turned back, crossing her arms in an identical manner. “Do you like the beach?” “I guess so,” Gelsey said, with a shrug. “My sister works there,” she said, a note of unmistakable pride in her voice that surprised me. Nora glanced over at me, unimpressed, then back to Gelsey. “Want to go over there?” she asked. “I’m totally bored.”

have—” But I lost whatever I was going to say next, because that’s when Henry took off his shirt. Dear God. I swallowed hard and looked away but then, remembering my sunglasses perched on top of my head, I lowered them as casually as possible so that I could look at him and not have it be totally obvious that I was staring. And I don’t know if Henry had been lifting sacks of sugar or flour at the bakery, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms were muscular, and his stomach muscles were defined…. It suddenly seemed much warmer on the dock than it had just a moment before, and when Henry nodded at me before diving into the water, I tried to wave back casually.

“Just to clarify,” Lucy said, her voice serious. “Remind me. What’s first base again?” “Holding hands,” said Nora and Gelsey in unison, and I could feel myself relax, hugely relieved that my sister hadn’t turned into some kind of sixth-grade hussy.

Nora may have picked up on this, because she shot Lucy a withering look. “You know, holding hands is a really big deal,” she said, and Gelsey nodded. “It means something. And you don’t hold hands with just anybody. You only do it with someone you really care about.” Nora and Gelsey continued on about the importance of hand holding, but I tuned them out when I thought I heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

Though he’d never said anything, I got the feeling that Elliot wasn’t thrilled that Lucy and I were friends again. Not that he was happier when it had been drama-and-tension-filled—he actually told us that he was glad, since before that, working with the two of us had been like being stuck in some terrible reality show in which the main characters, who hate each other, are nonetheless forced to interact.

“You need to stop tormenting the dog,” I told Warren as I forcibly removed the ketchup from his hands and stuck it back in the fridge. “You’re going to give him some kind of skin rash or something. I don’t think dogs are supposed to be washed this often.” “Want me to tell you about the dog that crossed over three thousand miles to get back to its family?” Warren asked, clearly choosing to change the subject, rather than own up to the fact that he’d been attempting to douse the dog with ketchup.

she hadn’t even needed a photo reminder, which was a good thing, since the only picture of him that I had on my phone was a terrible one I’d taken while he was in the midst of telling me how potato chips were invented. I’d taken the picture to try and get him to stop talking and the result was Warren looking both annoyed and out of focus.

“Well,” my father said after a pause, in which I noticed that the corners of his mouth were twitching violently. “I think that sounds fine. Come by anytime, and I’m sure that the dog will be happy to be walked.” Davy’s face broke into a smile. “Really?” he asked. “Thank you so much!”

The cards flew everywhere as Elliot lost control of the deck. Red-faced, he bent to pick them up as Lucy rolled her eyes.

his fingers, tracing a line down my neck, the spot he’d found just underneath my earlobe that I hadn’t ever considered before, but that now could make my knees weak.

He leaned down and kissed me, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him back. “Ugh.” We broke apart, and I turned to see Davy standing a few feet in front of us, Murphy at his feet. Davy made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

She leaned closer, examining her new self closely. “What do you think?” she asked. “Do I look like you?” I stared at her. She had wanted to look like me? I blinked, then smoothed down the back of her hair.

As I listened to his breathing, my heart starting to pound whenever there was a pause, a break in the rhythm, I realized that this was what he had done for me, years ago, when I was a baby.

But I picked up my dad’s hand where it was hanging over the wheel and took it in mine. It was too bony, but it was still huge, engulfing my own. The hand that had taught me to tie my shoes and hold a pencil correctly and had held mine carefully when we were crossing the street, making sure to keep me safe.

But I noticed that as my grandfather went up, his posture so straight in his uniform, he put into the casket the figure he’d been whittling all week—a tiny carved robin, taking flight.