This Summer Will Be Different

by Carley Fortune

Bridget spent the entire ride back from North Cape texting with Miles while Felix shot glances at me in the mirror and Zach attempted to crack the tension by explaining the power dynamics of his fantasy basketball league. I’m tired of all three of them. I want out of this truck. I want off this island.

Without asking, Felix opens a couple of ketchup packets and squirts them on my fries. It’s how I like to eat them—uneven dollops of red sauce, some bites sweeter than others. These details we’ve stored about each other. I press my lips to his when he’s done. “Thank you.” “For the ketchup?” “For the ketchup.”

“I think island regulations stipulate you have to spend at least three winters on PEI before you can claim that title.” Felix smiles. “Five, actually. I like oysters, but they’re not my favorite.” I jerk my head back, eyes wide. “Excuse me? I don’t think you’re allowed to talk like that. They might not let you compete next year.” “I prefer my seafood cooked. I’m more of a fish and chips guy.” “I find this highly offensive, borderline scandalous. No wonder it’s taken you so long to come clean.”

“That’s my favorite color.” “Mine, too,” he says. “Pink like your suitcase. Pink like your lips. Pink like that striped dress with the buttons and the buckles on your sandals. Pink like the ribbon on your nightgown. Lucy pink.” I don’t even think he’s joking. “Lucy pink. You’re…” I shake my head. “You like me.” “I do.”

“When I turned six, I announced that it was my favorite number, and my dad said when I turned seven, seven would be my favorite number. I decided right then that I’d never let go of six.” “So committed. Mine is thirteen. I feel the need to show it love.” “Very generous. Very Lucy.” “Middle name?” “Edgar.” “Felix Edgar Clark,” I repeat. “I can work with that.” “And yours?” “Beth. Not as exciting as Edgar.” “Lucy Beth Ashby.” He cocks a brow. “Sounds very exciting.”

I tilt my head to the side as his lips find my chest. “I think I need to go slow,” I say. And I definitely need to tell Bridget. “I’m not good at this. I’m not good at more.” Felix lifts his head, bringing his eyes to mine. Steady. “I am.”

“What’s with you and the blankets?” “Ugh. They’re just the best. The wool is so soft. The color.” This one is a lemony yellow. “I love how they smell like this place.” “They’re made on the island,” he says, pointing to the tag at the edge of the blanket. macausland’s woollen mills. “Up in Bloomfield. I can take you there tomorrow if you want.” “Yes. Really?” “Sure. I’ve never seen someone so excited by a blanket.”

“I’m making bacon and French toast,” he says. “Of course you are.” He smiles. “Meaning?” “Meaning French toast is my favorite.” “I know.” “Meaning you’re perfect.” “I’m really not.”

“I’m not always great at handling my emotions. Sometimes I get overwhelmed, and it seems easier to shut them out, pretend like what I’m feeling isn’t there.” He pauses. “And I’m not a big fan of risks.” “What kind of risks?” “Any. All. I’ve been burned in the past, which you know. I rebuilt my life once. I can’t rebuild it again. I make sure I get things right the first time. Going slow is good for me, too.”

“I’ll come to Toronto for the wedding. We’ll have four nights together. You’ve spent a lot of time in my world; I want to spend more in yours.” “You do? You hate the city.” “I don’t hate it,” he says. “I want you to show me your apartment. I want to know where you keep the seeds I sent.” “They’re in a glass box on my desk in your sister’s old room.” “I want to see the box on your desk. I want to watch you arrange flowers and then go to the wine bar. Instead of saying goodbye at the end of the night, we’ll go back to your place and wake up together in the morning. I want to see what type of coffee maker you have.”

He looks surprised. “Don’t you know? Christine Clark is the president of your fan club.” I kiss his ear. “Mmm. I think maybe I did know that. She sent me a knife once.” It arrived after my first visit. An enormous Henckel. Use it, her card read. I found it odd since Bridget already owned one, but I guess Christine knew we wouldn’t be roommates forever.

“I know,” he says. “Have you ever taken it out of its case?” “Never.” He laughs. “I think she decorated that guest room especially for you.” “No.” “Just a hunch.” “My parents aren’t like yours. They might not be so excited.” Bridget’s brother, long distance…“They’ll have doubts.” “I’ll comb my hair when I meet them.”

I think of the way Felix glared at the letter Bridget left yesterday. “Your brother knows, doesn’t he? Is that what you were arguing about the other night?” She nods. “He wouldn’t leave me alone until I told him. Wolf can be pretty headstrong. And he was pissed that I was keeping it from you.”

Her nose scrunches. “Why would I hate you?” “You told me not to get involved with him.” “I told you not to fall in love with him. Wait, are you in love with Wolf?” “I like him a lot. More than anyone. In a way that scares me, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll send you my therapy bill.”

“Yes, Miles knows. I assume Zach knows since he and Wolf don’t keep secrets. My grandparents definitely know—Grandma was the one who first mentioned to my parents that she thought you were more than friends. And I’d put money on my mother redecorating Wolf’s old room specifically with you in mind. Christine Clark doesn’t do girly, at least she didn’t used to. This entire family has been secretly shipping the two of you for years.”

“Well, I would very much appreciate if you don’t break my brother’s heart and then ignore me in the aftermath.” She says this deadpan, but there’s a small smile on her face. “But what if it doesn’t work? If I fuck it up, I’ll lose you both. You’ll hate me.” She scoffs. “If you fuck it up, then I’ll love you. It’s Wolf who needs to watch out.”

“He’ll steady you, and you’ll pull him out of his shell. He’s always more talkative when you’re around, and you’ll both take care of each other. I think it could work.” Bridget falls silent again, then shakes her head. “Wow. You and my brother, huh?” “Yes,” I say. “Me and your brother.”

But then I spot Felix. He’s on the deck with Miles, and I can tell when he notices us. His body goes still. And then it goes fast. He races toward us, and as he gets closer and our eyes meet, I know it’s only me he sees. It stops me in my tracks. “Whoa,” Bridget says. “Whoa,” I agree. When Felix reaches me, he picks me up, clean off the ground, hugging me tight. I wrap my legs around his waist and press my face into his skin, the bronzed curve where his shoulder meets his neck. Salt and sun and wind and trees. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says. His voice vibrates through me, and I grip him tighter. “It wasn’t my news to share.”

“I know. I’m not angry.” I can feel the tension leave his body. “Are you okay?” “No.” I smoosh as much of me into as much of him as I possibly can. Forehead. Cheek. Eyelid. Nose. Lips. “I feel like my heart has been torn from my chest, but if I can stay right here in the crook of your neck, it would help.”

“Wolf, what did I tell you about flirting with my friends?” He raises a brow. “I hope you’re not expecting an apology.” “Be careful,” she tells him. “I know where you live.”

“How are you really?” Felix asks as we walk to the house. His arm is wrapped around my waist, keeping me close to his side. “Devastated. But I’m not sure I can talk about it without breaking down again.” Even at that, my voice catches. “I’m sort of panicking.” “Don’t panic,” he says. “Nothing good comes from panicking.” “I know,” I tell him.

Having Felix in my bedroom is magic. A new first. I show him how to use my coffee maker, and he fixes me a pot while I shower. Finding him in my kitchen, blowing into his cup of tea, is surreal. My apartment will never be the same. From now on, I will always picture Felix Clark drinking Earl Grey in this kitchen.

I stare directly at her because I don’t want to miss a thing, but I can feel Felix’s gaze. I know if I look, I’ll see the dimple. He hasn’t stopped smiling all day. When Bridget joins Miles at the altar, my eyes slide to Felix. “Hey,” he mouths. “Hi,” I mouth back. “You look hot.” “You too.” Felix in a tux is criminal. He nods his head at the archway. “Also hot.” I know it is. But I love that Felix thinks so, too.

“I know you,” he says. “We’ve met before.” “But never like this.” “That suit should be illegal,” I say when we’re halfway down the aisle.

“The first time I met Bridget Clark, she gave me a ride home on her handlebars.” I sound shaky, so I take a deep breath. “In many ways, she’s carried me since that night seven years ago.”

“Miles, take good care of her,” I finish. “There’s no one more precious to me.” I turn to my best friend, her cheeks streaked with tears. “You are the love of my life, Bridget.”

“I’m relishing you,” I tell Felix, tipsy, as we make out in the stairwell. I’m addicted to how he tastes. Salt and Tic Tacs. He laughs into my mouth. “Relishing?” “Yes, and I don’t think I’ve ever relished anyone before. But I relish you, Felix Edgar Clark.” Felix takes my head in his hands. “I relish you, too, Lucy Beth Ashby.”

“No, I think I might be having an epiphany. I signed the restaurant contract, but I don’t even know if I really wanted to. I don’t know what I’m doing. I need to figure out what I want my life to be so I can live it fully.”

“It’s not just that, Felix. It’s you. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be without you.” “I want that, too.” His hand finds my cheek. “I want you in my home, in my bed. I want us to have our own full days and come back and talk about them together. But I can’t start this unless you’re certain about us.”

“I can’t be your escape route.” He pauses, letting this sink in. “I don’t want to be a stop along your journey. I want to be the destination.” “You’re scared.” “Lucy, I am terrified. The way I feel about you…” His eyes are fixed on mine, pleading for me to understand. “You could break me so easily.”

“We can’t do this now,” I say. I know he’s right. I can’t run away from my life—I owe that to myself, but I owe it to him, too. When the tears come, Felix bundles me against his chest. I try to soak up the smell of him, imprint it on my soul. “Lucy.” His voice is thick. “There’s a reason we keep coming back to each other. We can come back to each other again.” I burrow farther into his warmth. “What if we don’t?” “I think we will.”

“But if we don’t, then we know it wasn’t meant to be.” “I don’t like that,” I tell him. “I’m mad at you,” I say with no heat. “I know.”

“Can I tell you something?” “Anything.” “It’s going to sound corny, but I feel like I should say it in case I don’t get another chance.” “I’m a big fan of corny,” Felix says, voice rough. “I’ve always thought what you did was impressive—the way you started over.

And the cottages are incredible—I don’t know if I expressed that last year. I’ve always found it inspiring.” Felix tries to smile. “That’s funny,” he says. “I’ve always thought what you did was impressive. You left your job, defied your parents, carved your own path. Corny or not, I think you’re inspiring.”

But Felix captures my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “I relish you, Lucy Beth Ashby.” He doesn’t say goodbye, either.

“Maybe that’s what it is. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I do think I need some time. I can’t go on the way I have been—I don’t want to dread going into work. I don’t want to lie in a puddle of my own tears when you go to Australia because I have no other friends to spend time with. Part of me still wants to get on a plane to the island and never come back, but I know that would only make things worse. For me, and for Felix. I really like him, Bridget.”

Bridget hums. “It’s not a bad plan, you know? To take some time to think about yourself—what you want, what you need—that can only be a good thing. I approve. And if it makes you feel better,” Bridget says, “my mom gave Wolf an earful when he told us what happened. Apparently she doesn’t believe in ‘breathers.’ And you know what Christine Clark is like when she’s salty.” That does make me feel better. “How many horse shits?” “All of them,” Bridget says. “I think she ran out.”

Once we arrive, I load her luggage onto a cart and lift her suitcases onto the baggage scale, because Bridget is six weeks pregnant. I walk with her to the security gate. I stay with her until the very last moment. And then I hug her until we’re both crying in the middle of the terminal and an elderly woman passes us each a tissue. I tell Bridget she’s my best friend. I tell her that I’ll miss her. I tell Bridget that I love her more than anyone. And then I let go.

“You seem surprisingly stable considering Bridget just left,” Farah says the day after I take Bridget to the airport. “I’m never stable enough for you to quit, if that’s where this is headed.”

I don’t write a note. I mail the seeds to Prince Edward Island the following day. The next week, a yellow package arrives to the flower shop. It’s heavier than the ones Felix used to send, but it’s his handwriting on the label. I recognize it from in the margins of his books. I’ve seen it on ten other envelopes. I pull out a copy of The Secret Garden. He hasn’t written a letter, either. I stare at the book, smiling, and then I reach for my phone. I love it.

Yours doesn’t have to be a secret. I laugh. I told Bridget about the farm before she left. She was looking at properties online before I finished speaking. Classic.

Felix: The internet tells me they make good cut flowers. Me: The internet knows all. Felix: How are you? I think about it for a minute. Me: I think I’m good. I miss Bridget terribly.

Me: Can you believe you’re going to be an uncle? Felix: Can you believe you’re going to be an aunt? Me: Yes! I was born for aunthood. Felix: You had a good role model. Me: The best.

It’s only a few days before another book arrives. The Language of Flowers. Subtle, I write to him. I don’t hear back until I’m at home in the evening. I like to keep you guessing.

Can I call you? My heart races at a speed only Felix makes it race. “I’m not really a fan of texting,” he says when I answer. “Are you a fan of talking on the phone?” “I’m a fan of listening to your voice.” I smile. “Can you tell when you’re flirting, or is it so ingrained that you don’t notice?” His laugh—soft, short—fills my ears, my lungs, my heart. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“Trying to figure out how I can turn two apples, a carrot, and a jar of mustard into dinner.” “Do you have a pork chop?” “Afraid not.” “Then I can’t help you.” He pauses. “We should cook dinner together another time. I can walk you through making something.” “You’d be walking me through burning something,” I say, though I love this idea. “But I’m game if you are.” I send Felix carrot seeds next, and he sends me back a cookbook of recipes from PEI called Canada’s Food Island.

“What about a vegetable garden?” he asks. I have him on FaceTime, propped on the counter. “I hadn’t thought of that.” “It might be nice to grow your own food. I know where you can get some carrot seeds.” Nothing gets burned, and we eat our dinner with beer and tortilla chips. Even though it’s not a date, it’s the best date of my life.

I’ve been doing well on my own, thriving in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. Though sometimes I miss Felix with such force, I need to place a hand on the wall to keep steady. It sneaks up on me in the dairy aisle of the grocery store when I’m picking out butter. It slams into me when I’m making coffee, knocks me about when I’m braiding my hair before bed. But I take strange comfort in these waves of heartache. They’re like annotations in a book, a note in the margin that reads, This is important.

Gorgeous spot. Goes right to the water.” “You have Zach scoping out property for me? In PEI?” “I have, and it’s a good one.”