The Book of Summer

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers, and scoots an inch closer.

There’s not enough room for both but Bess doesn’t mind. The squished-arm, aching-shoulder position is small sacrifice for the comfort of having Evan close. Also she’s high on Vicodin, so there’s that.

“I’m not going to tell you that there will be another baby,” Evan says. “That you’re young and there’s plenty of time. It’d just be insulting.”

“Yes it would be insulting. Because I’m not young.”

He tries to smile but is so uncomfortable he merely looks pissed off.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Physically, I feel okay. Emotionally, not so much.” Bess exhales. Her insides ache. “Despite what I said, this isn’t what I wanted.”

“I know.”

“But. It happened. I have to remind myself it’s what’s best for the baby. I mean … it would’ve been some kind of crap family he or she would’ve come into. Asshole father. A crackers grandmother who won’t get off her lawn chair. And let’s not get started on the mom.”

“Bess, don’t talk like that. Let yourself be sad. Don’t explain it away or try any of that ‘everything happens for a reason’ crap. You would’ve and you will make a fantastic mother.”

“My life is not exactly stable.”

“No one’s life is stable when they have a kid,” Evan says. “That’s why new parents look like shit.”

Bess offers a close-mouthed chuckle and shuts her eyes.

“In that case, it would’ve been easier for me than most,” Bess says. “To adjust. I’m already a sleep-deprived, stressed-out mess.”

“There’s the spirit.”

Evan squeezes her hand. He doesn’t agree, but all that’s left to say is the wrong thing.

“Oh!” he says suddenly, using his free hand to grab his phone from the fake wood table beside him. “This might cheer you up.”

He wiggles his other hand from her clutches and begins swiping through the pictures.

“God, please don’t spring any nostalgia on me,” Bess moans. “I can’t take it. Homesickness is a disease that runs in my family and on top of everything else I’m positively infected with it.”

“I know what you mean,” Evan says with a snort. “And no. This has nothing to do with you. This is pure humor. Here.”

He moves the phone closer to Bess, so she can see the screen.

“I had a friend take pictures for me during the lacrosse tournament. Thought it might be fun to put something together for the boys. What I found was solid evidence as to why we lost so spectacularly. I am apparently the world’s worst coach. Look…”

He ticks over to a shot of a boy splayed facedown on the grass.

“He fell,” Bess says. “How sad.”

“You’ll note there’s exactly nothing happening anywhere in his vicinity. What’s the problem, Jaden? Slippery grass? Stiff breeze?” Evan scrolls through a few more. “This kid’s stick cracked in half, but I didn’t even notice until the end of the game. He just ran around with it broken like that. Oh and check out this clown.”

“Is he doing a somersault?” Bess asks.

“Yes. If you’re not familiar with the sport, that is not a recognized move. And here’s a series I like to call, ‘Where Am I, and What the Fuck Am I Supposed to Be Doing?’”

“Why is everyone facing a different direction?”

“Because they can’t find the ball! Ugh!”

Evan throws his head back. It clangs against the hospital headboard. Bess can’t help but laugh.

“Okay,” she says. “I do feel a little better. At least I’m not the only inept person around here.”

“Can you be fired from a voluntary coaching position, I wonder?”

He swipes past several more.

“Wait!” Bess yelps, though she doesn’t mean to.

She wants Evan to stop, but not for any reason Bess can admit. But stop he has, on what is a selfie, as indicated by arm position. This photo is a close-up of a lacrosse kid and her, the woman from the market. She’s in her same hat.

“Who’s that?” Bess asks, despite her better judgment.

“That kid? Oh, his name’s Jack. He’s my favorite, even though he can be a little shit. Maybe because he’s a little shit? And that’s his mom Grace. Cool lady. She’s the one who took the pictures for me. I should introduce you guys. You’d get along great.”

“Fabulous.”

Bess exhales and tries not to cry. Grace and Jack and Evan. How perfectly cute. The asshole will probably make the world’s best stepdad.

She’s about to say something to that effect when the door pops open. And wouldn’t you know, Hurricane Cissy has left her veranda and is now making landfall inside Nantucket Cottage Hospital.

“Well, Elisabeth, that was some elaborate plan to get me out of the house,” she says.

“You came.”

“Of course I came. Hello, Evan. Don’t you think that bed should be reserved for the patient?”

Cissy has on a white cable-knit sweater, no hat. Her hair is a tumbleweed. Bess wonders about the gingham tankini. She presumes it’s still on.

“You know what?” Evan says, and stands. “Why don’t I leave you two alone?”

“If you want to be useful, do me a huge favor and fetch Bess’s dad from the airport. She was supposed to, but…”

Cissy gestures dismissively toward the inconvenience that is her debilitated daughter.

“Cissy!” Bess barks. “Good grief. The guy has a life. I’m sure he has things to do!”

With Grace. Or Jack. Or both of them together.

“No, it’s fine,” Evan says. “I was already planning on it.”

Evan kisses Bess on the head, his favorite move these days. It’s sweet and egregiously friend-like—just how he prefers it, no doubt. Cissy opens her mouth to say something but Bess shoots her a look. Amazingly, Cissy backs down.

“I’ll check in with you later,” Evan says, slipping into his shoes. “See how you’re doing. Bye, Cis, take care of our girl.”

The second Evan exits the room, Cissy plunks herself down onto Bess’s bed and begins to weep.

“Mother, you can’t…”

“How come you didn’t tell me?” she asks, voice quavering. “That you were pregnant? Bessie, I would’ve helped you in whatever way you needed.”

“You couldn’t help me out of this.”

“But I can’t imagine why you’d hide it from your—”

“I wasn’t going to keep the baby,” Bess spits out.

Cissy’s face goes ashen, even as she clamps down on her bottom lip, trying to bite back the words she wants to say. Caroline Codman is a registered Democrat, politically obligated to be okay with this sort of thing.

“But, you changed your mind,” she says, hoping.

“Not technically. I had an appointment that I missed. I kept telling myself I’d reschedule but I probably wouldn’t have, to be honest. As it turns out, I very much want what I thought I did not.”

As this strange, hard truth bludgeons her, Bess joins Cissy in her tears. Maybe the Vicodin isn’t working after all.

“Oh, Bessie…”

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