The End of Our Story

“Eleanor and Alastair!” I shriek. “Ten minutes.”


Eleanor and Alastair was a game we made up when I was in fourth grade and Micah was in first, and we’d just moved to the beach from Alabama. Mom had just started the job at the resort, and her boss said that we could use the pool and go to the snack bar now and then if we didn’t bother the real guests. Everything was so rich there: creamy marble and frozen lemonades so cold they made your brain burn and towels a person could lose herself in. And then there was Micah and me, pinching our toes over the edge of the infinity pool, awkward and out of place in our pilled swimsuits and our new Florida sunburns. So we pretended that we belonged with the kids on vacation. We decided to come up with names for ourselves, the fanciest names we could think of. I came up with Eleanor. Micah picked Alastair, and I still have no idea where he got that name. Eleanor and Alastair swam all day long, like they owned the world. They drank as many frozen lemonades as they wanted, and they never felt out of place. Eleanor and Alastair belonged everywhere.

The lobby at the resort is one of my favorite spots in the whole resort, second only to the pool. The floor is made of miles of white marble streaked with gray, and there are orchids on nearly every surface. At the front desk, Mom is giving a tight smile to a blowhard in a suit and Birkenstocks.

“It’s not a difficult question,” he says through his nose. “How is it possible to pay these outrageous rates and not have access to an in-room masseuse?” He draws his question out slowly, like she doesn’t speak English.

I elbow Micah in the gut when he tries to make Mom laugh by crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

“I just don’t have an answer for you sir.” Mom sighs. “But I’d be happy to suggest the gentleman’s club about a mile down Atlantic.”

The guy gives up and stalks off.

“No in-room masseuse?” I gasp. “How is it possible?”

“Because we’re not a whorehouse, jackass,” my mom says, her voice low. Then her brow furrows. “You guys okay? You didn’t burn down the house or anything, did you?”

Micah tries on his perfect little angel voice. “It’s just been a while since we stopped by to tell our mother what a beautiful, caring—”

“Eleanor and Alastair?” Mom holds up a finger and answers the phone.

Micah and I give her a wave and skate through the all-white, marble-floored lobby on foam flip-flops. The pool is just on the other side of the glass walls: a saltwater infinity pool that spans the length of the hotel and looks over the ocean. The pool area is almost empty. We sling our bags on the good lounge chairs, the ones with the best view of the ocean and the umbrellas, and I peel off my cover-up and take a running leap. Micah is airborne behind me. If I could freeze us here, I would.

The water is refreshing and the crisp blue moves through me. I dive all the way down, run my fingers over the beautiful blue-glass tiles at the bottom. I torpedo to the surface and catch Micah doing a somersault in the deep end.

“Alastair, darling, is this not simply the most divine resort you’ve ever been to? Including that peach of a place in St. Tropez?”

“Magnificent, Eleanor.” Micah tips his nose to the sky. “Although I must say, the European girls do know how to party.”

“Yes, well, no need for details, Alistair.”

We swim until we’re wrinkled, and then I order frozen lemonades while Micah sets up our towels. The lemonade is fresh and blended with vanilla ice cream. I take a too-long sip, and my tongue shrinks at the taste of sour.

When we’re staring at the water, Micah says: “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

He squints at the water. “I wanted to say sorry? For the whole thing with Emilie the other day. We shouldn’t have—I’m just sorry.”

“Look at you, with your mature apologies.” I grin.

“I’m serious, Bridge. That was a douchebag move.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then: “I don’t know if we’re together, still, actually.”

I tread carefully. “What do you mean?”

“I heard this rumor about Emilie Simpson.”

“What kind of rumor?”

“I heard she was hanging out with some college guy. With a scorpion tattoo.” He blinks pool water out of his eyes. “You haven’t heard anything like that, have you?”

I shake my head. “Just because people are saying it doesn’t make it true.”

“Doesn’t make it a lie, either.” His jaw pulses.

“That’s also true,” I concede.

He sighs and shrinks into the chair. Crosses his arms over his chest as if he just squeezes hard enough, he can keep her out of his heart. “It’s not like we said we were exclusive or anything. Maybe she’s been looking for someone better this whole time.”

My heart shrinks. “Micah.”

“I like her,” he blurts. “I know you don’t think she’s that great, but she’s really funny, Bridge. She is. You’d get it if you got to know her. And I’m, like—”

“You’re, like, this awesome guy,” I insist, sitting up.

His face is splotchy with red. “My dad left for someone better than us. Your dad, too, probably.”

“That has nothing to do with us,” I say fiercely. “And if Emilie Simpson is hanging out with a college guy, that’s on her. That’s not on you.”

“Yeah.” He flips onto his back and stares up at the sky. “Maybe I’ll text her later and if she texts back right away—”

I groan. “You are so. Fifteen.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey. Micah.” I sit up. I wait until I know he sees me, until we’re so still that I can see the tiniest flecks of light buzzing in his eyes. “You. Deserve. Good things.”

He looks at me, and he is thirsty to believe it. But then his eyes glaze over and he says he’s tired. We’re too old for games like this, he says, and we should just go home. I get it. It’s easier that way. But he’s breaking my heart in a whole new way.





BRIDGE


Spring, Senior Year


MICAH heads home after we swim. I decide to shower at the resort, under a gushing waterfall faucet, because resort water feels like velvet. The shower is tiled with mother of pearl, and the shampoo here makes my scalp tingle. I watch shampoo lather circle the drain and disappear. Then I wrap myself in a fluffy resort robe and blow-dry my hair. I change into a fresh pair of jeans and a tank top, and I slip on the MAMA P’S cap. Wearing it makes me feel closer to Wil.

In the lobby, I pilfer sea salt caramel chocolates at the front desk.

“What are your dinner plans?” Mom murmurs, scanning her computer screen. “I think there’s some cash in my purse, if you guys want pizza.”

Meg Haston's books