The End of Our Story

He nods. “Running my dad’s shop. I would’ve done it anyway, but now that—” He stares past us, at the ocean. “I want to keep an eye on my mom for a while, and she’ll be at the house, so—”


“Plus, you’ve always wanted to build boats,” I say.

“Right,” he says. He turns to me. “When are you supposed to leave for Miami?”

“Orientation is in August,” I say.

“August?” A shadow changes Wil’s face.

I scratch at the sand. I’ve been planning on Miami for months now. I’ve worked hard for four years, and I almost lost it all last summer. Now, next to Wil, I can’t imagine being without him. Losing him again. For the first time, the word stay flits across my consciousness, then zooms out of reach, piercing the folds of the bright sky.





BRIDGE


Summer, Senior Year


MAY brings sticky, slick-skinned days, each one reminding me that my hours with Wil are numbered. I know that I am leaving soon. I have to, no matter how much I’ll miss Wil. Miami is only six hours away. We’ve overcome wider distances than that.

At school, we’re careful. I feel Ana’s eyes on me—on us—throughout the day, and when we’re both at our lockers at the same time or when Wil loses his pencil and has to turn around to ask me for another, the space around us gets quiet.

We spend our afternoons relearning each other, sitting in our old booth at Nina’s and bribing Leonard to make iced coffee. Leonard says it’s a trend that will never last, but obliges, since we’re graduating this year and all. We are giddy with caffeine and almost summer and each other. I remember how much I love his different laughs, even the fake ones when he thinks my joke is lame. I’d forgotten how his eyes change color with the seasons.

At the start of our last week of classes, I’m hanging in the parking lot after school, fiddling with the radio dial, when Mom texts. Code S, which means she needs help at the resort. Depending on which one of us you ask, Code S either means Short-staffed (me) or Shitshow (Mom).

On my way. I hit SEND just as a set of knuckles collides with my passenger window.

“Wil!” I screech.

Sorry, he mouths. His grin is lopsided.

The passenger side window only rolls down successfully once every six months or so, and I don’t want to risk it. I lean across the console and pull at the handle so the door swings open.

“You scared me,” I accuse as he slides into the front seat.

“Still haven’t fixed that window yet?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” I let him meet me most of the way for a kiss and another and another.

“You headed home?” he asks into my neck. “Want to go to the beach?”

A shiver runs through me. “I wish. Mom needs my help at work.”

“Doing what?”

I twist the keys in the ignition. “Answering the phone maybe, or setting the tables at blu. I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“Count me in.”

I pull out of the lot and we drive the few blocks to the resort. We park in the staff lot and sneak another kiss before we duck into the lobby.

Mom is standing behind the front desk, with the phone lodged between her shoulder and ear. I like seeing my mother when she’s at work. She looks contained in her black knit dress and black pumps. Her red bob is smooth.

When Mom sees us, her eyebrows leap behind her bangs. She smiles and waves us over.

“You’re absolutely right, sir. That’s unacceptable.” Mom rolls her eyes as we approach the desk. “Listen, as long as I’m sending someone up, I hope you won’t mind a bottle of the Pinot you enjoyed so much at dinner last night? On us, of course. My pleasure.” She hangs up, flutters her lashes, and mouths, Asshole.

“Another pleasant day at the office?” I lean over the desk and blow her a kiss.

“That’s one way to put it.” She comes around the desk and pulls Wil in for a hug.

“Mom,” I say.

“Well!” she says, with a giant grin on her face. Apparently, my mother hasn’t gotten the memo from Wil’s mother that says now is not a good time for us.

“Here’s the deal,” she says, releasing Wil. “My best housekeeper called in sick, and she brings her sister to work, which means I’m short two.” She chews on her bottom lip. “You can have dinner at blu as a thank-you.”

“What’s the special tonight?” I half tease.

“Seared ahi tuna with roasted-garlic-and-wasabi mashed potatoes and a grilled heart of romaine salad,” she says. “What do you have at home?”

“Granola.” I roll my eyes. “We’re in.”

“Okay, then.” She tells us where to find the cleaning supplies and gives us both key cards. She has special instructions for each of the rooms we’re supposed to clean, the kinds of details that only she could remember. The Freemans don’t like the smell of lemon, so we have to dust room 301 with the lavender-scented spray. Mr. Kildaire likes to come home to a chilled bottle of champagne. The Eddys need an extra pillow for the annoying-as-hell Jack Russell they’re not supposed to keep here.

“Got it?” The phone rings again, and Mom waves us off.

We start with the ocean-view penthouse, where this young stockbroker hotshot named Mr. Kildaire lives three months out of the year. Wil drags the cleaning cart inside and I shut the door behind him. The place is a disaster: dirty laundry everywhere; ties slung over the back of the leather armchair, and a skimpy red thong that Wil lifts from the pillow with the handle of the toilet plunger.

“Ten bucks say it’s his.” He grins.

“Nah. Bet it belongs to the . . . girlfriend? Mistress?” I unwind a pair of fishnet stockings from around an empty champagne bottle. “Wife?”

“Uh, I’m going with girlfriend or mistress.” Wil catapults the thong in my direction, and I bat it away with the bottle. “Wives wear ratty flannel bathrobes.”

“According to who?”

“My mom’s laundry basket.” Wil laughs. “I guess your mom’s too young to wear that kind of stuff?”

I scoop a pair of high heels from under the bed and line them up next to the dresser. “My mom’s never been a wife, so—”

“Oh.” I pretend not to notice that Wil’s face is red. “Well. It’s probably not all it’s cracked up to be, if you ask my mom.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Wil’s muscles look taut as he picks up a bucket of cleaning supplies. I strip the sheets and make the bed while Wil tackles the bathroom. Every now and then he yells, “Gross!” and I yell, “What?!” and he yells, “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Eventually, he emerges, red-faced, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, holding a stuffed clear trash bag.

“This guy,” he says, with a look that somehow contains disdain and admiration.

“You’re right. Definitely don’t want to know.” I turn my back to him, spritzing window cleaner on the balcony doors.

Behind me, Wil hums cheesy porn music until I’m laughing so hard I brace myself against the glass door and have to clean it all over again.

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