Read Online Boys of Summer by Jessica Brody - Free Book Online Page A

detergent in the hot tub, and the next day this entire area was overrun with soap bubbles?”
    Mike smiles but doesn’t laugh. “Yeah. That was funny.”
    I prod him with my cup. “And remember that time Whitney had a slumber party and we replaced all the Oreo cookie filling with toothpaste?” I let out a loud guffaw and then cringe at how fake it sounds.
    He chuckles halfheartedly. “Another classic.”
    I blow out a breath. God, trying to make conversation with Mike is like trying to make conversation with a turtle who refuses to come out of its shell. I wonder if my attempts sound as desperate aloud as they do in my head. I don’t know how many more rambunctious stories of our childhood I can rehash before I just run out.
    Why is it so awkward? Between all of us? It used to be so easy. We didn’t have to reminiscence about old memories, because we were too busy making new ones.
    I know Ian’s dealing with some pretty heavy shit with his dad passing away and everything. I’ve been trying to get him to talk about it all week. I’ve asked him repeatedly how he’s doing, hoping he’ll open up and tell me what’s on his mind. But he always just mumbles a one-word answer and then disappears into the guest room. So I’ve pretty much given up.
    I want so badly to forget about all this crap in our lives and just have a good summer. A last summer. Before we each ship off to our real lives. Before Mike moves to New York with Harper (if they’re even back together by then). Before Ian goes off and becomes some hotshot moody solo artist. Before I start Vanderbilt in the fall as their starting quarterback.
    Yeah, right.
    I can barely even hold a beer in my right hand, let alone throw a perfect spiral. My future feels so derailed, it would take a miracle to get it back on track.
    My dad tried to bring it up yesterday, while Ian was locked in the guest room, strumming the world’s most depressing chord progression, and my sister was off traipsing around the island doing God knows what with God knows who.
    The Cartwrights. If we’re not known for our abundance of cash, we’re known for other abundances.
    â€œHey, you wanna toss a few on the beach?” my dad asked. He had already fished the football out of the shed and was passing it back and forth from hand to hand. He threw it to me across the kitchen. It was a perfect throw. It sailed over the island, spiraling beautifully through the air. Apparently my dad still has it, even if I don’t.
    I tried to catch it left-handed, afraid if I used my other arm, I wouldn’t be able to hide the pain. It was ugly. Itfumbled through my useless fingers. I curled my chest around it, but it simply bounced off and knocked right into the spice rack, sending bottles of paprika, curry powder, and cumin crashing to the counter.
    It still smells like an Indian restaurant in there.
    I tried to pass it off with a laugh, but the suspicion on my dad’s face was unmistakable.
    â€œLooks like you could use some practice.” He tried for a joke. It failed.
    â€œMaybe later,” I said, attempting to sound casual as I opened the fridge. I took out a carton of eggs, milk, and every vegetable I could find. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it all—make the world’s most loaded omelet?—but I needed somewhere to point my gaze. I needed something to do with my hands.
    Thankfully, my dad did what we Cartwrights do best: he avoided the issue altogether. He placed the football down on the counter and walked out of the room. After his footsteps retreated, I closed the fridge and stared at the ball.
    It said more just by sitting there than my dad ever could.
    Thankfully, he got called back to the mainland for some business and left this morning.
    I down the rest of my beer and crush the cup. “Want another?” I ask Mike.
    He seems distracted by something—thinking about Harper, no