SUMMER'S END: Regan Stone Series: Book One Read online

  “But that isn't what you love. Remember when you're working on your tech stuff, and, all of a sudden, you look at the clock and it's two in the morning,” I pause, hoping he grasps my support. “You know that's what you should do. And it's the same thing for you, Tobi. You want to make a difference in human lives—”

  “Look, Regan,” Lane interrupts. “This is reality. There comes a time when we have to put childish ways behind us.”

  “How can doing what you love be childish?” I ask him and everyone else.

  “It's not that easy,” Lane snaps. “Not everybody is as stubborn as you.”

  Okay, that tipped the scales. Lane just launched a personal assault.

  “Maybe we're okay with the second choice.” His voice a bit softer now. They all respond in agreement.

  “You shouldn't settle. It's still your choice. Don't listen to the small-minded SOB's in this town who tell you your dreams don't matter. It's your life. Are you really willing to give into second best, third choice, or even something you don't want at all because you aren't willing to stick up for what you want?”

  Haylee, the diplomat, pipes up. “Regan, your parents support your dream. You will make it, but if some of us stay here, it's okay.” She smiles softly, trying to ease the harshness of it all.

  “As long as it's your choice and not the gossips telling you you'll never make it because they didn't.” I’m met with silence. “Tobi, you encourage me all the time not to give up, but you won't take your own advice. Don't give up on your future. Don't let this black hole of a town absorb the light of who you are.”

  Cameron's eyes tighten and his volume lifts a notch. “Look, dreaming about what you want to be when you grow up is fine when you're a little kid. Let's face it, there's no room for romantic ideas or fairy tales in the reality of becoming an adult.”

  I jab back at him. “That's B.S. and you know it. They didn't do anything with their lives, and now they don't want you to succeed so they don't feel so bad about themselves.

  “Tobi and I both have family responsibilities we can't run from. So, stop trying to force us to hang on to—”

  My voice is higher and louder. “I'm not forcing you to do anything. I'm trying—”

  “Dreaming and scheming is fun to talk about when we hang out, but when time stops standing still, we have to step back into reality, Regan. I can't afford to be a dreamer.” Cameron's voice booms and finishes me off.

  So that's what he thinks about me. He's joined the rank and file of all the other weasels and no lifers and now I'm a threat for not giving up. I'm out of here. Paddling furiously back to shore, I ignore Tobi and Haylee's calls to me. I climb out of the water and throw everything into the ATV while I try to put on my I'm fine mask.

  I do my best to suck up the hurt. “Look, I'm sorry, guys. I'm going to head out. Catch you later, okay?”

  “You don't have to go, Regan. Come on.” Tobi tries to plead with me.

  Lane is nearly to shore. He threw me some verbal punches, too. He should stay. “Stay, Lane. I'm sure Cameron will give you a ride to your truck.”

  “Yeah, it's no problem, Lane.” Cameron sounds eager for Lane to stay. He didn't ask me to stay. My stomach sinks, and I wrap an arm around myself to keep upright. Not that I would.

  Lane pulls himself out of the water, my chin trembles, and I do a one-eighty away from him. “Thanks, man. I have some things to do and should get going, anyway. You playing basketball this week?”

  “Yeah, I'm not sure what nights, though. I'll text you.”

  “Cool, later then. Miss Haylee, Miss Tobi.” Lane gives a bow, removing the cap that he just put on. I usually find it hard not to at least smile when he does this, but my blood's still boilin' and I can't stop thinking about Cameron's assessment of me.

  I snatch up the rest of my things and start the engine when Lane slides in. Conversation on the way home is impossible with the roar of the engine. I'm grateful for that. I don't want to rehash the same conversation I left the cliffs over. The only problem is I'm still having it out in my mind. White knuckles protrude under my skin and make my fingers look deformed as I grip the steering wheel. My friends' words hurt more than any of the poison Stacey spits on a regular basis. The reasons not to date seem to get bigger. My own self-imposed rule, thanks to Susanna, is that it's not worth the risk. If I fall in love or give in to temptation and make a mistake I'll fail God and my parents, or worse; I'll never get out of this town—never follow my dreams. According to the vicious gossips of this town, spearheaded by the Faniger family, I’m a slut if because I'm Susanna's cousin. Guilt by association. Not that I've come across any boys who would be worth spending time with, other than Lane. We have rules against that, and he's my best friend anyway. Or, he was. I'm not sure about anything after what just happened.

  As soon as I cut the engine, Lane starts— “I don't want to talk about it,” I blurt, interrupting him as I step out to get my things out of the back. I hope that shuts him up or at least changes the subject. The key—I almost forgot it. With my things in tow, I move back to the front to pull the key out of the ignition. Lane comes up behind me as I straighten. There's nowhere to move. “Lane.” I struggle to twist around and look at him. He turns his cap backward and leans in, grasping the roll bars on each side of me. His eyes.... What the hell is he doing? Refusing to look away, I stare right back at him. He has such pretty skin, all tan in the summer. And his eyes are … none compare. Not even movie stars.

  “What?” I hurl. The anger I'd felt has subsided to hurt, but whatever he's doing is changing things. I'm a little lightheaded, so I lean against the bars and swallow, trying to ease the feeling.

  “You are so stubborn,” he breathes in a low voice. His crystalline blue eyes slowly disappear behind his thick curly eyelashes. I have this strange urge to lean into him. He stands: eyes closed, hands gripping the bars on either side of me, head bent down as if he’s aligning his height to mine. It's so warm in this shed, I'm a little breathless. This is becoming uncomfortable.

  “Lane, are you okay? Are you feeling sick?” I ask, concerned there’s something wrong with him.

  He sighs and slowly opens his eyes as he straightens up, looking over my head. “No. I'm fine.” His voice is cold. “I need to go.” And as quickly as that, he's in his truck, cranking the engine. I walk toward him, but he acts like he doesn't even see me and pulls out onto the road.

  My body threatens to crumble to the earth as if gravity has turned into a black hole. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, stiffening my spine, and inflating my will. Lane's upset. At me. For being a real friend. Whatever. I'm not going to lick my wounds, crawl to him, and ask forgiveness. I won't apologize to my friends when I did nothing wrong.

  I make my way inside the house and drop everything by the door. Okay, Lane. You’re right. I'm stubborn. But only about things that matter.

  2

  My dad wakes me up most mornings before he goes to work, so I can run before it gets too hot. With shoulders this sore and tense, it's as if I've been on high alert all night instead of sleeping. I'm sure I'll feel better after a jog and a good stretch.

  It's become a habit to lie out my running clothes and shoes the night before. I read somewhere it reduces the excuse for not getting up and running. It works well for me. I change, walk into the bathroom, and get ready. Stumbling through the hallway to the kitchen with my eyes half closed, I reach in the fridge for a water bottle and amble to the counter where my dad is leaning, drinking his coffee. I kiss him goodbye.

  Outside, the dew clings to the foliage, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the morning air. With arms stretched high, I exhale, bending at the waist to stretch my lower back and hamstrings. After a couple more light leg stretches, I walk down the drive. At the road, I realize I left my mp3 player in my room, but decide against going back to get it. If I do, I may curl up in bed and go back to sleep. I veer left on the main road at a slow pace, still trying to wake up. It's early and there’s just enough light to see the road. My usual pattern is to take the country block. Rock and dirt roads, maintained by oil companies, take me up and down small hills in between the four left turns. I'm not alert enough to do anything different. The total distance is just a little more than a mile.

  I jog to peel away the drama the godforsaken hormones try to build in me. It’s like there's another person inside me. She conjures up this craziness, inferring thoughts and emotions of others that were never implied or even real in the first place. I fight these inclinations in every way I can. Increasing my heart rate and blood flow helps rid me of those teenage toxins, burns off the brain fog, and lets me see things more clearly, more logically. I read this in a magazine for teen health and tried it for a couple weeks. So far it has worked great.

  My body is on autopilot, going through the motions as I begin a rhythm. Before I know it, my driveway is in front of me, and I transition to a walk to slow down my breathing. Once up the drive near the house, I notice the knots have already begun to work themselves out. My muscles are warm and the tension melts with every stretch. My body is now wriggly and loose—much better. As I enter the house, the smell of bacon triggers my stomach. Suddenly, I'm starving.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” Mom greets me.

  I close the door behind me and toss the empty bottle in the bin. “Mom, that smells so good. I'm starving.”

  “Take a quick shower, and your scrambled eggs will be done when you get out.”

  I kiss her on the cheek. “Did you make biscuits, too?” I can smell them now that I'm in the kitchen next to her. Mom makes the best buttermilk biscuits.

  “Yes, at your dad's request. I just put the last of them in the oven.”

  After my shower, I scarf down breakfast and clean
up the kitchen. As I clean, I plan my agenda for the day. I work at the pool tonight and need to leave at three-thirty. I fix myself a cup of hot tea when I finish, and sit out on the shade-covered back patio with my new book, Jacques Cousteau's The Ocean World. I'm determined to focus on this book and not yesterday's events.

  The book came in the mail yesterday. I bought it online for only three bucks when I was at Tobi's the other day. Tobi lets me buy from her account. Cracking it open, I immediately notice the photographs. They are so other-worldly, with such mysterious beauty beyond imagination.

  I get lost in the pages of photographs. I get lost in the ring of rafts yesterday. My mind weaves back and forth between yesterday and this book and my future. My stubbornness is a must, Lane. Ugh! I need Marine Science to get me out of this town. I have to be determined, focused, stubborn.

  My neck is getting stiff sitting in this chair all day. I get up to stretch and meander around the corner of the house to the door.

  “Regan?” Mom’s at the kitchen table, pinning a pattern to a piece of fabric.

  I shut the screen door behind me. “Yeah?”

  She glances to me with her brows raised. “It's three-thirty.”

  “Crap! I didn’t know it was this late.” I scurry to my room and get ready for work.

  Swimsuit, on. Lifeguard T-shirt, on. Shorts, get some shorts. I grab a pair of cut-off blue jean shorts and pull them on. A towel, comb and rubber bands and wallet all get stuffed in my bag. In the kitchen, I put an apple from the basket on the counter in my bag and a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Mom's working at the table on some bridesmaid dresses. “I need to get going, Mom. I don't want to be late for work.” I slip on my flip-flops, grab the keys from the hook, and start outside.

  “Are you going to the diner afterward?”

  A rush from my head down to my toes drains the energy from my body leaving a pool of confidence on the floor. I'm not ready to meet with my friends yet. No one has called me. Not even Lane. Maybe I am a childish dreamer. It's best if I hang out with me, myself, and I for a while. “I don't plan on it." I clung to my book, scratched to focus on my future so that I could block yesterday’s drama from my mind today. I can't seem to get anything right.

  “Oh.” Mom's surprised. “All right, sweetie. Call if you change your mind. Be careful—I love you.”

  “Okay. I love you, too.”

  My mom drives an old white Jeep Cherokee. It runs smooth and has been well taken care of, even on the inside. It's loaded with the extras, and I'm glad to have something to drive. Life isn't very appealing to me today, let alone work, so I put in some tobyMac to help get me out of my mood and motivated on my drive into town.

  Everyone but the manager is part time. Some are more part time than others. I'm one of those. Stacey Faniger, one of my least favorite people, works at the pool, too. She gets the most hours out of all the part timers and she gets to pick them, which may have something to do with her dad being on the park board. Another bonus? Her parents are loaded. She's the vilest girl I know. She takes pleasure in making others feel small, and is vicious in her gossip.

  Last week, she told Kevin Pile to keep his shirt on in the pool because the acne on his back was so disgusting it was going to make her vomit. No one said anything to him or even seemed to care until she opened her big mouth. He can't help it. If that wasn't bad enough, Stacey said she couldn't even stand to look at his face, and if his mother would have stayed around, she could’ve taught him proper hygiene. Kevin's mom died of lung cancer two years ago.

  As I pull into the parking lot, a cute little obnoxious red Mustang GT with tinted windows and custom wheels glares at me. It even has this little car tattoo on the back end with initials in fancy script. This spectacle was a sixteenth birthday gift to its owner. Okay, I'll admit I'm a little jealous that a sixteen-year-old has a more expensive car than both my parents' cars put together. Plus, I don't even own a car. Seeing the red Mustang, unattended, in the parking lot means she is working tonight—with me.

  I'll suffer through the night trying to have as minimal words exchanged as possible. Stacey's known for being skillful in the re-telling of information. She loves to target me because of my cousin, Susanna. I just call it what it is, gossip. And in order not to get blamed for anything that could happen to her car, I make sure to park in the farthest spot from her Mustang. With a heavy sigh, I reach for my things in the passenger seat, lock the car, and trudge to the office.

  Stacey sits in a white plastic outdoor chair inside the office with her hair all done up in a fancy braid, makeup on, texting on her phone when I walk in the front gate. She doesn't see me yet. I walk through the girls’ locker room, built of concrete blocks and painted standard pool water blue. It's small, but the right size for the pool and this small town of twelve hundred fifty people. I duck under the counter.

  “Stacey.” I greet her as I walk by to sign in.

  “Regan,” she utters with her disdainful drawl.

  I go through the checklist in the locker room, and I hear Jimmy Houston come in. We have only three lifeguards and the manager on duty at one time. There’s one lifeguard chair at the deep end of the L-shaped pool and one at the shallow end. The third guard is in the office with the manager—checking people in, selling candy and stuff. We rotate every thirty minutes.

  Time nears seven and the guys start pulling in to play basketball at the court next to the pool. Just before I switch chairs, I hear the low rumble of Cameron’s truck as he pulls in. Strolling to the deep end, I spot Lane approaching the fence. My body automatically sighs and places a smile on my face. I'm glad to see him even though I'm still getting over yesterday's quarrel. He turns his cap around backward and grasps the chain-link fence wiggling his fingertips, luring me in. His eyes are so expressive and can be intense, but right now they're soft and inviting.

  He leans his head against the fence, and calls to me in a low voice, “Regan.” It's like a nocturnal lullaby that you can't resist.

  “Hello, Lane.” I can feel Stacey's stare boring into my back.

  He waits patiently for me to come closer to him, eyes never leaving mine. “Are you going to the diner after work?”

  I tilt my head and look down at the concrete. “No.”

  “Why not?” His voice is even softer, almost pleading.

  I shrug. “I don't know.” I sound like a whine-bag. “Look, I can't really talk right now; I'm working.” I'm finding it hard to come up with a good reason for not going, other than I don't really want to be in the presence of those who think I'm childish.

  “After work then.” He jogs to the court before I can reply that I don't want to talk. I push out a long breath through my teeth and turn back to the guard chair. My eyes move back to the pool and I toss my towel over the seat to pace along the edge of the pool, watching—doing my job.

  Stacey's been talking with two of her cronies at the office window all night. It isn't an unusual sight; in fact, it happens every time I work with her, including the glances and giggles they're throwing at me tonight. The whistle blows at nine and relief falls over my shoulders. The night drug on and on, and I’m glad it’s over. I wish I were at home in my bed right now, curled up with a good book instead of here with Stacey and possibly facing Lane with another argument.

  With the pool and locker rooms empty, we begin the process of cleaning. I put my flip-flops on and grab the cleaner out of the cabinet in the office. Stacey follows me, which is not like her, at all. She usually lets everyone else do the work while she sits on her butt, texting.

  “So, I heard you went swimming at the cliffs yesterday.”

  “Did you?” I start scrubbing the floor with the brush.

  “I also heard you weren't alone.” She tries to tempt me to ask her what else she heard.

  “Stacey, as a Lifeguard, you should know as part of our training we’re taught not to swim alone.” I almost smirk as I offer my shock at such recklessness.

  “How does Lane feel about your new boyfriend?” I don't respond. “You and Cameron look cute together.”

  I stop abruptly and whip my head up to look at her. “Me and Cameron?” A knot appears in my stomach and starts twisting.