Mom always did things backwards. She’d vacuum before dusting, pour milk before cereal, and whup us before asking who did it.
And in the summer, we went south.
She said summers up here weren’t real summers, that she couldn’t shake her hankering for Southern hospitality come June. So every year we drove down to Gramps’ and Mamaw’s.
They’d holler about so many boys under their roof, but they fed us well and complained when we’d leave, so they couldn’t have been too mad.
Every summer was the same. Buttered biscuits and porch swings and sweet tea and fishing and cheese grits and skinny dipping and eating watermelon outside as juice dripped down our freckled elbows.
But the summer I was twelve was different.
My brothers were down by the pond while I chopped wood for sneaking cake at breakfast.
I was feeling mighty sorry for myself when I heard a giggle. The neighbor girl, Sasha, was watching me. “That’s not how you do it.”
I scowled. “Like you could do better.”
With a smirk, she tied back her beaded braids. She swung the axe—thud—the log split neatly in two.
We spent the next month competing every day. Who ran faster? Who caught more fireflies? Who could sneak out at night uncaught? I’d win sometimes, but then again, so did she.
One evening we chugged lemonade and Sasha beat me by a mile. She grinned, eyes sparkling.
And in that moment—with our bare feet in the pond, our hands sticky from our cups, and the musky scent of damp earth enveloping us—I thought, “I’m going to marry this girl.”
But the next day she was gone.
“What do you mean, gone?” I demanded.
Gramps quirked an eyebrow at my outburst as he peered over his glasses. “They moved, son. Didn’t you see the for-sale sign all those times you went over?”
I slumped wordlessly into my chair.
Summers weren’t the same after that. Everything reminded me of her, so I’d read to escape the memories as my brothers continued to run amok. To me, the world had lost its vibrancy. Time passed in a blur.
The first summer I didn’t go south was in college. I’d had a long shift in the green apron and was aching to leave when a girl in heels click-clacked to the counter.
“Can I get an iced Venti mocha?”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing a cup. “Name?”
“Sasha.”
My hand froze. I looked up. She was older and wearing makeup, but it was her.
“Sasha?”
Her eyebrows twitched in confusion, then her eyes widened.
“…Luke?”