Page 61 of Second Chance Summer

It was a slightly battered SUV, with Henry in the driver’s seat. He lowered the passenger side window and leaned across the seat. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied. Maybe he just wanted to continue our conversation from earlier, but this seemed like an odd place to do it.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked. The minivan behind him slammed on its brakes, and then honked loudly. Henry waved him around, and I realized that this was not a moment to really consider the question, or wonder why he was asking after he’d so effectively shot me down less than an hour before.

“Sure,” I replied, picking up the dog and opening the passenger door. I got into the car and slammed the door, looking over at him as he shifted the car into gear. “Thanks. The dog hasn’t mastered the concept of riding in the bike basket.”

“No problem,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “We’re going to the same place, after all. It seemed rude not to offer.”

I nodded and I stroked the top of the dog’s head and looked out at the trees on the side of the road. So it wasn’t anything except politeness. I really shouldn’t have been surprised. I focused on making sure Murphy’s bow—pink polka dot, again—was straight and concentrated on not speaking. I’d made such a fool of myself earlier that I didn’t see the sense in making it worse. But the silence between us felt oppressive, like it was a physical force closing in on me from all sides.

Henry might have been feeling this as well, because he turned on the radio, then turned it off when a twangy, country-sounding voice started singing about lost love. We drove without speaking for a few moments, and then he glanced over at me. “I didn’t know you had a dog,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, scratching the spot between the dog’s ears that always made his back leg thump. “It’s kind of new.” Henry just nodded, and silence fell between us again. I was about to leave it at that, but then, figuring that this was a safe and non-humiliating topic, took a breath and continued. “He belonged to the renters who had our house last summer.”

Henry glanced over at the dog, comprehension dawning on his face. “Yes,” he said, “that’s where I know him from. It’s been bothering me ever since I first saw him.” He paused at a stop sign, looking from the dog to me. “So why do you have him?”

“They left him behind,” I said. “We haven’t been able to track them down, so we’ve kind of just taken him in.”

“They left him,” Henry repeated, his voice strangely flat.

I nodded. “At the end of the summer,” I said. I looked over at Henry, expecting some kind of reaction. Everyone else’s responses—even my grandfather’s, over the phone—had been angry, distressed, concerned. But Henry’s hands just tightened on the wheel, something closing off in his face.

We drove the rest of the way home without speaking, and Henry passed my driveway and pulled into his, confusing the dog, who had sat up straight when we neared our house, his nails scrabbling against the glass of the window, eager to get home. He clearly hadn’t put it together that this was also the place where people dumped syrup on him. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, when Henry had turned off the engine, even though he made no move to leave his car.

“Right,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “Sure.” I looked over at him, wondering what I’d said, or if this was just the residual tension from earlier. It seemed that in my efforts to put the past behind us, I’d unwittingly made things even more uncomfortable. I started to say something—anything—to try to get us back to a more amicable place, when the dog started full-on whining, standing up on my lap, straining to get back home again, which must have seemed extra frustrating now that it was so close.

I pushed open the door and slid out of the car, dropping the dog down to the ground, where he immediately started pulling against his leash. I was about to say something else to Henry, but he was still sitting in the driver’s seat, looking lost in thought. So I just closed the door gently, and then headed up his driveway, being tugged by much more force than I would have thought a small dog was capable of, wondering what had just happened.

An hour later, I was sitting on the front porch with a glass of Diet Coke, extra ice, shucking the corn for dinner. My siblings were with me, and they were, technically, supposed to be helping. But instead, Gelsey was doing her ballet exercises using the porch railing as a barre and Warren was pacing back and forth, barely avoiding getting whacked in the face by Gelsey’s grands battements, peppering me with questions about his upcoming date.

“And she said yes?” Warren asked, as I peeled back the green husk from a ear of corn, exposing the yellow and white kernels underneath. I felt my stomach growl just looking at it. Fresh corn was one of the best things about the summer, and Henson’s corn was always spectacular. I dropped the husk into the paper grocery bag resting at my feet, then looked up and gave my brother a look.

“Yes,” I said, for what had to be the eighth time. “I asked her if she wanted to go to the movie on Friday, she said yes, and I took the dog and left.”

“And you’re sure she knew it was with me?” Warren asked. I met Gelsey’s eye just before she sank down into a grand plié. She gave me a tiny smile before looking away, stretching her arm over her head.

“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “You have a date. You’re welcome.” I shook my head, wondering if I’d done the right thing. After all, Warren and Wendy sounded like some kind of terrible folk duo. Not to mention the fact that she was now going to be subject to my brother’s endless wellspring of trivia.

“Right,” Warren said, as though just now realizing I had something to do with this. “Thank you so much, Taylor. If there’s something I can do to repay you—”

“There is,” I said, handing him the half-shucked ear of corn, and picking up my Diet Coke glass—I was due for a refill. “Finish these.” I headed in, through the screened-in porch to the kitchen. My mother was slicing up tomatoes, and I recognized the fixings for hamburgers on the grill.

“Corn done?” she asked as I opened the fridge to retrieve my Diet Coke.

“More or less,” I said, glancing out to the porch, where it looked like Warren was talking to Gelsey, wearing a dreamy expression, but not actually accomplishing anything.

s a slightly battered SUV, with Henry in the driver’s seat. He lowered the passenger side window and leaned across the seat. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied. Maybe he just wanted to continue our conversation from earlier, but this seemed like an odd place to do it.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked. The minivan behind him slammed on its brakes, and then honked loudly. Henry waved him around, and I realized that this was not a moment to really consider the question, or wonder why he was asking after he’d so effectively shot me down less than an hour before.

“Sure,” I replied, picking up the dog and opening the passenger door. I got into the car and slammed the door, looking over at him as he shifted the car into gear. “Thanks. The dog hasn’t mastered the concept of riding in the bike basket.”

“No problem,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “We’re going to the same place, after all. It seemed rude not to offer.”

I nodded and I stroked the top of the dog’s head and looked out at the trees on the side of the road. So it wasn’t anything except politeness. I really shouldn’t have been surprised. I focused on making sure Murphy’s bow—pink polka dot, again—was straight and concentrated on not speaking. I’d made such a fool of myself earlier that I didn’t see the sense in making it worse. But the silence between us felt oppressive, like it was a physical force closing in on me from all sides.

Henry might have been feeling this as well, because he turned on the radio, then turned it off when a twangy, country-sounding voice started singing about lost love. We drove without speaking for a few moments, and then he glanced over at me. “I didn’t know you had a dog,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, scratching the spot between the dog’s ears that always made his back leg thump. “It’s kind of new.” Henry just nodded, and silence fell between us again. I was about to leave it at that, but then, figuring that this was a safe and non-humiliating topic, took a breath and continued. “He belonged to the renters who had our house last summer.”

Henry glanced over at the dog, comprehension dawning on his face. “Yes,” he said, “that’s where I know him from. It’s been bothering me ever since I first saw him.” He paused at a stop sign, looking from the dog to me. “So why do you have him?”

“They left him behind,” I said. “We haven’t been able to track them down, so we’ve kind of just taken him in.”

“They left him,” Henry repeated, his voice strangely flat.

I nodded. “At the end of the summer,” I said. I looked over at Henry, expecting some kind of reaction. Everyone else’s responses—even my grandfather’s, over the phone—had been angry, distressed, concerned. But Henry’s hands just tightened on the wheel, something closing off in his face.

We drove the rest of the way home without speaking, and Henry passed my driveway and pulled into his, confusing the dog, who had sat up straight when we neared our house, his nails scrabbling against the glass of the window, eager to get home. He clearly hadn’t put it together that this was also the place where people dumped syrup on him. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, when Henry had turned off the engine, even though he made no move to leave his car.

“Right,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “Sure.” I looked over at him, wondering what I’d said, or if this was just the residual tension from earlier. It seemed that in my efforts to put the past behind us, I’d unwittingly made things even more uncomfortable. I started to say something—anything—to try to get us back to a more amicable place, when the dog started full-on whining, standing up on my lap, straining to get back home again, which must have seemed extra frustrating now that it was so close.

I pushed open the door and slid out of the car, dropping the dog down to the ground, where he immediately started pulling against his leash. I was about to say something else to Henry, but he was still sitting in the driver’s seat, looking lost in thought. So I just closed the door gently, and then headed up his driveway, being tugged by much more force than I would have thought a small dog was capable of, wondering what had just happened.

An hour later, I was sitting on the front porch with a glass of Diet Coke, extra ice, shucking the corn for dinner. My siblings were with me, and they were, technically, supposed to be helping. But instead, Gelsey was doing her ballet exercises using the porch railing as a barre and Warren was pacing back and forth, barely avoiding getting whacked in the face by Gelsey’s grands battements, peppering me with questions about his upcoming date.

“And she said yes?” Warren asked, as I peeled back the green husk from a ear of corn, exposing the yellow and white kernels underneath. I felt my stomach growl just looking at it. Fresh corn was one of the best things about the summer, and Henson’s corn was always spectacular. I dropped the husk into the paper grocery bag resting at my feet, then looked up and gave my brother a look.

“Yes,” I said, for what had to be the eighth time. “I asked her if she wanted to go to the movie on Friday, she said yes, and I took the dog and left.”

“And you’re sure she knew it was with me?” Warren asked. I met Gelsey’s eye just before she sank down into a grand plié. She gave me a tiny smile before looking away, stretching her arm over her head.

“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “You have a date. You’re welcome.” I shook my head, wondering if I’d done the right thing. After all, Warren and Wendy sounded like some kind of terrible folk duo. Not to mention the fact that she was now going to be subject to my brother’s endless wellspring of trivia.

“Right,” Warren said, as though just now realizing I had something to do with this. “Thank you so much, Taylor. If there’s something I can do to repay you—”

“There is,” I said, handing him the half-shucked ear of corn, and picking up my Diet Coke glass—I was due for a refill. “Finish these.” I headed in, through the screened-in porch to the kitchen. My mother was slicing up tomatoes, and I recognized the fixings for hamburgers on the grill.

“Corn done?” she asked as I opened the fridge to retrieve my Diet Coke.

“More or less,” I said, glancing out to the porch, where it looked like Warren was talking to Gelsey, wearing a dreamy expression, but not actually accomplishing anything.

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