Free Summer's Road by Kelly Moran

walls. Especially when I was this wound up.
    I looked out the window. Ian’s light was still on next door. Perfect. Lifting the new painting of him, mindful not to touch the still wet edges, I stared at my best friend’s image.
    Peter at the hobby store had claimed Ian was in love with me. I let the notion swirl around in my mind for just a moment. Which was stupid and dangerous. If I allowed myself to ride that thought train too long, I might grow to like the idea. He was the opposite of what I needed, and I was the opposite of what he wanted.
    Besides, the idea was ridiculous. Why was I even letting Peter’s comment get to me?

    Ian
    I watched Summer’s bedroom light from my window, as I did just about every night since we were fifteen. There wasn’t anything to see, just a soft glow through the weeping willow branches from across the two acres between us, but it was habit. My gut tightened as I took a swig of beer, the condensation from the long neck bottle soaking my hand.
    Pacing my bedroom, I glared at her everywhere I turned. There’s been no escape for years now. Stupidly, I’d kept every ridiculous trinket she’d ever bought or made me, even the little ceramic frog she’d done in fifth grade art class. At least, that’s what she’d said it was. It didn’t look like a frog. Pictures of us as kids, as adults, and our families scattered the dark blue walls. I stared at the one of Tom, Summer, and myself outside her house. There was a pull in my chest as I remembered Tom, lying in bed, too sick to even hold his daughter in the end.
    Christ. Our lives were like a jacked up version of Dawson’s Creek, sans the romance, emphasis on the witty banter. And now I was pissed off I even knew the show’s premise. Summer’s fault for making me watch the effing crap every week when it had been on air.
    That was our relationship. She remembered climbing the birches near the creek and laughing. I remembered crying hysterically when she fell and broke her arm. She remembered the dancing and ambiance of senior prom. I remembered the navy dress she wore and the linebacker’s hands on her. Summer- damn -Quinn saw the world as if it was a painting waiting to be created. I only saw her.
    Yeah. I surpassed pathetic about nine years before. Didn’t even pass Go or collect two-hundred dollars. I’d call her my kryptonite, but I was no Superman and I didn’t have the urge to flee from her whenever she was within ten yards. She did make me weak as hell, though. One bat of her eyelashes, one genuine grin, one pretty please from her lips, and I caved. Every time.
    I caught her light go off out of the corner of my eye and stilled, wondering what she dreamed of in the quiet of her room. She still made wishes like an expectant child. She actually believed in things like happily ever after. Truth was, I didn’t mind the hopelessly romantic movies she made me watch or listening to her babble endlessly about a painting she was working on. It meant she was breathing, was wanting to fight. And sometimes, she made me believe, too. That we could be more. That, one day, she’d see me. Any time with her, regardless of what we did, was worth it.
    For a while there, after her father died, I didn’t think she dreamed at all anymore. It was like a light had gone off in her. For someone like Summer, she may as well have been dead. We brought her back, though—Rick, Dee, and myself. Barely, but we’d brought her back from the brink.
    Did she allow herself to remember our childhood? All the adventures we’d had, the fun? Or was it all a black void to her to expunge the grief? Like when we were eight and Rick had fallen in the river after swinging from a low branch where the edge of Lake Wylie opened. Rick had flailed his arms and legs while screaming bloody murder until he discovered he was only in a foot of water. We’ve called him Rivers ever since.
    I dropped on my bed, recalling when Rick rushed inside her house to tell Summer he was