The Summer of Lost Things Page 3

  Dad.

  I smooth out the paper, even though it’s not wrinkled in the least, and put pencil to page. I decided on a pencil just in case I need to erase.

  I’d much rather use a pen.

  Lucy’s Summer Bucket List

  1. Read twenty-five books.

  I start easy, knowing it will be one I can actually complete. Reading is my jam.

  2. Go swimming at the beach.

  Tapping my pencil on my chin again, I frown. Boring. I need to make it challenging. Something worth doing. I’ve been to California’s beaches before, so something a little more daring would be best. I need to do something crazy. But not too crazy.

  2. Go swimming at the beach. At night.

  I nod, liking that it’s different, a bit daring and doable, since Mom said the beach is pretty close. I chuckle to myself. Swimming at night is daring? I’m such a wimp. I should put diving with sharks or something, but then I think of my cousin Oakley’s fiancé, Carson, who lost a leg to a shark, and rethink that idea. I keep the beach thing, but no shark diving.

  Thinking of Oakley, I pull out my phone and send her a text. We’ve always been close, besides the time right after her brother Lucas died. She had a really hard time with that and needed time to heal. Dad talked to her dad a lot, asking how she was for me, since they’re brothers and all. After a month or so, she was doing a little better and finally started talking to me again. It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from her, so she’s probably wondering if we made it to Oregon. The text is short and sweet, a We’re all moved in to our new house, call me when you can text.

  She’s busy with work during the day, and wedding planning at night, so I don’t expect a text back immediately. I focus on my list again.

  3. Learn a new skill.

  I’m not sure what skill exactly, but it gives me some wiggle room. Cooking maybe? Painting? The scenery is beautiful here, but I’ve never picked up a paintbrush in my life. I can draw, and actually love it, but since Dad went to prison, I refuse to draw anymore. I don’t want to be like him in any way. He’s an artist and was planning on teaching me how to paint. I was really looking forward to it.

  Not anymore.

  Disappointment rises in my chest, and I fight the urge to get out my sketchbook. I really miss drawing.

  I glance at the trusty old desk Mom helped me put together last night before she went to bed. It’s pretty ugly, white paint peeling off, and I hate the fact that it takes up half of one wall, but the good thing? A ton of drawers. I couldn’t sleep, so I ended up putting all my art supplies in my desk drawers instead of hiding them in a box in my closet. Which I think is a step in the right direction. I don’t have any desire to draw right now, but maybe I’ll have to urge to pick up that sketchbook again. Just knowing it’s there gives me a bit of comfort. It’s a piece of me I may be able to get back once I heal. Maybe.

  Shaking my head at my train of thought, I focus on the next item.

  4. Meet someone new.

  A friend would be nice. Maybe. I don’t know how to twist it into something more challenging, since it’s already challenging enough, so I leave it alone. The ideas come easy now. Most are doable and safe. I like safe, since I’m not a huge thrill-seeker. If this were Ashley’s list, it would look totally different. I smile at the thought, then write one just for her.

  5. Do something crazy. Something I’d never normally do.

  Perfect. With that number five, she’ll be part of my summer, too. I keep writing, smiling at my challenges.

  6. Find an awesome and challenging hike.

  7. Try a new look. Dye my hair? Cut it? Something daring.

  8. Attend an outdoor concert.

  I adore music. Especially live bands.

  I have no idea what else to write. I pull Mom’s old list back out of the Anne of Green Gables book to get more ideas. I roll my eyes and write down the next one, since it will be a huge feat to actually have a chance at crossing it off.

  9. Have a summer romance. (There must be kissing for it to count.)

  Right. Pretty much a long shot, but I had to write something. The last one I already know. Mom’s list helps with this one, too.

  10. Find out who Susan is and visit her grave.

  I set the pencil down and stare at my new list. They mostly seem doable, besides the summer romance, but hey, a girl can dream.

  Since Mom had eleven things, I hesitate before I write one last item down, which I know will probably be next to impossible.

  11. Forgive Dad

  I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if I’m ready. The pain is too raw. I could write to him, but I have nothing good to say to him right now. So I ignore that item for now. It hurts to think about him. I try my best to forget I wrote it at all.

  But I know it’s there.

  And I know it will keep bugging me until I actually do it.

  CHAPTER 4

  “My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.”

  —L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

  After my list is written out, I open another box to unpack. After putting all my clothes in my dresser and hanging up my dresses and shirts in the closet, I decide I need to do something unproductive to get my mind off things.

  “I’m going for a walk!” I yell as I hurry down the stairs. I have no idea where I’m going, but I need to get out of the house for a while.

  Clear my head.

  “Wait, what?” Mom comes around the corner holding a stack of papers. “Where are you going?”

  “Just around.”

  She hesitates a moment, then nods slowly. “Okay. Don’t go far, though. You don’t know your way around yet.” She glances out the window, looking worried.

  “Mom, I’m not five. I think I can handle a little walk.” She looks up at me as she sits down on the couch, the baby chick wallpaper surrounding her in all its glory. I try to shield my eyes, but it’s too bright. Too soul sucking.

  “Still. New place, new people, new things that could get you into trouble.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Since when have I been a troublemaker?”

  “You could turn into one at any time. I’m counting down the days until it happens.”

  “Right.” I sigh as she sets the stack of papers down, tucks a pencil behind her ear, then starts typing something on her laptop. “I’m just going for a walk. I’m not going to get lost in the driveway.”

  She looks up again, the corner of her mouth twitching. “It’s a pretty big driveway.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re right. But I have my phone. I’ll text you if I get lost between here and the mailbox.”

  “Good. Be careful,” she says, her voice not too worried but serious just the same. “Please only be like ten minutes or so.”

  “Mom, you’re the one who wanted me to get out and see the town. Get a job.”

  “I know, but getting a job is different. You go to the same place every day so I know where you are. Going for a ‘walk,’” she says, while making air quotes with her fingers, “does not make me feel like you’re safe.”

  “You said this place was safe.”

  “It is.”

  “Then stop worrying.”

  “I’m your mother. It’s my most important job to worry about my almost rebel child.”

  “All this for going on a walk? Seriously, Mom . . .” I groan, shaking my head as I head toward the door. “Stop being weird.”

  She laughs behind me. “It’s my job to be weird, too. But in all seriousness, be careful, okay? Seriously. Text me if you get lost.”

  I open the front door. “I will!” I yell, exasperated.

  The cool misty air hits me when I walk outside and I breathe in. It smells so fresh. Not stuffy or full of pollution, but clean. Like the air itself has been scrubbed and infused with every scent nature has to offer.

  I adore it.

  It reminds me of home.

  I’ve never lived in a big city, and I’m actua
lly happy about it. I’ve always had a nice fenced-in backyard, grass, trees, flowers. Not a high-rise apartment. I’ve been very lucky to have an actual yard growing up.

  I love walking, too. We used to go on walks a lot. And when the snow would get deep, Dad would dig a trench to get to the mailbox. He’d also snow blow the driveway and I’d use all that extra snow to build slides. We’d build snow forts and have snowball fights, too. I frown. I have no idea if it snows here.

  So far, though, this place is nice enough.

  I do miss the smell of cows, though. We lived by a farm in Wyoming and I could always smell it on the wind. What a thing to miss. The smell of cows.

  But it was home.

  I bet I’m the only person in the world that would miss that smell.

  Birds are singing as I start down the driveway, trees covered in moss reaching toward the sky on both sides. There’s an old beat up mailbox at the edge of the street, our house numbers barely visible from the old paint.

  I may need to mention that to Mom. Also, I think the trees could be trimmed up a bit so they don’t poke someone’s eye out when they come to see us. If anyone ever comes to see us. I’m getting ahead of myself. No one even knows us here. And Mom has too many other projects to focus on for now.

  Loneliness creeps in as I think of home again. Lots of green, lots of trees. The mountains.

  I turn left. The thing about this place? There’s a whole lot of land and houses that aren’t stuck right next to each other. That also reminds me of Wyoming, though the trees are a bit different here and the sky isn’t as blue. Probably because it’s overcast today, but still.

  A car drives by and the driver, an old lady with gray curly hair, waves. I smile, and awkwardly lift my hand a little in return, then trip over a rock for good measure.

  Nice.

  A shout brings me up short and I turn to see two people on horses, racing across the pasture next door. I didn’t even know it was here, since the trees surrounding our house are so thick. There’s a white fence around the property, with horses grazing here and there. Trees litter the backyard of the farm house in the distance, but the pasture is green, clean, and cut short for horses to graze in. I lean against the fence to watch the riders, wondering if Mom ever learned how to ride a horse.

  “Hey, no fair!” the same voice yells. It belongs to a girl who races her horse toward the huge stable in the distance, tearing after the rider in the lead.

  They’re young, I think. Maybe close to my age. I wonder if we’ll go to the same high school. I wonder if they have a big group of friends they hang out with every weekend.

  How it would be to have friends here.

  I can sit and tell myself how much I don’t need friends, but I know it’s a lie. I love people. I love being around them, talking to them, listening to them. People make me happy. Almost as much as books do.

  I miss Ashley.

  As I watch them race across the grass, I hear a whinny from my right. A black horse walks toward me and I stumble away from the fence, lose my balance, and land squarely on my butt.

  “Thanks a lot,” I mutter to the horse. I’ve never been calm around animals. Especially giant ones like horses. Horses are so unpredictable. Even when you’re riding them, they could buck you off like you were nothing if they wanted to.

  It whinnies again, nodding its head up and down, staring at me with its big brown eyes, like it’s waiting for me to say something else. I stare back. He’s really beautiful. All black, save for a white patch on his forehead and white patches around his hooves. And yes, he’s a he. Even if I don’t know a lot about horses, I do know how to tell that.

  He’s still watching me as he leans his head over the fence, nickering. “What?” I ask, standing. I pat the dirt off my pants and frown. “You think you’re funny?”

  He stares at me, waiting. Like he knows what I’m saying.

  “You don’t seem too mean . . . can I pet you?” I don’t know why I’m talking to a horse, but it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to. I take a step forward and slowly lift my hand. The horse doesn’t move, so I reach forward, placing my hand on his nose. His skin is like velvet, soft and smooth as I run my hand down his skin, gentle and slow.

  “I have no idea what your name is, but you’re pretty sweet.”

  The horse shakes out his mane, then stills again, and I resume petting him. The white spot on his forehead kind of looks like a star. I like it.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? I’ll bet you just run around and eat grass all day without a care in the world, huh?”

  “Unfortunately, he probably won’t answer.”

  I jump and back away from the fence as the horse whinnies again and paws the ground with his hoof. He moves toward the low voice that spoke.

  A guy with dark hair stands a few feet away, on my side of the fence. I have no idea how I didn’t hear him coming. He’s like a ninja or something, though not dressed like one, that’s for sure.

  “What the . . .” I say as I stare at him. He’s about my age, but about a foot taller, and he’s wearing a cowboy hat, jeans, and a button-up shirt. His eyes are dark, with nice eyebrows and a strong jaw. His skin is tanned and he’s pretty skinny, though I can see the outline of muscles in his arms without him even flexing. He looks like he works outside a lot.

  Like, a lot.

  I want to defend my horse speaking, but nothing comes out. I’m all pink cheeks, I’m sure. All I can do is stare and stand there super awkwardly, no clue what to say. Because I was just talking to the horse.

  He heard me talking to the horse.

  I want to run away now.

  “Sorry,” he says, reaching out to pet the horse. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” The corner of his mouth turns up like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “This horse usually doesn’t take well to new faces, yet he seems to like you.”

  It takes me a moment to calm my racing heart, and then I shoot him a smile as I reach out to pet the horse again. “You scared the heck out of me. Do you always sneak up on people when they’re trying to have a conversation with someone?”

  He looks at me like I’m insane. “You mean, do I make it a habit to eavesdrop on horse/human conversations?”

  I fold my arms, challenging him with narrowed eyes. “Yes. You seem pretty good at it.”

  He looks slightly uncomfortable. “Well, no. But I am curious about something.”

  I wait. “What?”

  “I just wanted to know if Sherlock talked back. Now that would be interesting.”

  I stare at him. Even if I unnerved him by pretty much chewing him out, he still stands there, watching me. I can tell he’s on the shy side by the way he rubs his hands together, like he’s nervous. He seems nice, though. I need nice. I don’t answer his question. Instead, I change the subject. “Sherlock, huh? That’s a nice name. Very bookish. I appreciate that.”

  “Books, huh?” He raises an eyebrow and cracks a bigger smile. “You like to read then?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  He chuckles. “I can think of a few people who don’t. One, in particular.”

  I let out an exaggerated gasp and put a hand to my chest. “Who doesn’t like reading? Don’t tell me it’s you or we may not be able to be friends.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Maybe. I’d rather do something productive with my time.”

  My eyes widen, then I frown again. Oh, no he did not. “Reading is productive! Do you know how much information and stories are contained in books? You do go to school, right?”

  “Of course I do.” He raises an eyebrow at my outburst. “Do tell me why reading is productive, though. Besides studying for a test.”

  “You mean, you don’t read for fun?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Reading is work.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “It’s time consuming. I don’t have a lot of time. So, argue for the sake of your books. Prove me wrong.”

  “Lot’
s of reasons. One, you’re gaining knowledge. Two, you can learn so many things from reading. Different stories, characters, languages. You can learn how to do things like,” I gesture toward his horse, “ride a horse, for example.”

  “I learned the old-fashioned way. Trial and error.”

  “Boring.”

  He laughs. “I’m kidding. My uncle taught me how to ride a horse when I was three.”

  “Three?” I stare at him, my mouth open. Then I realize what I’m doing and close it, shaking my head. “Anyway. Books are one of the best creations on Earth. They’re my very favorite things. You can escape into them. Leave the real annoying and horrible world behind for a while.”

  “The world isn’t that bad.”

  I ignore that. “Books are magic. The stories, the smell of them, the feel of a new hardcover in my hands. It’s . . . magical. Like I said. They’re magic.” I know I probably have a goofy dreamy look on my face, but I don’t care. They’re my whole world.

  He cringes. “The smell of them?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never smelled a book.”

  He chuckles. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, you’re missing out then. They smell much better than a horse.”

  He laughs again and, as if on cue, Sherlock lifts his tail, leaving him a present on the ground. “I believe that.”

  The sound of hoofbeats come our way, and I glance up as the girl seated on a chestnut horse stops near Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t turn around or seem to care she’s there.

  The girl looks about my age, the one who was riding earlier, as does the guy still standing next to me. Her brown eyes appraise me and a smile graces her dark, pretty face.