The Summer House

Brendon slammed hard on the breaks, causing both our bodies to jerk forward against our seatbelts as we fishtailed around the road. My hands pressed flat against the dashboard and passenger side window, bracing myself as best as I could for the throw around. Dirt flew up and clouded the windows of car, and I could barely make out from the shock that we were just a couple of yards away from the town. In the back of my head I was certain we were dead.

I pushed against the passenger door, not even sparing a glance at Brendon. My tiny frame tumbled out of the Chevy and onto the dusty ground dry heaving into the dirt.

A string of curses flew from my mouth as the driver's side door popped open and Brendon made his way to me.

He crouched down to my level. "Did that help?" he inquired, a grin on his face. I noticed he was slightly out of breath and wildly disheveled.

Another string of profanities left my lips as I shakily tried to get up. My knees buckled and I fell back onto the ground in front of him.

"Are you okay?" Brendon asked with concern. When I glared at him the remainder of his smile slipped off his face. "Hey, don't be mad. I was just trying to help; I didn't mean to scare you so much..."

His hand fell gently on my shoulder and I had half a mind to shake it off.

"I don't even know how you thought it would be okay to do that," I snapped, my voice hoarse from screaming. “You—” I let out a strangled shriek and continued to bombard his ears with the foulest names I could come up with. At the moment, it escaped me that he was "good boy Brendon" who took care of his Grandmother at ungodly hours of the night. At the moment, he was just the psychotic guy who somehow got his driver's lisence and could have killed us both.

It surprised and annoyed me when he chuckled. "I’m a highschool teacher, remember? The best way to learn is to experience and I thought by experiencing an adrenaline rush you would be able to break out of some of your writers block.”

Though his logic seemed innocent enough, I couldn’t help but glare angrily at Brendon’s sincerely apologetic and hopeful face. It was plain to see that he didn’t mean any harm, but I still had a sneaking suspicion that he was a little bit out his mind. What kind of person let go of the steering wheel and closed their eyes? For a split second I wished that he was ejected from the driver’s seat at some point in the whole mess.

Without another word, I got to my feet, taking a deep breath and shoving Brendon’s shoulder back hard enough to tip him over onto his back. He got up quickly and began dusting himself off. “Come on, Madeline. It wasn’t that bad. It’s not like I would let anything happen to you.”

I shoved him to the ground again and let out another flurry of curses before turning back to the car. He let out an exasperated sigh before getting up and cleaning himself off again, pulling the passenger door open for me as he went.

The car ride home was slow and silent. Brendon purposely kept the needle just under the line that marked the speed limit and his hands firmly gripped around the steering wheel. He even widened his eyes a little more and hardly blinked to diffuse the tension, but stopped when I glared at him and told him where he could shove himself. His brown eyes occasionally darted to my face, looking sorrier with every passing second. I stubbornly kept my attention out the passenger window.

When Brendon pulled up to his driveway 50 minutes later, I quickly pushed the car door open and slammed it shut. My shaky legs moved down the driveway and towards my side of the lake, barely pausing when Brendon’s shy voice broke the air.

“Aren’t you coming over?”

My head turned minutely but I kept walking towards my grubby lake house, ignoring the innocent hurt in his voice.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, walking after me. I could hear the gravel crunch under his sneakers and reverberate off the secluded area we lived in. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The crunch of pebbles behind me stopped when I continued on my way home. “Madeline?”

-x-

I stared at my typewriter hours later, impressed with the number of coherent sentences I had managed to effortlessly type out. I had filled seven pages and a little more since I had marched back home and promptly slammed my front door closed.

I gazed out of the window tiredly, watching the sun slip into its bed behind the horizon. The entire scene outside was painted lilac and orange, casting spindly shadows from the lush trees that lined the area.

Across the ever-sparkling water, the Urie lake house glowed with lit windows. I briefly watched Georgia bustle around in the kitchen, moving in and out of sight as she ducked behind the sink and paced back to the dining room. She looked strung out, her movements short and whip-like.

One floor up, I spotted Brendon rummaging around shelves and looking under couches. His head snapped up from his position on the floor and he abruptly grabbed the cellphone off the coffee table, bringing it to his ear and reclining on the sofa. He looked mildly upset but smiled tiredly a couple of seconds into the conversation he was having. I wondered who he was talking to but hastily forgot about it as I looked back down to Georgia’s part of the house. The third floor was doused in black.

I sighed and peeked over my shoulder. The only company I had was an overweight raccoon that seemed keen on tearing up the cushions while it took advantage of my kindness and slept on the loveseat.

It was then that my mother’s voice and concern finally caught up with me; I really was lonely out here. Back in L.A., I was so driven by the city and with work that I didn’t notice the subtle void that was digging itself into my life. My time was usually taken up by book tours, promotional shoots, and interviews so I didn’t realize all the people I was surrounded by were all fleeting. Sure, I was aware that many used and abused friendship in Los Angeles to climb up the fame ladder, but it really never hit me that I was truly friendless. In fact, Brendon was the first person who was remotely constant in my life lately.

The sudden vision of me sitting old and grey on the couch with nothing but the raccoon in my lap nauseated me. I turned back to look out the window.

Brendon had risen out of his seat on the couch and was now leaning against the frame of the ceiling-to-floor window, gazing out to his dock with the cellphone still pressed against his ear.

Slowly, I pushed out of my chair and made my way out of the French doors and out the back patio, reveling in the feeling of the cool breeze against the humidity. With a glance back at the raccoon to make sure it wasn’t getting into any more shenanigans, I grabbed my coffee off the desk and sat down at one of the patio chairs.

“Are you still angry with me?”

Brendon’s voice knocked me out of my thoughts as he made his way around the lake. His features were arranged in caution, afraid to set me off again on one of my cursing tirades, hands shoved in the pockets of his lilac hoodie. I felt a little guilty that he tried to watch his mouth around me but I had unleashed a storm of bad words on him without hesitation just hours ago.

I shook my head. “I wrote seven pages of material today,” I admitted, embarrassed. “You were right.”

He stopped beside me and I motioned for him to sit down in the vacant chair. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I really didn’t mean to; I thought we were having fun.”

I stifled a snort and nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Hey, look, I won’t try to help anymore, okay? Just please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not angry anymore, Brendon. Relax.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes simply watching the last strands of sunshine disappear into the navy blue blanket of night.

“Georgia was wondering where you were at dinner tonight.” His voice was so quiet that I had to strain my ears to hear him.

“I missed Georgia tonight,” I nodded truthfully.

He turned his head to me and studied my profile for awhile before smiling. The silence took its place again over our heads.

“Maybe you could come over and visit,” he offered shyly, throwing me a sideways glance. “I think she’s still awake.”

“You think?”

“Well she would be happy to wake up to talk to you,” he amended, blushing. My raised my eyebrows at him and laughed quietly to myself. Brendon fumbled embarrassedly with the strings of his hoodie.

“Maybe some other time,” I smiled. “When she’s willingly conscious.”

“Do you wanna come over for coffee or something?” Brendon offered again, looking hopeful. When he spotted the mug in my hands, his face dropped. “Oh, never mind.”

I observed him turn back to face the darkened lake, bottom lip trapped under his teeth. I got up from my seat and walked towards the nearest bush, aware that his bright brown eyes were following my movements. I dumped the coffee in my mug onto the plant and turned around to grin at him.

“I feel like coffee; can I come over to your house?”

-x-

“So are we good now?”

Brendon had asked the same question for the fifth time in two hours and my responses had been the same reassuring ‘yes’. Now it was just getting old.

“Would you like me to say ‘no’?” I asked dryly, biting into the cookie he had offered me. He popped the rest into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

He frowned. “No.”

“Let it go. You went a little too far. It’s okay, really. You really helped in the end.”

“Does that mean I can keep helping?” he joked, holding out another cookie to my lips.

I bit into it and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Really?” His shock almost made the cookie in his hand crumble onto the counter. “Say you’re not joking.”

“You helped,” I shrugged again, fishing for another cookie in the jar we were steadily emptying. “I mean, I’ll kill you if you do anymore of that kind of life threatening stuff, just so we’re clear on that. But otherwise...”

“Refill?” he asked while pouring more coffee into his mug. I nodded and he filled my mug half way, leaving room for cream and sugar. “I promise I won’t do anymore life threatening stuff.” He stirred the cream into his coffee leisurely. “I just wanted to help you with your writing since you help me a lot with my Grandma.”

A loud crash sounded from above us and in a flash Brendon was on his feet, sprinting up the stairs. His slender fingers hit the light switches he passed, illuminating the way for me as I followed behind him. His nimble body dashed up the steps, two at a time, making his way to the third floor. When we were halfway up the final set of stairs, a series of wet, hacking coughs accompanied our stomping feet. Brendon only ran faster.

I hesitated when we hit the landing, watching him disappear through one of three doors. Sluggishly, I inched forward, peering into the room. It suddenly felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped down my back.

“Gramma, are you okay?” Brendon questioned frantically, kneeling down beside her bed and placing a gentle hand on her frail shoulders. His eyes were wider in panic, inspecting his Grandmother for any surface wounds. "Gramma?"

The old woman shook her head ‘yes’ but continued to wheeze. I could almost feel my own throat go raw at the scraping hacks she coughed out.

Brendon turned towards the nightstand for the pitcher of water, only to realize that he had been kneeling in it and its glass shards the whole time. He blinked, stupefied.

“I’ll get it,” I told him, heading back down the stairs for a glass of water, dust pan, and paper towels. It took several minutes to find everything, and when I returned, Brendon was still kneeling in the broken pieces of the pitcher and puddle of water.

I shyly entered the room and handed him the water, watching him slowly tip its contents into his Grandmother’s thin mouth. The coughing had died down significantly, as did the wheeze. I didn’t fail to note that Brendon’s face was covered in grief as I began to pick up the shards of glass. He tried to shoo my hand away, telling me that he would clean it up, but I ignored him and continued, laying down paper towels on the parts of the wooden floor I had cleared.

Murmurs were exchanged between them, and within half an hour, his Grandmother was back to sleep and the spill had been cleared away. Brendon’s jeans were soaked to the knees and a few places were torn, revealing the shallow cuts on his skin underneath.

We quietly made our way downstairs, telling Georgia, who emerged from her bedroom looking groggy and worried, that everything was taken care of and that she should go to back to sleep.

“Are you alright?” I asked Brendon quietly, eyeing his vulnerable and helpless expression when we returned to the kitchen. I grabbed another sheet of paper towel and ran it under the faucet before rinsing it out and sitting on the floor in front of him.

“I’m fine,” he responded hoarsely, wiping away most of the helplessness from his face and looking down at me. I began dabbing off some of the blood from his scrapes. “Thanks, Madeline. But you don’t have to do that. I’m fine, it barely even hurts anymore.”

He tried to pull me back to my feet but I stayed put, seeing the mixture of devastation and fatigue in his watery eyes. I had a feeling that his last statement not only addressed his cuts, and I couldn’t suppress the sinking feeling that swelled in my chest. Not knowing what to say, I continued to clean up his surface wounds.