Everything is Unreasonable.

We were so stupid and naïve it’s almost painful to look back on it. Our summer days were spent drinking on the beach and partying; getting inebriated and going swimming was our fun at the beach. We’d jump off the jetty and scream over how cold the water was and over absolutely nothing at all when it wasn’t cold before wading around and stumbling to shore. Some nights the water would be rough and we knew it was stupid to go swimming, but did anyway. The only time we stopped was when Garrett swore he felt a shark swim around him. Your brother had always been terrified of sharks. I thought it was cute.

It wasn’t a secret that we got piss drunk on the beach on the weekends. You got high sometimes, and would show up at the beach higher than the goddamn moon, but the rest of us never got into drugs the way you did. When you were really high and went on your (however imaginary) escapades, it was scary. Once, when we were in the city, you’d tried something new in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant and fifteen minutes later I was turning my car around and speeding you to the hospital. Your parents ignored your drug problem. They set up appointments with a counselor and that was it. They never spoke of it. Not even when your brother told them that you’d been going to raves, not study groups, and getting high, not smart.

On the beach, you were better. There was less trouble for you to get into on the beach. Plus, at our beach gatherings, you drank more than you snorted or smoked.

It’s the middle of August, at another of our beach gatherings, when we decide to go to a warehouse party. I suggest it, saying that we should go as an early birthday shindig. My brain had lapsed completely and I forgot about you and your pinning addictions—we all know warehouse parties are notorious for two things: dancing and drugs. No one mentions it, though your brother stamps on my foot and you grow silent. You aren’t proud of your addiction; however, you do nothing to stop it from taking over whenever it wants to. I know you’re hesitant after I say it, because I should’ve thought of your drug problems before even saying it.

“Alright, let’s go to this party,” Kennedy says, digging his heel into the sand. Our shoes lay abandoned long ago, at the entrance to the beach where my car was parked.

“Where is it?” Jared asks. “I’m not going if it’s in the city. Not after what happened last time.”

There is a unanimous nod; after the last city party, none of us wanted to party at that scene for a long while.

“It’s in town,” I assure him. “At some abandoned parking garage with no security. The guy who told me about it said that it’s next Friday.”

“Perfect,” you say as you look up from the bottle of tequila. “Next weekend is your birthday weekend. We can go to this party on Friday and then throw you a private party on Saturday.”

Garrett’s laughter is muffled at first and grows louder when you glare at him. I smirk, knowing that he’s remembering my last birthday and I wait for you and your brother to duke it out. Kennedy gives me a look that tells me to either control you or rescue Garrett before he’ll have to deal with it. You and Kennedy had been a fling for a long while before he learned that you were getting into drugs harder than marijuana and broke it off. You hated him at first, claiming that you never wanted to see him ever again and disappeared for a few days. You came back with a line of tracks on your elbow and a pile of new skeletons in your closet. You stayed at my house for a few days after that and told no one but me what had happened. You made me swear on my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s grave that I wouldn’t tell. I still haven’t.

I know that you won’t hurt Garrett, but when you and he fight, play or not, it tends to get rough and last time Garrett had to get three stitches to sew up a nasty gash he’d gotten from the corner of a kitchen counter. When your wrestling gets to close to the water, I move to break it up. Since Garrett thought a shark had swam around him, he’s hasn’t been fond of being near, let alone in, the water at night. It’ll be easier for all of us the sooner it stops.

“Hey, hey!” I shout, walking toward you and Garrett. “Hey! Simmer down. You’re getting too close to the water.”

Garrett immediately jumps from you, hop-skipping it back to the dunes. He crashes into me, but it’s not like I mind. You laugh at us when you walk over, and soon we’re laughing too. Garrett rolls off of me and onto his back in the sand, still laughing. Pat, Jared and Kennedy walk over and Pat asks you what happened.

I cherish the good times. The times like these when we don’t have to care and all I care about is you and your brother and keeping the group together for one last high school adventure. We’ve already gotten our schedules—you, Garrett and I will have three classes together and all six of us have study hall together last block. We’re more than ready for senior year and for graduation. School makes it harder. Summer’s our time and we don’t worry about anything but getting drunk and having fun. I worry about you, though. It’s still scary to think about the times you’ve almost OD’d and what ifs and remembering that yes, you’ve done heroin and no, you can’t promise it won’t happen again. But I worry about all of you guys.

“Hey guys!” Pat calls from the edge of the jetty. I wonder when he climbed up there and watch as he jumps into the ocean. Garrett sighs and you laugh; I’m tempted to jump in too, but I know it would give Garrett a heart attack.

We sit on the jetty and dangle our feet near the shore break at around midnight. It’s way past curfew but we never get caught. No one looks on the beach for delinquents.

“We need to do something before school starts,” Kennedy says. I notice him scoot from you a bit and feel the awkward tension radiating from you both. “We only have a few more weeks of freedom.”

I laugh. “It’s our senior year, Kenny. After that we’ll be as free as birds!”

“Kennedy’s right,” you pipe up. “We haven’t done much of anything this summer. Not like last year.”

Jared voices his agreement, noting that last year we had visited theme parks and took a spontaneous road trip to southern Cali. This summer had been nothing but drunken nights on the beach. Last summer was fun and wild and this one is a bummer. I bite gently on my tongue and contemplate between speaking up and staying quiet. Before anyone can change the subject, I decide to speak up.

“We can’t drift apart, guys.” To everyone else it seems sudden. But, to me, it doesn’t. For the longest time, I’ve felt like something is going to happen and it’s going to change everything and everyone.

“Where’d that come from?” Pat asks, stretching his bare feet as far as they can reach.

“Just… it’s nothing. I just want to keep our friendship forever.” I laugh, trying to brighten the mood. “Like a keepsake.”

You giggle and cause everyone else to laugh. I smile.

We head home close to one. The moon is high in the sky and bears all but a small semicircle of blackness. I drive everyone home, just as I had driven everyone here. Jared and Pat first, then Kennedy, and finally you and your brother. He lies in the back, head resting on the car door and you sit in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio.

Our group is close, but you, Garrett and I have always been closer. We haven’t known each other any longer but our relationship is simply on a different level than our entire group’s relationship. It might be because Garrett and I are sort of something or maybe because you and I are sort of something or maybe because it’s always just been that way. None of us is sure and we don’t discuss it, because there honestly isn’t anything to talk about.

“So we’re almost seniors…” you murmur into the air. I haven’t put up my beat up convertible’s roof all summer. It hasn’t rained once.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “We’re getting old, Lyssa.”

You laugh at me. “We’re not old, John,” you say. “We’re retro.”

Garrett and I laugh too and I drive up to the edge of your front lawn. It’s too familiar; the tan stucco house, red roof and cobblestone path leading to the front porch. We—Garrett, you and me—grew up here. I smile at a few fond memories that flash behind my eyes and whisper goodbyes to you and Garrett.

The drive to my house takes less than five minutes. My house, which is nearly identical to yours and Garrett’s, is just down the street and I notice the living room lights are still on when I pull up. I stride up the cobblestone path to my own front door and go inside. Mom’s sitting on her favorite armchair, her hair done up in curlers and she’s dressed in her fluffy pink bathrobe and matching slippers.

“Where have you been?” she asks, but doesn’t sound mad.

“At the beach,” I reply calmly. “With Lyss and the guys.”

Mom nods. “Come here,” she says, patting the edge of the couch next to her chair. “We need to talk.”

I hesitate for a moment, dread growing into a rock in my stomach, but walk over to the couch as if nothing is wrong. I sit and look at my mother expectantly, as if we’re having a perfectly normal conversation rather than one between a stressed mother and son at two in the morning. Mom takes my hand in hers and I know something’s wrong. Her hand is smaller than my palm and her nimble fingers can’t even wrap around my hand.

“John,” she murmurs, “your father and I… we’re filing for a divorce.”

The dread rock in my stomach gets bigger and rises to my throat. Tears prick my eyes like tiny, salty daggers. I press my lips together and hold just a little tighter onto my mother’s hand.

“When?” I ask when I collect myself and my thoughts. Mom pauses, touching one finger to her lips as she thinks.

“Soon,” she finally answers, voice definite but shaky. I press my lips together again and nod stiffly. Mom continues, “We’re probably going to separate after Christmas. The divorce may be finalized in February of next year. We want to do what’s best for you kids and we feel like this is best.”

“I… understa-and,” I mumble weakly, voice cracking mid-word.

Mom removes her hand from mine and hugs me gently. “I told you because you’re the oldest and I thought you would handle it the best,” Mom says. “Please, please, don’t tell your siblings yet. Your father and I want to tell them together.”

I agree not to tell either of my siblings and Mom lets go of me. Her hands linger on my shoulders and she just stares at me for a second before sitting back in her armchair and letting a heavy sigh out. I sit, uncomfortably waiting for my mother to speak again. She doesn’t. I leave and go downstairs. I toss the cushions off the couch and pull out the bed, promptly plopping onto the mattress.

I prefer sleeping in the basement on the pull out bed. It’s private and cooler than the rest of the house—and that’s a gift in the middle of California.