The summer quickly becomes ours.
The two of us meet each other on the top of the Dupuy building nearly every day. We smoke cigarettes and talk about random, silly things. The conversations may be little, but they stick in my mind for hours afterwards. Granted, I'm the one doing the talking, but Robin's sarcastic writings in the notes app are no less meaningful to me.
Going on two weeks of friendship, and it already it doesn't take me long to take notice of the raging crush I have on him. I call it my summer crush, in hopes that it'll pass soon. I've never been good with keeping my feelings to myself. Whether it's an opinion or affection, I can't help but express it. Still, part of me wants this summer crush to develop into something more. It's the hopeless romantic in me talking, a secret part of humans that I like to believe we all have.
On this particular day, I stop by a fast food place to pick up cheap burgers, fries, and vanilla shakes before walking across town to our building, where Robin is waiting for me. He has his knees pulled up to his chest and a contemplative frown on his face, which quickly smooths out once he catches sight of me.
"Hey, Birdy," I greet, taking my usual spot next to him.
I take my food out of the bag and hand the bag over to Robin, who flashes me a look of confusion. I set his shake down next to him.
"I brought you lunch," I say. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I just got us the same thing."
Robin pulls out his phone and types something. He gives me a smile.
Thank you. You didn't have to do that.
"I know. I wanted to."
Robin smiles again, pulling a fry out of the bag. He sets his food down in his lap and both of us set about scarfing it all down in the way only teenage boys can manage.
Robin yawns and lays down away from the edge of the roof, hand resting on his stomach. I scoot over and lay beside him, closing my eyes. It's kind of hot, but it's only ninety degrees, so it could be worse. Up here though, it feels a hell of a lot hotter than it really is. I should have brought a tub of ice cream.
We lay there, full and sunbathing with our clothes on. I don't start a conversation, finding that I like the silence. I don't feel very talkative today and Robin doesn't have a very demanding presence. Around my other friends, I feel like I have to keep up an image, but Robin takes things as they are. I like that about him.
Suddenly, a noise sounds from below us. I jump and I might be embarrassed about it if Robin didn't jump, too. I sit up, glancing toward the stairwell. It sounded like it came from downstairs, maybe in the bar. That would make sense. Why else would it sound like shattering glass?
Robin gets up and peers over the side of the building, checking for any people who may have smashed the remaining glass in the windows. I don't think that's likely, thought. It was a big crash, like a box of glass being dropped on the floor all at once.
"They say this building is haunted, you know," I point out.
Robin pulls his phone out and types something.
Everybody knows that.
"Do you think it was ghosts?" I ask.
Robin shrugs. He points at the hatch and raises an eyebrow.
"You want to investigate? What if it was a murderer and not a ghost? A ghost murderer? We could die."
Robin rolls his eyes and lightly shoves me forward.
"Fine, but you're going first."
Robin takes the time to write a response, barely giving me enough time to read it before descending down the stairs.
Scaredy cat.
"Hey!" I call.
Robin's muffled, quiet laughter drifts up to me and my cheeks turn red. I'm glad Robin can't see me. There's no reason I should be blushing.
I follow him out into the hallway of rooms and then down the stairs again to the main room where the bar is. Robin taps my arm and points out at the floor.
The few dusty glasses that had been standing on the shelf look like they've been thrown across the room, landing somewhere in the middle of the floor. The front door is shut, just the way we left it, and the room is void of people aside from us.
"I can't handle this spooky shit," I say.
Robin smiles reassuringly.
"I mean, I cry during horror movies," I add. "Well, not really, but I want to."
Robin goes over to inspect the glass shards and waves me over. I follow after him, regretting wearing flip-flops as I maneuver my way around the glass. Robin kicks the pile experimentally with the tip of his shoe, as if to say, 'yeah, that's glass, all right'.
I look around the room, waiting for someone to pop out and scare us. No one does, thankfully. Robin points back to the stairwell and shrugs.
"You want to go back up there when there's possibly malicious ghosts?"
Robin rolls his eyes.
We'll be fine, Jules, he types, then adds as an afterthought, I'll protect you.
I feel my cheeks heat up. "Robin!"
Robin grins and a laugh bubbles out of his chest, the first clear noise I've gotten out of him. Despite him purposely making me flustered, I find myself mirroring his smile. I don't mention it as we walk up the spiral staircase and through the hallway, or even once we're on the rooftop. I don't need to say anything. What we don't say speaks volumes.
Usually, we meet up and hang out in the abandoned building, but we go other places sometimes. We'll go down to the park behind the Dupuy house, where we'll sit on the swings and talk until the sun goes down.
We spend most of the day with each other. Robin never seems to have to do anything, but I have to go do things with my parents when they want me to. On Saturdays, I go to therapy, so I have to walk to the doctor's offices from downtown at one o'clock, leaving Robin alone to do whatever it is he does.
It takes me exactly thirteen days of knowing Robin to get me to start talking about him during my therapy sessions. My therapist, Margaret Burns, who I affectionately call Marge, quickly points out to me how much of a positive influence Robin has had on me.
I pour out my worries to her, and these days, most of them revolve around Robin. I ask if it's wrong to get so attached to someone in such a short amount of time. I ask how I should go about his selective mutism. I ask about if I'm stable enough to be in a relationship, if I should want that, whether it would be good for us, whether I'm being too forward, if I should be worried about him, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...
When I leave her office, I leave feeling lighter, uplifted, like a balloon that just got more helium put in. Happiness isn't something that comes naturally to me, but I've been working on it since I was twelve, and I've pretty much gotten the hang of it. I can manage stress now, something I couldn't do a few years ago. I can get out of bed with a normal amount of difficulty, which the pills help with. The pills help with a lot, not with everything, but some things.
Happiness is something that some people need to find, and I think I've pretty much found it. I like living, another thing I also could not genuinely say a few years ago. I'm in a good place and I'm proud of myself. Of course there's still a few insecurities that won't go away, but I've learned that everyone has those. It's natural. It makes me wonder what insecurities Robin has.
After I leave Marge's office, I walk back to the Dupuy house, hoping that Robin is still there. I don't see him on the edge of the roof, but I go up anyway. He could still be up there, and I find out that he is.
"Hey, I'm back," I announce cheerfully, causing Robin to glance up from the notebook he's doodling in.
He smiles and flips to a new page and writes something down for me to read.
I'm glad you're back. Where did you go...?
I scratch the back of my neck. When I left, I just told him I had to go somewhere. I'm not ashamed of going to therapy, but in a fit of uncharacterized anxiety, I couldn't get the words out. While at Marge's, I also talked about my fear of rejection, and how that likely was the reason I couldn't immediately tell it to Robin. I worked it through.
"Uh, therapy," I admit.
Robin frowns a little and frantically scribbles something down on the page.
Are you okay? His writing is sloppy.
I smile a little, feeling all the anxiety leave me at once. "Yeah, I'm good. I talked about a lot of shit, got it all out of my system. It's pretty routine now. I'm been going since I was twelve."
Robin's anxious look relaxes into something calmer.
What happened? I can almost see the tentativeness in his words.
"Depression," I answer, going over and taking my normal spot next to him. "It's genetic. My mom has it, too."
Robin nods. You don't deserve that.
My stomach does this weird, unsolicited thing where it starts to simultaneously flutter and ache. I want to hug him.
"Thank you."
Robin taps his pencil against the notebook for a moment, thinking, before he carefully writes something down.
You can always talk to me, if you need someone.
My heart is beating so fast and my throat closes up so much that I can barely speak for fear of choking. "Thank you. I'm always here for you, too. I, uh- I care about you a lot, even though we've only known each other for thirteen days. I mean, um..." I think quickly, thinking of ways to dig myself out of this hole. "Not that I've been counting."
Robin smiles, laughter clearly shining in his eyes. I care about you, too.
"Oh," I whisper, relieved. "Good."
Robin stays silent, but I can hear him laughing. He reaches out and pats my shoulder, sympathetic for my embarrassment. If I look closely, a soft rosy tint tinges the tops of his cheeks.
"So," I start, wanting to change the subject, "what where you drawing?"
Robin catches on and he smirks softly at me before flipping back to the previous page he was on, where a rough sketch of the view of the park from the roof graces the page.
"That's really good," I exclaim. "I didn't know you were such a talented artist."
Robin's cheek flush and he rolls his eyes at me. He flips back to the page we'll call the answer sheet, and scribbles something down.
It's not my best work, but thanks.
"Why do artists always belittle their work," I groan. "It's super good and you can't convince me otherwise."
You're such a sap, Jules.
"And?"
I just thought I'd point it out.
"Anyway, do you want to do professional artisting?"
Robin snorts at the wording. No, it's just a hobby. I don't know what I want to do full-time.
"Me neither, for the most part. I'm thinking about being a receptionist. I'd probably enjoy that."
I think you'd be good at that.
I smile. "Thanks."
I think about what Robin would be good at, but I find that I don't know enough about him yet to settle on anything. We have only known each other for thirteen days, after all. I still have the whole rest of the summer to learn everything there is to know about Robin Diering.
On Tuesday, June 19th, we venture off the rooftop and walk to the lake. On the way over, we buy sandwiches from the nearest deli so we can eat there.
After about a half an hour of walking, we finally reach the park by the lake. We find a picnic bench up on a tiny hill that has a good view of the water and sit ourselves down there. Ducks are swimming in the lake and Robin breaks off pieces of bread from his sandwich and tosses them into the water, despite bread being horrible for ducks.
The ducks speed toward the food, tails wiggling rapidly back and forth as they propel themselves forward. The bread floating in the water is gone in seconds, and the ducks swim around, looking up at Robin as they quack, begging for more.
A few more ducks spot us and walk over, quacking and making soft noises as they mill about the table. Some of them slide into the water, ruffling their feathers. A couple of the ducks from the lake jump out and walk over to Robin, getting so close to him that they're only a couple inches away from his feet.
Robin looks genuinely happy, crowded by ducks as he hands out food to them. I end up giving my bread to him since he's enjoying it much more than I ever could. Once he runs out of bread, he tosses them lettuce, which they seem to like just as much. When he runs out of food to give them, he holds up his hands apologetically and the ducks eventually wander off, but a few of them linger behind.
The whole time I just sit and watch quietly, smiling.
"You're like the duck whisperer now," I say.
Robin laughs and the sound sends tingles down my spine, all the way down to my toes.
"If I had more food on me, I'd give it to you so you could keep feeding them."
Robin smiles. He points to the direction of the trail entrance, asking me if I want to go walk around. I agree, grabbing our trash and tossing it into the garbage can by the bench as we head over to the path.
We start down the trail, which is about two miles and loops back around. I haven't walked it since I was a kid and went on a field trip in like, fourth grade. I remember it being exciting, and it still is.
We reach an area of grass that's covered in the little white flowers that grow out of clover. I walk over there while Robin attempts to climb one of the oak trees. I pick a whole bunch of the flowers, leaving the stems on, and tie them together until I make a crown, which I place on my head. I make another crown and an extra string, which I take over to Robin.
"I made you a gift, ducky," I tell him brightly.
Robin grins, pulling his phone out of his pocket so he can open the notes app.
Ducky?
"Your newest name," I say.
Robin nods, as if this makes sense.
You said you brought me a gift?
"Uh huh." I nod.
I plop the crown on his head and gesture for him to give me his arm. I tie the string of flowers into a bracelet around his wrist, relishing the moments when my fingers brush against his skin.
"There." I let go of Robin's wrist, feeling a little shaky.
Robin is smiling sillily as he types his response on his phone.
Best present I've ever gotten.
I beam, swallowing thickly as my throat threatens to close up. "No problem. Want to keep walking?"
Robin nods.
"Let's go then, ducky."
I continue down the path, hearing Robin's soft giggling behind me. He catches up to me and reaches over and straightens my flower crown.
We don't see any deer like I had hoped, but a few squirrels cross our path. They scamper around in the blackberry bushes, nearly giving me a heart attack because I keep thinking it might be a bear or something, even though bears don't live in this part of California. When the fat, grey squirrel leaps out of the bushes and runs out in front of us, it startles me so badly that I have to take a few moments to gather myself, sending Robin into a laughing fit.
We pass by the houses that border the lake and walk along the trail there. We come across a tire swing attached to one of the trees in the back of a house, and swing on that, laughing at each other all the while. I take a few pictures of Robin as he swings, which he protests to and immediately snatches my phone away to delete them.
"But you looked cute," I whine.
Robin shakes his head, handing my phone back. When I look at the camera roll, I notice that one of the pictures is left and I feel warm inside.
It gets too hot to be outside around two, so once we finish leisurely walking the trail, we head back downtown, picking up frozen yoghurt before returning to the Dupuy house. We don't go up to the roof since it's straight in the sun, instead opting to sit at the chairs in the front bar area.
We ignore the routine banging coming from upstairs, which be both know is just the dead residents of the house and not some murderer. Robin tells me not to let it scare me, so I don't pay it any attention.
We stay there until it gets dark, at which point we walk home together in near darkness, parting ways at the gas station. Robin turns left and I go right, heading back to our respective homes. I feel like I'm floating.