Summer Love by Jill Santopolo Read Free Book Online Page B

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    â€œâ€˜That is all ye know on earth, and all ye needknow,’” Marco finishes for you. “Keats. ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ The enigmatic ending. That’s probably more an English major thing to study, but the connection between truth and beauty is interesting to debate. There could definitely be a philosophical discussion about that.”
    â€œThe truth is sometimes ugly,” you say, thinking about doctors having to tell people that they’re dying, teachers having to tell parents that there’s something wrong with their kids.
    â€œBut can there be beauty in ugliness?” Marco asks. “People still find beauty during wartime.”
    Your brain is working overtime to keep up with Marco, but you like it. It’s the most interesting conversation you’ve had maybe ever.
    â€œAren’t beauty and ugliness opposites, though?” you ask. “How can you find something in its opposite?”
    You’ve turned and are walking parallel to the water, the waves lapping cold against your toes.
    â€œThis guy I know,” Marco says, “photographs rust-covered Dumpsters and corroded pipes, but he zooms in really tight, so you can’t tell what you’re looking at. And it’s kind of gorgeous. It looks like modern art, all color and emotion.”
    â€œSo you’re saying ugly can be beautiful.” You look over at him.
    â€œAnd beautiful can be ugly,” he says. “But some-times, beautiful is just beautiful and ugly is just ugly.”
    You laugh. “Nothing is everything, but sometimes everything is everything and nothing is nothing.”
    â€œPretty much.” His dimple is back, and you fight the urge to poke your finger into it.
    â€œDid you have a final destination in mind?” you ask him.
    He points to the rocks about a dozen feet in front of you. “The jetty,” he says.
    â€œI used to climb on those rocks with my cousin,” you tell him.
    â€œI did, too—well, not with my cousin. Or your cousin. By myself,” he answers. “Maybe we used to see each other.”
    You try to remember seeing a smaller, younger version of Marco on the rocks, but you can’t. “I wasn’t here that often,” you say. “Usually just for a few days each summer.”
    You’ve made it to the jetty, and Marco starts to climb. You follow, until you’re both balancing on top of the closest rock.
    â€œHow daring are you?” he asks.
    The truth is usually you’re not very daring at all, but something’s different now. You decide to be as daring as Marco wants you to be.
    â€œVery,” you answer.
    His dimple comes back for another visit, and he steps from your rock to the one in front. “Follow me then.”
    You do, and carefully put your feet wherever he’s put his, as you move farther and farther out into the ocean, balancing on the slippery black boulders. When you’ve reached the farthest point on the jetty, Marco stops. You stop next to him.
    â€œThis is my favorite spot on the whole beach,” he says. “The waves, the wind, the height up here. It’s beautiful beautiful, not ugly beautiful.”
    He closes his eyes and tips his face up toward the sun. You close your eyes, too, and feel your hair whipping behind you in the wind.
    â€œYou look beautiful beautiful, too,” Marco says. “Like you could command the ocean. Like you’re its queen.”
    You open your eyes and look at him. His face looks so open that you can tell it’s not a line. He’s being honest. What was that about truth and beauty again?
    Something in you melts a little.
    â€œIf I’m a queen,” you say, “I think that means I need a king. You interested in the job?”
    Marco slides his arm over your shoulder. “It would be an honor,” he says. You lean your head against his and look out at the ocean. A queen with her king, ready to command