The Summer That Wasn’t

I had a map. Not a literal one, though I did buy one of the laminated ones at the gas station, blue veins of interstate highways cutting through the country like restless arteries. But this map was in my head—of beaches, of reunions, of laughter over bonfires. Of promises made in spring when everything still felt possible.

That was before everything unraveled. Before the summer that wasn’t.

It started in April with my best friend Jules, who’d insisted we take a post-grad road trip. The idea was to hit the coast, camp along the way, and "find ourselves," whatever that meant. We even had a group chat titled “The Great Escape.” There were five of us: me, Jules, Kamari, Theo, and Nora. We had been close since sophomore year—coffee-fueled crammers, heartbreak counselors, and late-night philosophers.

By May, though, the cracks had started to show. Theo had to bow out first—family emergency. His mom had fallen ill, and even though he didn’t talk about it much, we knew the trip was over for him before it began. Then Kamari got an internship in New York—some marketing thing he couldn’t pass up. “Just one summer,” he said, “and then we’ll all do it next year.” But that was the whole point: there wasn’t a next year, not like this.

Still, Jules and I were determined. “We can make it work,” she said. “It’s not about how many people go—it’s the vibe.”

We planned. We packed. And on the first morning of June, we stood next to her dad’s old Subaru Outback, backpacks and sleeping bags crammed in the back, a mix of excitement and defiance in our eyes.

But the universe had other plans.

We didn’t make it out of town that day. The engine overheated before we hit the highway. The mechanic said the radiator was toast and the earliest he could fix it was the following Wednesday. We laughed it off—just a delay.

Wednesday came, and so did a thunderstorm. The repair shop flooded. No joke. The radiator was delayed again, parts back-ordered. By the time the car was roadworthy, nearly two weeks had passed.

“Okay,” Jules said, biting her lip, “so we lose Oregon and the Redwoods. Let’s pivot. Utah? Arizona?”

I nodded. We re-mapped the route, tossed out half the itinerary, and finally—finally—got on the road.

Two days later, in the middle of Nevada, Jules got a call.

Her sister had been in a car accident. Minor, but enough to shake her. “I think I need to go back,” she said, eyes wide and glassy. I didn’t argue. I knew I’d do the same.

We turned around.

By the end of June, I was back in my childhood bedroom, watching the same ceiling fan spin in lazy circles. My parents were happy to have me home, but I wasn’t happy to be there. I wasn’t even sure where there was supposed to be anymore.

Jules and I still texted, but the momentum of the trip was gone. Kamari posted Instagrams from the top of a skyscraper. Nora disappeared into a yoga retreat and only surfaced once with a group photo of sun-kissed faces I didn’t recognize.

I started to spiral—not dramatically, just quietly. The way days start to blend together. I’d stay up late watching old movies, sleep until noon, eat cereal at odd hours. I wrote half of a short story, then deleted it. I painted three canvases, then stacked them face-down under my bed. I wasn’t sad, not really—I just didn’t know what to do with all the time I was supposed to be making memories with.

It was in the middle of July, around 2 a.m., when I heard something outside.

A soft mewling.

I opened the back door and found a kitten. Tiny, orange, filthy. My first instinct was to close the door and pretend I hadn’t seen it. But I didn’t.

I wrapped it in an old towel, fed it milk from a bowl, and named it Rusty.

Turns out Rusty had fleas and ringworm and a tiny heart murmur. The vet said, “He’s fragile, but tough. Like a little fighter jet.” I laughed harder than I had in weeks.

Caring for Rusty gave shape to my days. There were feedings and meds and vet visits. I started reading about feline behavior. Then I started reading again, period—actual books, not tweets or TikToks. I found myself going for walks in the evening, sometimes with Rusty curled in a soft sling across my chest. Old neighbors smiled at me. One even invited me to a community garden meet-up.

By August, I had joined a volunteer program at the local shelter. Twice a week, I helped socialize feral kittens. My clothes were always covered in fur, my phone full of cat videos. I reconnected with an old high school classmate named Lina who also volunteered there. We started grabbing smoothies after our shifts. One night, she asked if I wanted to go hiking. That turned into a picnic. That turned into something else.

I’d stopped waiting for summer to begin, and I hadn’t even noticed.

The beach trip never happened. There were no bonfires, no sun-drenched group selfies. But there was Rusty, purring on my lap. There was Lina, whose laugh made me feel like a new season had started inside me. There was the realization that some summers aren’t about going far—they’re about finding something where you already are.