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  “Goodbye,” he said.

  Then he pulled the ring off his finger and pitched it into the hole. The cuticle-rip of the haunt tearing loose kneecapped him. Spit filled his mouth until he gagged. His forehead rested on the ground. Frantic with loss, he reached for the hole, about to fling himself in to recover the ring and the last vestiges it housed—but before instinct could transmute to action he forced himself to hold fast. He caught a sobbing breath. Knowing it was the right thing to do, to preserve the memory of Eddie as he’d really been, rather than what he’d become, didn’t fix how bad it hurt to be well and truly alone. When the first wave of the dispossession’s ache abated, he rose to his feet and edged back from the cavern, one step at a time, by himself.

  Eddie’s remnant had let him go, but the vibration of their bloody inheritance remained in his veins, sensitive to the sucking pressure of the caverns regardless of the resolution of his more personal nightmare. Curses weren’t as simple to put aside as a ghost willing to be laid to rest; that grim weight would nest inside of him until the end of his life. Andrew trudged through howling winds toward the glowing blaze of the fire. Each crunch of forest debris under his shoes put another foot of distance between the person he had been and the person he thought he might become. Eddie had left him this, also: a future to see through.

  * * *

  In Eddie’s old bedroom, Andrew sat at the edge of the bare mattress. The sheets at his feet were destined for the washing machine. The final clean load of Eddie’s clothes lay spread on the bed. He wasn’t sure whether to keep or donate them, but the small constant pain of cleaning Eddie’s space, putting to rest the mundane remains of his lost companion, kept him grounded. Without the haunt dogging his steps, the process of grieving was mechanical but raw.

  He came downstairs and collapsed onto the sofa. Riley pulled on his high-tops, smoke leaking out around the blunt pinched between his lips. Luca and Ethan were horsing around in the kitchen in preparation for a night out; he’d been spending more time with them, since the hospital. Luca’s sense of humor made him smile four times out of five, and he needed that. Tonight they were celebrating. The review committee had accepted Riley’s thesis proposal, revised to adapt Eddie’s unfinished work on folklore studies.

  Andrew swilled the remains of his beer and texted Sam three times, dropping more stones into the well:

  laid him to rest and burnt the old house down

  it’s just me in here

  and i’m ready whenever

  He didn’t expect a response, but he got one five minutes later as he shut the front door behind their cadre of rolling mischief. See you tonight. He stared at his phone for a beat before meeting Riley’s gaze.

  “Don’t fuck it up,” Riley said.

  “I won’t,” he said, but he wasn’t sure he knew how to keep the promise.

  Riley led his group of four to their cars, as gaudy and unruly as ever, including the Supra, which still sported its hideous reddish mauve wrap. Their pack met at a gas station on the opposite side of the neighborhood this time. Andrew parked next to Ethan, who flicked him finger-guns when he went inside for his requisite candy bar and bottled water. The clerk eyeballed the fresh pink weals tracking up his wrists to his elbows with disdain.

  Andrew curled his lip and said, “Got a problem?”

  “No way, man,” the clerk said.

  He crammed a quarter of the Payday in his mouth on the way out the door. Caramel stuck inside the cracks of his teeth in a stinging rush. Riley called out, “Leading tonight, Blur?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he agreed thoughtlessly, then heard a familiar engine.

  The WRX rolled over the bump of the entrance curb and coasted past the service station door in front of Andrew. He swigged a mouthful from his water to wash down peanut-grit, covering his burst of conflicted nerve-biting emotion. Sam parked next to his cousin and rolled his window down, languid, unmarked perfection as seen from the left side.

  “Good news, I’m not blind,” he said. “I can still drive.”

  “Bad joke,” Riley said.

  “Who said it was a joke?” he fired right back.

  Andrew approached them, breathless for no reason and drinking in the sight of Sam, in his car where he belonged, like a parched man in a desert. A matte black patch covered one half of Sam’s arresting stare, but the visible eye regarded him with the ferocity he had been missing.

  “Y’all go on,” Andrew said to Riley as he strode past the Mazda. “We’ll text and catch up, after.”

  He didn’t wait to see if his direction was followed, just opened the passenger door of the WRX and flopped inside, the closest he’d been to Sam in far too long. Time and distance hadn’t cooled his interest while he settled into himself as a single man. The passenger seat was as comfortable as he remembered.

  Sam scratched his own chin, nails scraping over stubble with a rasp, and said, “You got something to tell me?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Andrew chewed the inside of his cheek. Words piled up in his throat. He hadn’t explained himself much to Sam since he’d moved to Nashville, but this was the one time he needed to be direct. He fought the urge to blurt out a grandiose, ill-conceived, revealing offer, do you want to open a garage together, or something like that. Instead he said, “I thought about the whole thing, start to finish. How much you did for me and how much I didn’t do for you, just kept taking. And I know I want to do shit for you, with you. I do.” He sipped a quick shaken breath and finished with crushing simplicity. “You’re worth it to me.”

  Sam said, “I’m not jealous of him, it was never about that. It’s about reciprocity.”

  “I can do better.”

  “Prove it,” Sam said.

  Andrew leaned across the gearshift. Sam stopped him with an open hand to the sternum that slid up, firm and sure, to the base of his throat. Fingers spread careful but grounding across the width of his neck; a thumb notched onto his pulse on the other side. Andrew’s eyes traced over Sam’s scarred brow, his narrow cheeks and evening stubble. Possibilities swirled in the smell of gasoline and the crisp October night. He swallowed, throat bobbing against the webbing of Sam’s thumb joint. His stare rested on Sam’s mouth—telegraphing his intentions, though the other man held him at a careful distance. Tension shivered between them.

  Then Sam said, with more gentleness than Andrew expected, “Nah, we’re a while from doing that again. Get back in your ride, Blur. Let’s try to start fresh.”

  Andrew collapsed back against the passenger seat, Sam’s nails drawing faint stinging lines across his skin with the suddenness of his retreat. He shuddered, swallowing again. After another moment stolen to calm his racing heart he opened the passenger door, casting a last glance at Sam—and found him staring. Their gazes met, sparked, split again with equal speed. Andrew returned to the embrace of his Supra with a flushed, hot face. The engine turned over, a rumbling whine, as it had countless other nights and would for countless more to come. Sam rolled out first. Andrew followed after him under the fog-yellow glow of streetlights, on the heels of their pack.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Summer Sons wouldn’t exist without the affection and patience tons of people poured out for me, over several years. Endless gratitude to Dave for reading at least one hundred drafts and providing never-ending enthusiasm with his valuable feedback, and to my big gay fam—Brett, Emilie, Em, Olivia, Alex—for supporting me through some weird situations across the writing of this project. I treasure y’all to the ends of the earth. Also, I appreciate you putting up with (or enthusiastically contributing to) all the horny bullshit I bring to the table of life.

  Thanks to Carl Engle-Laird for seeing the same book in these pages I saw, then helping bring it to fruition; thanks similarly to Tara Gilbert for her work as my agent. And of course there are all the talented members of the Tordotcom team involved in making the book and getting it into your hands: Irene Gallo, Oliver Dougherty, Mordicai Knode, Amanda Melfi, Lauren Anesta, Megan Kiddoo, Steven Buc
sok, Jim Kapp, and Christine Foltzer—as well as our absolutely awesome cover artist, Sasha Vinogradova. Thanks also to The Wonder Years for granting me permission to include a lyric from “Local Man Ruins Everything,” as Riley’s tattoo.

  Furthermore, I owe a nod to all of the people in the field across the last decade whose support has been invaluable: the ones who offered me bylines, published stories from me, stood me dinners and drinks, gave strong critiques, held me accountable for acting right, hired me for editorial positions, and believed in the words I brought along with me. To my Lexington-and-adjacent writer’s group: keep it up, team, you’re golden.

  Last but far from least, nerdy special thanks to BTS for providing comfort, energy, and healing with your music during exceptionally trying times. Your kindness, clarity, and strong friendship shine through for me as a model for what masculinity can be. Plus, I listened to RM’s mono nonstop during the first revisions of the book; couldn’t have done it without you.

  And it isn’t precisely a thanks, but: pour one out for all the boys who got lost—even the ones who got me lost. At least, maybe, I learned something from you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LEE MANDELO is a writer, critic, and occasional editor whose fields of interest include speculative and queer fiction, especially when the two coincide. They have been a past nominee for various awards including the Nebula, Lambda, and Hugo; their work can be found in magazines such as Uncanny, Clarkesworld, and Nightmare and on Tor.com. Aside from a brief stint overseas learning to speak Scouse, Mandelo has spent their life ranging across Kentucky, currently living in Lexington and pursuing a Ph.D. at the University of Kentucky. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SUMMER SONS

  Copyright © 2021 by Lee Mandelo

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Carl Engle-Laird

  Cover art by Sasha Vinogradova

  A Tordotcom Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates

  120 Broadway

  New York, NY 10271

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-79028-6 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-79030-9 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781250790309

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].

  First Edition: 2021