![]() “Almost all my clothes are,” he explained matter-of-factly. ![]() Within minutes I learned he had lived next door all his life, he was also starting eighth grade in the fall, and that he liked Weezer well enough, but the shirt was actually a hand-me-down from his brother. Given how sullen he was when we met, he was a lot chattier than I expected. We were sitting on the floor, door open at Mom’s insistence. “So what kind of name is Persephone?” he asked, stuffing a third Oreo into his mouth. ![]() Sam didn’t seem to have the same problem. As soon as we were alone, I was tongue-tied with nerves. I’d never had a boy in my bedroom until that first evening when Charlie dropped Sam off on the doorstep of our cottage. Told over the course of six years and one weekend, Every Summer After is a big, sweeping nostalgic story of love and the people and choices that mark us forever. ![]()
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