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“No,” Sebastian answers bluntly, drawing a disappointed frown to Tuck’s face.
I clean my throat. “Can we get back on the topic of naming my cat?”
The guys toss around more ideas, but none of them feel right. After all this time without her having a name, I should just pick one and run with it. But for some reason, I can’t seem to bring myself to.
I want this cat’s name to be … right. Right for her.
“Thanks guys,” I say after a while. “I’ll keep those options in mind.”
Back in my room, I go to the corner she’s claimed for herself. She’s got her little arm wrapped around that knit pig. Her eyes open. I crouch down and gently run my hand across her coat.
“What are we going to name you, girl?”
She mewls gently in response.
A silly thought flashes in my head: maybe I should ask Summer.
That would be weird, though.
Right?
I’ve barely spoken more than grunts to her, except for that awkward small talk we made after finishing our English project. Then suddenly I’m asking her what I should name my cat?
Yeah, it would be weird.
I bet she’d come up with a good name, though.
I sigh as I run my palm down my poor unnamed cat’s back one more time. Then I lie down on my bed, pick up my phone, and get back to reading that silly romance book that reminds me of the bubbly violinist who sits next to me in English class.
9
SUMMER
Idon’t have rehearsal with Jeremy today, so I’m just relaxing at Brumehill Brews before heading to English class.
I’m in my favorite seat, the dark wooden chair with a comfy pink cushion, right by the big window that lets me watch the students passing to and from class on the main walkway that goes by the café. There’s a steaming cup of delicious coffee in front of me, and I’ve got my AirPods in, listening to my favorite music podcast.
The only problem is every now and then I realize I’ve totally zoned out and missed a minute or two of what the hosts are talking about, because my mind keeps wandering to the grumpy goalie who I’ll be sitting next to soon.
Last night, Hudson and I finished typing up our English paper and submitted it. Sometimes, we’d both be in the document at the same time, making edits or adding sentences to our respective sections.
Every time that happened, I had the strangest feeling. My palms buzzed, and there was a knotty feeling in my stomach like I sometimes get before going out on stage to perform a piece I’ve never performed before.
Weird, right?
I hear the chair on the other side of my table scrape out, and when I see who’s lowering himself into it, my chest tightens. Now I’ve totally tuned out my podcast, and even thoughts of Hudson are banished from my mind.
It’s Sean.
As I’m taking my AirPods out, Sean gets in the first words. “We need to talk.”
There’s a feeling inside me like a taut thread, one that’s been pulled too tight for way too long. And it’s fraying.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Sean,” I answer, my voice more cutting than I ever let it be. “I’ve told you that over and over. And I’ve told you why.”
“Come on, Summer,” he says, his voice a groan. And it’ not a groan of pleading. It’s a million miles away from a grovel. He’s groaning in frustration like he’s talking with someone who just won’t see reason. “Don’t be stubborn. We had a good thing.”
My jaw ticks, and I feel hot pinpricks of tears behind my eyes. I take a deep breath through my nose and expand my chest slowly, unwilling to let Sean see any signs of a sob.
