Page 183 of Summer Love

I catch my reflection in the window—wrinkled T-shirt, two days of stubble, red eyes. The nose of the little cherry-red board sticks out of my backpack. I look away and push the door open. The bell jingles.

The smell is the same as the Lighthouse Diner—reheated coffee, rancid fryer grease, spilled maple syrup. A tired A/C unit hums by the entrance. The booths are black vinyl, the floor black-and-white checkered tile. Above the coffee machine, the TV’s showing a baseball game.

Six or seven customers are scattered around the room. A waitress, a pencil stuck in her piled-up hair, doesn’t look at me.

And all the way in the back, facing away…

“Summer! Table seven!”

The call comes from the kitchen window. The backpack slips off my shoulder; I catch it.

Summer’s in her uniform—a brown apron over a pale yellow T-shirt that’s been washed too many times. She’s holding a tray with a few empty glasses on it.

I stop and hold my breath. Summer turns; her eyes meet mine.

The tray tips; the glasses shatter on the tile. A customer cries out.

Summer stays on her feet in the middle of the broken glass. On her right wrist, the braided bracelet—blue, turquoise, and white.

“Goddamn it, Summer!”

The voice snaps from behind the counter. The boss stands by the register, a rag tucked in his belt.

“Clean that up before somebody cuts themselves! Move!”

He disappears into the back room. Summer doesn’t react. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

The other waitress follows her gaze to me. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She sets her two plates on the counter and walks over to Summer.

“Hey. You okay, hon?”

Summer blinks.

The boss comes back with a dustpan and a hand broom, sets them on the floor by the broken glass, then leaves again without a word.

Summer kneels and winces. Her right foot, I’m guessing. She picks up the biggest pieces with her bare hands, no care at all. Her fingers are shaking.

I step forward and crouch across from her. I grab the hand broom and sweep the small shards toward the dustpan.

Summer’s too pale, dark circles under her eyes. Two strands loose from her bun stick to her temple.

She’s here. For real.

“Summer… I’m sorry. When you tried to tell me about the bet, I didn’t listen.”

Her face closes off.

“But you were never a bet. Never.”

She shakes her head.

“I heard Noah at the diner,” she says, barely a whisper.

Six years. Six years she’s believed I was capable of betting on her. When we made love in my trailer, she still believed it.

“It’s not what you think.”

She doesn’t move.