Page 18 of Tastes Like Summer

“Don’t sound too excited,” I harrumph, handing her a branded Sugar Maple Day Camp apron to slip on. I turn my back on her, pretending to busy myself with set-up when really I’m freaking the fuck out. My breathing is ragged, so I do my best to control it, to push whatever intense reaction I just had to her to the back of my mind.

She takes the apron, staring down at it as if enthralled by the stitching or something. Either that, or she really can’t stand to look at me. The latter seems to be the more likely of the two, given our last real encounter. This false truce of ours has been a nightmare. Especially now that I just realized I’m attracted to her.

Fuck.

I hate myself. I truly, truly hate myself.

Though I can’t deny, given the current pressure building between my legs, maybe it’s for the best that she avoids looking me straight in the eye. The emotional separation helps lessen the physical need. Barely, but it helps.

“I’m just joking,” she murmurs.

“Are you?” And now I hate myself even more because why the fuck do I need to ask her these questions? Why put myself through more of this shit? Just let her hate me. I deserve it. She’s not wrong when she said I was selfish.

She heaves a sigh and finally looks up at me. “Yes. I was. Kind of?” She scrunches her face, tilts her head.

Cute, I think.

I laugh once at her expression, feeling myself unwind a bit, and nod. “Fair. I get it. Things have been weird. I know you haven’t wanted to talk to me, so if this is really uncomfortable for you, maybe we can ask Daisy to switch you out for something else. I would offer to switch only I’m being paid to cater this thing and⁠—”

“No, I’m okay. Really. And I’ve been avoiding you because I’ve felt so ashamed of how I acted. I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to reach out to you to apologize, honestly. So I’m glad we’re ‘volunteering’ together.” She air-quotes the word, and I smile. She felt the threatening undertones of that email, too, then.

Great minds and all that.

“Forces me to be a big girl and tell you that…” She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Tell you that I’m sorry. That I was an ass. That some things you said reminded me a little bit about my ex and so…”

Now my stomach really drops. I remind her of her ex-husband? Jesus. So she does hate me. I feel my face drain of blood, and I can no longer look at her.

“Right,” I say, busying myself by stacking some plates at either end of the picnic tables.

“Shoot. No, that’s not what I meant! You’re not as bad as my ex⁠—”

“As bad? Fuck.” I scoff.

“I mean, no. I mean, yes. Ugh. Just let me explain.”

She exhales, hands on her hips. Wisps of dark brown hair loose around her face, wild and beautiful. They pair perfectly with her coffee eyes, large and doe-eyed.

“Well? Explain,” I demand after a painful thirty seconds.

“I just meant that the story you told me about your past⁠—”

“Which was just surface level, by the way. You’re missing a lot of important details,” I mutter, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“—reminded me a bit about how cavalier Rodrigo used to be about our children. And just life responsibilities in general. When it came down to what he wanted, what was best for him… Well, he sure went after it. Whether it was taking a job that forced us to move and resulted in me marrying him way too young and dropping out of college a semester before graduation, or whether it was the twenty-five year-old blonde he met on a flight to Phoenix and left me for. Either way, he never really stopped to consider his wife or children. Or anyone else for that matter, especially since he soon after cheated on said girlfriend, too. And you were talking about only recently taking ownership of the things you’d done—not that Rachel is something you did, like crashing a car or something—but…” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I’m not explaining myself properly. Again.” She catches her breath, brows pinched, luscious lips pressed tightly closed. After a few seconds of silence, she tries once more: “I’m sorry. That’s what I really want to say—what I really want you to take away from this verbal diarrhea I can’t seem to control. I don’t know you—not really—and I was too wrapped up in my own stuff to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Thank you.” A knot unwinds in my stomach and I smile back at her. I don’t know her well, either, but something about Diana tells me that this apology didn’t come easy to her.

“You’re welcome, I guess.” She sighs, as if relieved to get this over with.

Her apology is more than welcome, even though I keep reminding myself I shouldn’t give a shit. This woman literally has no bearing on my life. The best way to deal with this situation would be to go on as we have: let our girls be friends, maintain a very surface-level relationship, occasionally see each other at camp pick-ups and drop-offs, and make polite conversation over playdates.

But then what I can only assume is an alien takes over my fucking brain and next thing I know the words “I know we already called a truce the other day, but… How about we actually start over?” escape my lips as I stick out my hand and grin expectantly. “My name’s Michael. I’m thirty-four years old and a former workaholic. I grew up around here before moving to New York City to be a chef. After my best friend passed away unexpectedly, I inherited Rachel, my biological daughter, and moved back to the area. Currently, I own a farm with my cousin Lexi. We’re opening a fine dining farm-to-table restaurant here in Long Island, but it’s been a bitch to do as I learn to navigate and balance single-parenthood with work.”

She stares down at my hand, biting down on her lip to keep from smiling. After some internal battle, she laughs once and takes it. “Diana. I’m thirty-one and from Denver, though I was born and spent most of my childhood in Venezuela.”

I raise my brows at that brand new information, a piece of the puzzle that is Diana, falling into place: her soft accent. I ache to ask her more about herself, to tell me the story behind that, but choose to let her continue to share whatever she’s comfortable with.

“I am also new to being a single parent—kind of. The concept of Married Single Mom was invented thanks to me. My kids, Emiliana and Camila, are my whole life, and it’s been really difficult managing my recent divorce and my youngest’s recent T1D diagnosis on my own. Especially while finishing my degree, applying to new jobs, and now studying to complete a certificate as a paralegal for the state of Colorado. My life is a mess and I’m trying to keep it together, so I apologize if I can get persnickety sometimes.”