Page 90 of Tastes Like Summer

“She was the only one who could give me an actual character reference of the guy! I couldn’t just go off of what you were saying. And anyway, I’m glad I did, because she only had amazing things to say about him.”

“Of course she would—she’s his friend.” Though I know that isn’t fair. I wouldn’t have fallen for Michael if he’d been anything less than wonderful. Not after everything with Rodrigo happened.

“It’s not just that, and you know it.” She sighs. “She said he’s never actually dated anyone before. Not really. But that he’s a dedicated guy who doesn’t do things halfway. Which she seemed to think meant that he wasn’t just fucking around with you. If Michael just wanted something casual, he would’ve told you. But he asked to stay together.”

“I know he meant it when he said he loved me,” I tell her. There’s no denying the look in his eyes, the determination. And after almost three months of spending time with him, of seeing him almost every day, I’d gotten to know him well enough to know he wouldn’t just say that to anyone. Not even just to sleep with them.

“Then why are you doubting that he’d stick with this relationship?”

“It’s too much.” My voice breaks. I’m too much. “There’s no end in sight to this distance. On the off chance that this does work out, and we figure out we want to be together in the long run—” The possibility of that sounds as likely as aliens in my head: mathematically probable, but unlikely at this point in time. “Michael has a restaurant in Long Island that he just opened—it’s not like he can just leave it. And me and the girls wouldn’t be able to move because Rodrigo specifically said he wouldn’t even consider it. That he would try and stop me.”

“Which is bullshit, if you ask me,” Rosie says through gritted teeth. “Didn’t you tell me he hasn’t so much as called again since leaving Sag Harbor? Or paid child support since the divorce? What the hell does he care, anyway?”

I wince.

“Shit, sorry. I know it probably isn’t nice to be reminded of the fact that your ex is a total dick.”

I shrug once and look down at my hands. “You’re not wrong, so there’s no use in getting upset.” I heave a huge sigh and look out the window of my new apartment, the city lights shining bright. “I can handle when Rodrigo’s a jerk to me—I expect it. But I still haven’t gotten used to him acting like the world’s worst father to his children. Sure, he never would’ve qualified for the Dad of the Year award in his history of being a parent, but still. He can’t check on his girls? Or return his daughters’ calls once every so often?”

My sister’s concerned face fills my phone’s screen, pity in her eyes.

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And neither are your girls.”

“I’m doing my best here, Rose.” And suddenly, I’m crying. Because being a single parent feels impossible most days. Because having two kids to take care of—one of whom has a very serious chronic condition—is overwhelming. Because I live in constant fear that I’m ruining their lives beyond repair. And because I hate myself for feeling like I have the right to even be a tiny bit depressed because the man I think might be the love of my life is no longer in it.

“And you’re doing amazing, Dee. I promise. You’re a freaking super mom.”

I snort, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand.

“I’m serious. You’ve done everything you need to do to make their lives as close to perfect as possible. You moved into a great new place in their same school district, so they don’t have to start fresh somewhere new. You took them on the summer trip of a lifetime. You fight for them with their dad every day. You restarted a career and work crazy long hours in order to be able to afford anything that they need. You are an outstanding caregiver to them, even if sometimes they might not thank you for it. I don’t know many mothers who give so much of themselves to their kids.”

I sniff once, wipe another tear away. “Thanks, but it’s the bare minimum, in my opinion. If you’re not giving everything to your kids, are you even a good parent?”

Rosie inhales. “Dee,” she says, heartbreak in her voice. “You’re allowed to be your own person. To have an identity and life outside of being just a mother. Especially one like you.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, not really believing that.

We hang up shortly after, Rosie sensing I need my space to unpack more than just my things. I pour myself another drink and take a look around my apartment, praying it will quickly start feeling like home because I feel so lost now. It’s like my heart doesn’t feel like it belongs here anymore. It’s like it decided a few weeks ago exactly where it’s meant to be.

I miss Michael. I miss him down to my bones—a million tiny fractures constantly radiating an insurmountable amount of pain up and down my body. I miss feeling seen and having a teammate in life. I miss his company and partnership and love.

God, do I miss him.

I throw back the last of my third glass of wine and reach for my phone. With shaking fingers, I search through my contacts and call him.

It rings once, but the few seconds in between pressing send and that first ringtone may as well have been eons.

When he picks up, his voice is laced with confusion and hesitation. “Diana? Is this… Is this really happening?”

“Hi,” I breathe, feeling my whole body loosening just from the sound of his voice. “God, it’s so good to hear you.”

There’s silence on the other end of the call, which is… unexpected. “Are you okay? It’s kind of late.”

I gasp when I check the clock on the microwave. It’s more than kind of late—it’s one A.M. already. Three A.M. for him. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. I’ll let you go⁠—”

“No, wait! Are you okay? Is something wrong?”