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“She texted me. I wasn’t waiting for it, per se, but it wasn’t unwelcome, right. But the signal up at the DuCate mansion is surprisingly crappy, or it might’ve just been the wing they shoved me in—out of sight, out of mind.” I pause as a flock of seagulls squawk overhead, letting them quiet down before continuing, “No, that’s unfair. The DuCates were kind enough to let me stay, so I’m not going to badmouth them or their WiFi. Well, Cybil was kind enough; I don’t think Benjamin noticed there were any extras in his house.
“Anyway, getting off topic again. It started with a text that should’ve come through this morning, but I didn’t see it ‘til about half an hour ago and it’s nearly seven PM now.” I check the car’s clock to be sure. “Yeah, it’s nearly seven, so the text came through about twelve hours late. It was from Summer, if that’s not obvious from the sweaty face and the panicked voice. She asked what I was up to today. Me, not having received it, had a lazy day on the DuCate’s private stretch of beach, book in hand, minding my own business, thinking this Summer thing is dead in the water.
“Then, I’m up in my room, showering off the sand and sunscreen and wondering what bizarre thing I’m going to have for dinner when I hear the buzz. I check my phone thinking it’s work or one of the eBay listings I’ve been watching, and there it is:What are you up to today?Now, I’m not jumping to conclusions—wouldn’t dare believe she wanted to spend the day with me, but does that or does that not sound like an invitation to spend the day with her?”
I stare at my phone like I’m a talking head in a mockumentary, and if there was a cameraman standing there instead of a reflection of my face, I bet they’d be nodding like I’m an idiot.
“So, I do the sane thing and I text back, explaining the signal situation and apologizing profusely, but it doesn’t send. I must’ve done three circuits of that huge-ass house, trying to find a signal, but that red message keeps showing: try again later, or whatever. That, Madame Therapist, is when I do the insane thing, and I march right out of the house with a bottle of champagne I stole from a cabinet, and I get in my car… and I drive… and that’s where you find me now, driving to Summer’s cottage.
“I know what you’re thinking—why not pull over and try to call the girl before you show up at her house after twelve hours of ignoring her? Well, we’re on the same wavelength, but if I stop this car right now, I won’t keep driving. If she doesn’t pick up, I’ll throw in the towel, and if she does and she tells me not to bother, then I’ll beat myself up for weeks for not heading into town with Grace and Lyndsey where therewouldhave been a signal. So, now you’re about up to date with Operation Sucker-For-Punishment.”
I groan and gaze ahead at the road, the tires bumping over cracks and dips where the asphalt has swelled and shrunk in the heat. There’s a rhythm to it, and I listen to the steady beat for a while. It calms me as I follow the soothing voice of the GPS, turning left into a tunnel of gothic trees.
“It’s crazy, right?” I ask myself, glancing through the twisted, weather-beaten trunks and seeing nothing but tangled underbrush. The Gulf is out there somewhere—nearby but just out of sight. There’s got to be a metaphor in that.
“I know it’s crazy,” I confirm. “I mean, it was one amazing night. One night. But she’s just… lodged in my skull. The human equivalent of a stone in my shoe. No, not quite. She’s more like a stone in my shoe while I’m on my way up a mountain, chasing sunset or sunrise or something, and the light is fading, and I know that if I don’t hurry my ass up, I’m going to miss a beautiful sight. So, I keep going, even though it’s uncomfortable and I’m well aware that I should just stop and shake the stone out of my shoe, and if I miss the beautiful thing, then… so be it; that’s what fate intended, but… I’m stubborn, I guess.”
At the very least, I figure I can be a friendly comfort after the Levi fiasco. She might be hiding in her cottage, thinking that the bastard is coming back, or he’s waiting in town or something. And I have champagne. Who doesn’t like champagne?
A short while later, the GPS tells me I’ve arrived.
Puzzled, I see a semi-circle of dirt with tire-tracks grooved into it, bordered by a rickety old fence. I pull into the space and peer out of the window, and that’s when I see it, at last—the cottage I’ve heard so much about. It’s the kind of cottage that has been lifted from a Southern fairytale and dropped onto the Gulf shores. Chocolate box quaint but with a rustic edge. Exactly the kind of place I can imagine Summer living. I don’t know what it was about her New Orleans apartment, and, let’s be honest, I wasn’t really concentrating on the décor, but it didn’t look… lived in. This does, at least on the outside.
Steeling my nerves, I turn to my phone. “I’m here. Wish me luck and brace yourself for the ramblings of a madman, because this probably isn’t going to end well.”
I stop the recording and slip the phone into my pocket. With a deep breath, I strangle the champagne bottle’s neck and get out, hesitating as I reach the ancient gate just ahead of me. The thing looks like it’s barely hanging on by the hinges.
Nevertheless, I gingerly push through it, praying I don’t break anything, and make my way through a lush garden, filled to bursting with wildflowers I can’t name. It might appear overgrown and feral to the untrained eye, but it’s precisely what a cottage like this needs. Neat lawns and immaculate flower beds would push it further toward chocolate box territory, and that’s just not the vibe it gives off. Instead, I feel like there should be a mysterious old woman in a rocking chair on the porch: a local legend who may or may not be a witch.
Cicadas, hiding in the long grass, chirp to announce that dusk is coming, or maybe they’re Summer’s alarm system and I’ve triggered them, as I continue toward the front door.
My footsteps are too loud as I creak up onto the crooked porch and pull back the screen door. It slaps into my arm as I reach up a hand to knock. The echo of my arrival fades into the cottage beyond, and I resist the urge to press my ear to the door to listen for Summer.
All I can do is wait and hope, and maybe wait some more… just in case she’s gone out to the store or something.
23
SUMMER
Ipause, folding my book over my lap so I don’t lose my place, the pages spread out like gull wings. Speaking of gulls, they shriek at each other overhead, fighting over the last few fish before sunset bleeds into night and they have to retreat to their nests, further up the coast. Beneath their jarring conversation, the Gulf babbles secrets and the reeds whisper back, the smooth water stirring every so often with the splash of a fish, likely trying to escape the gulls. But I could’ve sworn I heard something else, thudding below the jazz band of the Gulf: a knock.
Leaning forward, poking my head through the wooden pillars that arch above the porch steps, I listen for a repeat. It could be a woodpecker, drumming into the oaks nearer to the road, though it’s a bit late in the day for them. There used to be a red-bellied one that liked to play percussion in the afternoons, but I don’t know if it’s still around.
The knocking sound doesn’t come again, and I wonder if I made a mistake. It could’ve been anything: the gate bumping in the balmy breeze that’s sweeping up, salty and warm, from the water; the cottage settling on its foundation; a car on the road hitting one of the potholes that are in dire need of filling. I’d forgotten about those—it makes me miss my bicycle, and the way I’d weave around them, making a game of it. I still have the bike stashed on my balcony, but I don’t have enough of a death-wish to try riding it around New Orleans.
It could be Levi,my mind whispers, and my heart responds, lurching into my throat.
Since our run-in at the party, I’ve been weirdly unbothered. I should be on high alert, but I’m sort of resigned instead, like I know he’s going to come back at some point, and when he does, I’ll be waiting for what I hope will be our final bout. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not scared.
Just then, I hear the gunshot smack of the front porch screen door, and two heavy thuds, followed by the sharp splinter of glass smashing and the sharper hiss of a curse word. Thereissomeone here, but it can’t be Levi: he wouldn’t waste time knocking politely at the front door, not unless he’d had some kind of epiphany and decided to apologize.
Setting down my book, I head down the steps into the back garden and make my way around the house.
At the corner of the cottage, I take a peek… and bittersweet euphoria spills over onto the pathways of my heart. Rowan is sitting on the bottom step of the front porch, rubbing his knee. Judging by the sounds I heard, he didn’t notice the bend in the top step; it gives when any weight is put on it, knocking you off balance. He must’ve stumbled and hit his knee on the banister.
“You need some ice for that?” I call out.
He jumps in fright, shooting to his feet. “Jesus Christ, Summer! You nearly gave me a heart attack, creeping around like that!”
