Page 95 of Villainous Summer

“Shouldn’t he? You weren’t the one who shared them without consent.”

This response took the fight out of her argument, and her voice was sad—scared, even.

“What about if this doesn’t work out? Aren’t you scared of what I would do to you? Don’t you think I’m some crazy ex?”

“Why are you making yourself the villain in this story, Sum? You’re not. You were wronged. You deserve justice. If I had known from the beginning, I would have helped you. I would have done anything you asked of me. That’s how much you mean to me.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Tell me you don’t love me. Say it, and I’ll leave.”

She opened her mouth, her voice cracking. “I-I . . .”

I waited for her to return my words. To fall into my arms and say she felt the same way.

I knew she did. She had to.

Instead, tears formed at the corner of her eyes. I had seen so many versions of Summer over the season but never had I seen her cry.

Judging by the angry way she brushed them away with flicks of her fingers, she didn’t cry often.

“This is all so sudden. You weren’t supposed to love me. Cory, he broke my pride. But you, if I let myself love you back and if this goes wrong, it will break my soul. I know it.”

“It won’t—”

“It can. I can’t risk it. You have to know that. I’m being held together by the thinnest strings. I know I seem tough, but I’m not.”

Confessing my feelings on the heels of her getting over her illness was a mistake. I would get nowhere with her.

“I pushed you to admit it before you’re ready, but I’m not going anywhere. So, when you’re ready to love me back, I’ll be here.”

“You’re making me feel worse.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re making yourself feel that way.”

“I need time, something. I don’t know how to process this.”

“Fine. Take your time. Wallow or scheme or do whatever it takes, just know I’m waiting on the other end.”

It felt more like a threat than a love declaration, but everything with Summer was a battle.

Standing over her, I bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Truly.”

The next morning at work, I checked my notifications for the hundredth time. No response from Summer. With my phone in my hand, I studied our parade picture from all those weeks ago. The sunlight haloing our faces. The way her blue eyes were bright and warm. Those full lips that, only an hour later, would be under mine as we kissed beside the azaleas.

I missed her to the point of absolute distraction. That morning, I had almost walked out the door without shoes, and I was pretty sure I forgot to lock up behind me. Hopefully, no one would break in and steal my twelve-year-old television.

Breaking in. Once again, everything reminded me of Summer, my little thief. My roses and sunshine. I told her I’d give her time, but I should have been more specific. I would give her exactly forty-eight hours before going back. Turns out, when it came to Summer, I was not a patient man.

“Donovan, do you have that report of the—” Mr. Haruki stood in the doorway, a file in his hand. Frowning, he looked from my phone to my face. “Girl problems?”

I set my phone down, my face heating. “Sorry.”

He waved my comment away and sat in the cushioned chair opposite me. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Haruki—”

“Dennis.”

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