Page 67 of Cool for the Summer

THIRTY

BECK

Donovan textsto let me know he’s staying in the city overnight. I sleep poorly, wondering how his audition went. Wondering if being in the city is a relief to him, to be back in his element. To be away from me.

I torture myself with the idea that maybe he picked someone up tonight, that he’s having sex with someone new just because he can. Because it’s what he does.

I fall asleep way too late and dream I’m lost in Manhattan, trying to find my way to some unknown destination. I ask strangers for help, peer in all the cab windows, but no one can tell me how to get wherever it is I’m supposed to go. I wake up with a headache and to another text from Donovan. He must have gotten up early.

I’m trying to get back to Rosedale, but I may be delayed. How’s Cleo?

I smile at the text against my will. I feel like shit, but I still appreciate his thoughtfulness. I stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, where Cleo’s waiting patiently for her breakfast. I take a picture of her and send it to Donovan with a note.

She’s fine and you’re worse than Pete.

I’m not expecting a reply but my phone buzzes less than a minute later.

I guess I get the protective thing more now.

What does that mean? I consider responding, but I have no idea what to say. Besides, as much as I want to be able to simply banter with him, it’s too hard right now. As I go about the morning routine of coffee, Cleo, breakfast, I think about how much less satisfying it is to do for one person. Why bother making a whole pot of coffee when I could just grab something at Hot Brew later?

Something else occurs to me. I was afraid that after Jack and Pete came home, I’d never see Donovan again, which itself felt like an icy stab to the heart, but what’s worse is that I might actually see him all the time. He’s good friends with Pete, and I’ve seen the way he and Kingston have gone from acquaintances (and apparently onetime fuck buddies) to close friends this summer. Of course he’ll come back to Rosedale once in a while.

I’ll have to grow a thicker skin and file our summer away under bittersweet memories.

Thank god for the Cookie Counter. I don’t have time to ruminate on the unfairness of falling in love with someone unwilling, or unable, to acknowledge how he feels about me.

I have an interview with a prospective employee today, plus about a million other things to do. I’m able to return to the house midday to let Cleo out and grab a quick lunch for myself, but I don’t have a second to stop until dinnertime, when I notice that Donovan isn’t back yet. He’s sent another text, though.

Looks like I’ll be away another night. Are you okay with Cleo? I’m sorry. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow Jack and Pete get back, and the next day is the party at Kingston’s. I have a ton of baking to do. Between Kingston’s and my efforts, there are probably going to be thirty people at this small welcome home bash. I can’t imagine what’s keeping Donovan in the city—or rather, I don’t want to. Work? A guy?

My stomach churns and I turn up the angry rock music I unconsciously selected to play while I scarf down some leftovers and get out the ingredients to make my flourless chocolate pecan cookies.

I’ll just hold down the home front while he does whatever he wants. Thank goodness baking is my therapy.

I bakeuntil well past midnight, then fall asleep on top of my covers with a smear of chocolate on my forehead. Cleo wakes me by barking, which gets my heart racing fast. I take the world’s fastest shower, clean the kitchen, and stick the bins of cookies for tomorrow’s party in the extra freezer in the garage. Pete’s car is still gone, which means Donovan hasn’t returned in the night.

The weather is forecasting a heat dome for the next two days, so I brew a huge jug of iced tea and make sure the windows are shut all over the house, so we’re not wasting the air conditioning.

I even check the windows in Donovan’s room. His stuff is mostly still there—clothes and books and his baseball cap. He’s coming back. Obviously. But it’s strange to think about the last time I was in here, in his bed. Naked and happy.

I sigh and glare at my distorted reflection in the windowpane. I’m sick of feeling sorry for myself. So I’m in unrequited love with a great guy whose only flaw seems to be that he doesn’t want the same kind of relationship I do. Life goes on, right? Lots of fish in the sea and all that.

An unfamiliar car pulls into the driveway as I’m giving myself the world’s saddest pep talk. A stocky guy in a black suit gets out of the driver’s door, and then Jack steps out of the back and looks up at the house, catching sight of me through the window. I wave, and he grins.

And then I burst into tears.

“Oh, Beck, it’s okay,”Jack croons, while I blubber into his shoulder.

“Can we do anything?” Pete asks. “I’m so sorry your summer ended up this way.”

They’re being so nice to me, which makes me cry harder.

“No, it was an amazing summer,” I say as I try to catch my hiccupping breath. “Your house is a dream. Cleo’s the best. We had so much fun.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t made you and Van share the house then?—”

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