Page 167 of Beyond the Stroke

I clap a hand to his wet shoulder. “You did good, kid.”

“Thanks, old man.” He grins through a pant.

I smirk, but let it slide. There’s more to say between us, but that will come later.

For now, we head over to the mix zone where the media is waiting to interview us, and celebrate our victory.

forty-six

. . .

SUMMER

Edgar sighs dramatically from his spot on the couch like he, too, is personally offended that Rory isn’t here. He’s been doing that every few hours. Staring at the door. Hopping up at any sound like maybe Rory’s back to sneak him extra peanut butter. Honestly, I’m not far behind him.

I miss him.

The house feels different without him. Not quieter exactly—between Edgar’s huffs and the constant clatter of paintbrushes I keep knocking off the table, there’s still plenty of chaos. But there’s an absence. Like something solid is missing. Like the eye of the storm packed a bag and flew to Fort Lauderdale for a swim meet.

Rory’s duffel bag isn’t blocking the hallway. His sneakers aren’t tripping me outside the bathroom. And no one’s around to lecture me about the scientific benefits of putting the lid back on the peanut butter.

I wander into the kitchen and spot the empty container that used to hold my favorite granola clusters—the ones he pretendshe doesn’t like but somehow keeps “accidentally” inhaling when I’m not looking. The container has a passive-aggressive sticky note on it now.

My handwriting: Not a snack cake. Buy your own.

His handwriting underneath: Couldn’t help it. So crunchy. So sweet. Like you.

My chest squeezes.

He’s ridiculous. He’s charming. And his absence is making me admit things I’ve been avoiding.

Like the fact that I’m completely, stupidly in love with him.

And that maybe it’s time to tell him the rest. The part about my parents. About the snack cake empire and why I can’t look at a shelf of them without wanting to scream into a pillow. I keep thinking he’ll look at me differently once he knows. That he’ll stop seeing me and only see them.

But maybe that’s just fear talking. Rory never asked me to be perfect. He just asked me to be real.

So I will be.

As soon as he gets back.

Maybe after I replace the granola.

forty-seven

. . .

RORY

Summer

You were amazing today. That finish? I’m so proud of you.

Thanks. It felt good. I wish you were here.

Summer

Me too. We need to talk though. When you get home?

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